My husband calls it monkey mind. I call it annoying.

I assumed the term was his own creation, invented to describe the feeling of having too much going on in your head—the noisy clutter that makes it hard to focus—until I heard the same phrase used during a review of the movie “Eat, Pray, Love.”

According to the novel the movie was based on, the main character is “burdened with what the Buddhists call the ‘monkey mind’– the thoughts that swing from limb to limb, stopping only to scratch themselves, spit, and howl… (The) mind swings wildly through time, touching on dozens of ideas a minute, unharnessed and undisciplined.”

That’s an apt description of my own mental state. And surprisingly, it appears to be fairly common, according to a quick polling of friends.

Said Susan Crumley of Poca, “My monkey comes out at night when I’m desperate for sleep, kinda like the monkey in the closet on Family Guy. The only way to shut out my thoughts is to count. If I let myself think in words, one leads to another and my thoughts are all over the globe.”

Said Brad Barkley of Frostburg, MD, “Wait . . . What?”

So how exactly does one do battle against monkey mind?

Amazingly, it has nothing to do with investing in Chiquita or getting a bigger monkey, and everything to do with allowing the monkey to play.

“The best way to tame your monkey is through meditation,” wrote one emailer. “You need to become aware of a thought rather than thinking a thought.”

That suggestion was clear as mud to me, too.

Fortunately, my friend Mike Fitzgerald of Huntington explained it much better, advising that I focus on breathing while meditating, and if my monkey mind tries to distract, I should, “Envision those thoughts rolling past like they’re floating on water. Don’t grasp for any of them. Don’t even try or you’ll only make it worse. Just watch, like a movie, what streams past. See what your mind is offering. There’s a reason for you to see this.”

Mike suggested counting breaths, chanting or humming, saying the humming vibrates the brain and lulls it into a relaxed state.

And relaxed is what I need, since having a mind that seldom slows is exhausting.

I used to joke that meditation was a way to rationalize sitting around doing nothing, then I actually tried to sit around and do (and think) nothing, and I quickly learned how hard it can be. I don’t do still very well. I can’t even relax while watching television—I’m compelled to fold clothes or iron at the same time so I feel productive.

“Taming the monkey mind requires practice,” said Mike. “You can get to the point that when the chattering arises, you can just notice it and then allow it to go away.”

It was while trying to practice that I realized I may have been meditating for years without realizing that’s what I was doing. All those times I took long drives because I needed to be on the road. . . Was that because I subconsciously knew I’d allow my thoughts to roam wherever they pleased, with no set goal or agenda? When I’d lose track of the hours while mindlessly removing every speck of paint from a piece of old furniture. . . Did that explain why I craved those types of projects?

I used to drag home thickly painted old pieces that take ages to strip because it felt like those things needed me to save them. But maybe those things were saving me. Grounding me. Allowing me to go into that zone that others go to while jogging or fishing or sitting in front of a machine that trades dollars for spinning cherries.

By not focusing for a while, the log-jams from this forever-scrambling modern life can pass by long enough for the water to calm.

And for the monkey to start minding again.

“Dad says it was a heart attack,” I heard the voice outside my room say. “She was walking across the yard and just dropped over, dead.”

“Wow,” someone said.

“And he thinks it was a heart attack?” another person asked.

“Do chickens have heart attacks?” said another.

Instead of an answer, I heard laughter. A few seconds later, a woman wearing hospital scrubs entered my room and began talking me through the preparations for my test. I recognized hers as one of the voices.

“So,” I asked, “I have to know. Do chickens have heart attacks?”

Although I know of no poultry in our family tree, I was about to get on a treadmill while covered in electrodes and it suddenly seemed important to know.

“Dad says they do,” said the technician.

“So is he doing an autopsy?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Finding out whether or not one’s heart is about to explode is a far more pleasant experience when those caring for you have a good sense of humor, as did nearly everyone I encountered while a patient at Thomas Hospital last week.

The chest pains had started a few weeks before, somewhere around the same time I took four 13-year-olds to the beach. Coincidentally, I’m sure. I shrugged away the clenching as being heat- and dehydration-related, but would occasionally give in to concern long enough to Google a carefully chosen, vaguely worded symptom, like “boobie cramp.” Denial perpetuation is a long-practiced skill.

When I eventually got around to typing in “upper back and shoulder pain,” I expected to find such profound medical advice as, “Hold dog’s leash with other arm when walking” or “Steer with opposite hand.” Instead came warnings that those were heart attack symptoms.

My family doctor ordered both thyroid tests and, because of my family’s not-so-good cardiac history, a stress test as well. The thyroid tests came back normal with a week to go before my stress test appointment. Which turned out to be too much stress for my husband. After I casually mentioned having had a particularly clenchy day, he took me to Thomas.

