Day 171: Watching The Wheels

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round, 
I really love to watch them roll. 
No longer riding on the merry-go-round.
I just had to let it go. 

I love those lyrics from John Lennon. They pretty much epitomize what I feel like doing about a 100 different times each day. If I had my way, all I'd ever do is watch the wheels go round and round.

I wish everyone had the same mentality, although nothing much would probably get done if they did. Still, if you can't sit back and pay attention to not paying attention once in awhile, I really believe you're missing out on the gift that is life. You're missing out on the gift that is observation, which might be the best means of learning there is.

Today, I took a seat in my garage and watched the rain spit from the sky. That was it. Just watched. Just listened. Didn't fuss or fret. Wasn't feeling thankful for the precipitation. Wasn't worrying about the chance of hail. Just watched and listened and took in the smells the falling drops were conjuring up around me. Didn't contemplate what was going to happen next or what had happened previously. And I'm all the better for having done it. I'm all the more advanced for having put absolutely no effort into anything for that 25 minutes or so. I couldn't be more pleased that I didn't utter a word during that time or worked up even one bead of sweat. I couldn't be more happy with myself that I didn't exert any force or make any demands or wish any wishes. I don't have the slightest regret or bit of guilt for all the things I could have been doing but didn't. I feel no remorse for having accomplished anything but by just sitting I accomplished everything.


Just sit. If it's good enough for the Buddha, it's good enough for me. 

A good friend told me not long ago of a particular experience he had just had in which he was completely in the zone. Completely in and of the moment. As he said, many times we find ourselves in a particular space for a particular reason. Maybe it's to attend a city council meeting or give a presentation or attend a sermon or attend a conference for work during which we're expected to walk away having learned something vital. But many times even though we're in the setting, we're really not. We're thinking thoughts and making plans or making counter plans. W'ere wondering if we're prepared. We're wondering if what we're wearing is OK. We're wondering if we're comprehending what's being said or if we're good enough to be in the company that we're presently keeping. We're doing everything but actively engaging in the moment, everything but taking each second as it presents itself and swallowing it with complete understanding and fulfillment. That's a tough thing to do for even a few minutes, let alone an extended period of time. But when it happens, if you let it happen, amazing ground can be covered.


Just sit. I absolutely just love to sit. 

Day 170: "Lighten up, Francis."

I’ve actually never been that fond of that overused quote from “Stripes,” but damned if Sgt. Hulka’s directive to Francis wasn’t fitting last night as I watched my daughter’s gymnastics class.

I use “class” very, very loosely here, because anytime you gather a bunch of three-, four-, and five-year olds together in one confined space, what you have is less of a classroom atmosphere and more of chaos. But the “chaos” in this situation was meant to be fun, as gymnastics and other activities merely meant to get kids out of the house and into motion is supposed to be. This isn’t panic inducing, stress creating, or tension filled chaos. But I swear to all that is sane, you would have never guessed by watching the psycho father I witnessed for an hour straight sitting at the opposite end of the gym from me.

Look, I’m 44. I’ve seen my share of overbearing, short-tempered fathers berating their kids for no good reason over the years. What was so concerning and troublesome about this monkey was how young he was. My best guess is he was in his mid-20s and certainly not yet into his thirties. His immaturity and lack of patience showed. Not once did he crack a smile. Not once did he commend his daughter. Not once did he look excited to be there, although he certainly looked to have spent considerable time in his closet picking out just the right yuppie-ish clothes meant to make an impression. He certainly spent more than a few minutes on his perfectly kept hair, and he certainly took his sweet time picking out the fashionable sunglasses sitting ever so neatly on the top of his head. What he didn’t take the time to do was remember we were supposed to be having fun here. This wasn’t a competition. How could it be? Not a single kid could pull off a damn summersault yet. Yet, he couldn’t quit criticizing and couldn’t start back patting.

Worse, the dummy not only made the daughter trying to spin and roll around and jump in the air miserable, he made the other daughter, probably three or younger, miserable by just daring to exist in his presence. Every time she stood up, he sat her down forcibly, despite the fact we were in a gym where at least another dozen kids were making noise and running around and at least a dozen other parents didn’t have a problem with that fact.

Damned if I couldn’t foresee these poor kids’ future, one I’m pretty sure will involve resenting the heavy hands by which their father ruled, and one that involves them sharing few if any of the important details of their life later on with him because they didn’t trust him, because he seemed incapable of showing any nurturing, and because I’m guessing he's  capable of showing even less compassion.

I realize it’s not fair to judge someone whom I’ve literally never spoken a word to and I am basing all my information on simple observations, but I have decent instincts, and they all told me something terribly sad: He just didn’t get it.

Having children is such a gift and such an opportunity to learn about yourself and life. Having little girls somehow only amplifies that. They look to you for protection. They don’t want to fear you. They don’t want to cower. They don’t to live under constant judgment. When I see fathers so young who don’t get this, I feel tremendous pain for their children. Time is so fleeting, and the opportunity daughters and sons have to look at their father as someone who isn’t constantly angry or frustrated or full of spite but instead as someone who is supportive and encouraging and a source of warmth is one they can’t redo. When I see a jackass blowing this because he’s more worried about how’s he being perceived than how he can make his child’s life more fulfilling and enriched, I want to scream.