By the time we arrived, the pains had subsided, so Geoff and I played the Waiting Room Game (seeing how long we could go without touching anything) until my name was called.

When they took me back, I asked Geoff to go with me, since I have this fear of needles that renders me stupid. So my husband — a tall man who looks like a professor with his gray hair and goatee — followed me to the room, then quietly took a seat in the corner while the nurse gave me a gown and directions.

The nurse, who exuded efficiency, returned a few minutes later and, with my gown raised, began attaching electrodes all over my chest. I allowed her to get me completely hooked up before pointing to Geoff and asking, “Who is that man and why is he here?”

I enjoy giving stress tests far more than receiving.

They kept me overnight. I think it was that über-efficient nurse’s idea.

I was fortunate enough to have a room in the hospital’s newly opened wing, which is nicer than darn near any hotel where I’ve ever stayed. Large, private room. Comfortable bed. Flat-screen TV. Attentive, good-natured nurses. Decent food. It would’ve been a mini vacation if they hadn’t awakened me so often to take my blood pressure or poke another hole or find out how often I’d peed.

After a full day of testing, my heart got an A. It’s my stomach that failed. The problem appears to be reflux related.

Although I initially felt a bit silly for having gone when I’m basically fine, the peace of mind has been worth every cent.

Had I put it off any longer, who knows? I might’ve had to wait in line for the treadmill behind a bunch of chickens in hospital gowns.

Ask most kids what they want to be when they grow up and they’re likely to say professional athlete or entertainer or maybe a veterinarian. Ask parents what they want their children to be and they’re likely to answer a doctor or lawyer or another profession known for its high income.

Ask my kid, who contracted sarcasm at birth, and she’s likely to say, “A taxidermist–I like playing with dead things.” Most anything to make a grown-up reconsider ever again asking the question.

It’s hard to get a serious answer from her, but I suppose it’s not that easy a question. When I was her age, deciding on a future career was much different. The emphasis seemed to be more on finding what your strengths and interests were than on how much you would make.

Back then, the division between those going to trade school and those going to college wasn’t as off balance as it is today. Certainly, there was less condescension toward those choosing to learn a craft rather than go on to college. Now, more than ever, it’s all about going to college and chasing after the big paycheck.

In the book Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into the Value of Work, author Matthew Crawford, who holds a doctorate in political philosophy, writes about his decision to quit his Washington think tank job to repair motorcycles—a job that leaves him far more satisfied than cubicle work ever could.

According to Crawford, shop classes and vocational education began being phased out in the 1990s as students were instead prepared for the “knowledge revolution.” Jobs requiring manual-type skills became something that were looked down upon as our society bought into the idea that only jobs requiring college educations were respectable or intellectual.

But “you can’t hammer a nail over the Internet,” writes Crawford. “The work of builders and mechanics is secure; it cannot be outsourced, and it cannot be made obsolete. Such work ties us to the local communities in which we live, and instills the pride that comes from doing work that is genuinely useful.”

And yet that kind of work—and those who do that kind of work—seems to be looked down on by American society, regardless of the fact that brains and aptitude are required there, too.

Crawford writes about how, in his job as a mechanic, he’ll be faced with a motorcycle that won’t start, so he must test theories and use the correct tools and parts to get a successful result—which is an engine that runs. It requires skill, practice, and intelligence, and should generate respect. Yet seldom does.

By looking down on those whose occupations require hands as much as or more than brains, we’ve widened the division that was already there. The author laments how far blue-collar work, both in numbers and prestige, has fallen, saying our “economic landscape has become such that those who don’t go to college are viewed as suspect, stupid, and/or unemployable. The massification of higher education has created a new vocational pitfall: I’ve got a degree; therefore, I should be doing smart, clean, fun, and well-paid work.”

Much as we might like it to be true, we aren’t all created equal. Not physically, not mentally, not gumption-wise. There’s no one-size-fits-all education solution. It’s ludicrous to continue as though every child is actually capable of getting a college education if they’re just willing to—gosh darn it!—buckle down and apply themselves. (Strangely, an equally common-sense argument—that not everyone is capable of repairing engines or trouble-shooting an office air-conditioning system—is rarely mentioned either.)

It’s natural for parents to want the best for our offspring, so it makes sense that we harp about studying and getting good grades from the time our children are small. But perhaps we’re deluding ourselves about what really <I>is<P> best, not only for our children, but for our country as well.

We need to know how to do things for ourselves again. We need to be self-sufficient. Self reliant. We need to be able to use our hands as well as our brains. And we need to respect those who work on both sides of the line, or eliminate the line altogether. Our scorn should be saved for those who deserve it.

Like sarcastic children who get pleasure by causing grownups to squirm.