Last night, I didn’t scream, but I did promise myself to take a longer look at what my job is as a father and how I can best do it and let go of the petty, inconsequential stuff in favor of holding dear what is really important and vital.

Day 169: The Fathers I Admire

I’m always amazed by people who look to celebrities or “feel good” authors or musicians or actors or politicians or whoever other person they so eagerly can put on a pedestal to draw guidance and leadership from. Some of those people may be worthy of your devotion. Many aren’t. All you really have to do is look over your shoulder or down the street or at the desk next to you or the seat across the aisle on the bus or plane and you can plenty of sources of wisdom and knowledge and inspiration to draw upon.

Take father’s day, for example. Up and down the block you live on, in the houses that make up your neighborhood, I guarantee you there are living inside fathers who have sacrificed their own gratification and personal gain and instant joy time and time again gladly and willingly so that their children would be happier and more fulfilled.

Look at the fathers sitting around you in the pews of your church, and I guarantee you’ll see plenty of fathers who have stayed up deep into many, many nights waiting for their child to make it home safe and sound so they could only then sleep peacefully themselves.

Walk into a grocery store on any given night and you’ll cross paths with single dads doing the shopping for their kids after a long day’s work, only to go home and cook them a meal, clean up after them, read them a book or two, and put them to bed, and then get up and do it all again the next morning without blinking an eye.

Look past everything you think that you know about your own father, and I guarantee you there are countless other facts that you aren’t aware of, such as the sacrifices that he’s made so that you could have something extra or the extra hours he put in or the personal items he sold so that you could benefit. I’ll guarantee he turned down opportunities because it accepting them wouldn’t have worked out in your favor and the gains for him couldn’t justify the sacrifices for you.

Look around you at the next sporting event that your own kid is playing at and then count the collective hours you father (and mother) gave away to you so you could participate in similar activities. Count the hours your father sat behind the wheel of an automobile in tense, stressful traffic getting you from point A to B or driving you down the road to a destination that he planned out and spent for expressly for you to enjoy.

Look through your family’s photograph albums and count how many of the events captured in those photos that your father was directly responsible for, whether he funded it, organized it, built it, repaired it, researched it, or envisioned it.

Count the number of meals you’ve partaken in during your life and estimate how many of them that your father directly had a hand in making possible. Consider how many nights in your lifetime you’ve spent peacefully in a dry, warm, secure house and count how many of those nights your dad was responsible for making a reality.

Consider all the qualities that you admire in your husband and sons and think about how many of them correspond with quality that your dad possesses.

Consider the respect you have for yourself and the treatment that you demand for yourself from others and contemplate in what ways your father may have helped instill such pride in yourself, may have told you that you deserved the best of treatment, and may have made you believe you didn’t have to settle for decency.

Think about the ways you treat people and how to what extent your father is responsible for your actions.

Think about everything you’ve accomplished in your life, all the milestones you’ve reached, all the goals conquered, all the obstacles knocked down, all the barriers climbed, and all the doubts you were able to put to rest because your father poured his energy and belief and determination into you.

Think about the periods of life when you felt most protected and most carefree and then think how much of that security your dad was responsible for.

I look around me on a daily basis, and I see fathers who set examples for their kids because they love them dearly. They work hard and long because they love their children dearly. They give of themselves and ask for little in return because they love them dearly. They make sure the doors are locked at night and the family pet is fed and watered because they love them dearly. They feel their children’s accomplishments and failures and losses and setbacks with the deepest of realism because they love them dearly. I look around me and I see fathers who make their children laugh, pick up them off the ground when they fall down, clean their wounds, teach them right from wrong, set expectations, teach tough lessons, and love unconditionally. Just everyday, common, run-of-the-mill men who ask for nothing in return. 

Day 168: Ribs & Potato Salad

Dad's ribs and mom's potato salad. That was my Sunday. Not a single complaint. Family around the table. Not a single complaint. Playing with my daughter. Hanging with my daughters. Not a single complaint. Homemade cards and expressions of love for dad. What's to complain about?

Day 167: Inspiration

I think it's funny sometimes where you draw inspiration from. This morning, for example, I'm running a 5K, and for whatever reason, I'm struggling a bit. Couldn't bring myself to breathe really easily and was just fighting to maintain any kind of focus for whatever reason. Ahead of me were plenty of people I could have looked to and try to have caught, or at least looked to and tried to keep up with. But I didn't really. I was just letting them get away without much fight. I was having enough trouble putting my own steps one in front of the other without worrying about their steps, too. But then something weird happened, as it always does when I'm in situations like these. As I rounded this particular turn and started making my way back to the starting point, I came across an older man running who wasn't in shape, didn't look like your stereotypical runner, and looked to be struggling just as badly as me. But man, he had attitude. Big, black headband holding his glasses in place. Old black shoes hitting the ground with determination. And a look of joy on his face that was unmistakable. Man, I saw that look and just felt good. As much I was wanted to turn in a good time and do well for myself, it didn't really matter anymore. At that point, seeing that man competing and not giving up told me everything I needed to be thinking in a split second. I needed to worry less about keeping up and worry less about thinking about what I should be doing or what I was doing wrong and just worry about why I was doing it. Why was I there? Why was it important? And what was each step getting me?

I was there for a cause, to raise money for the homeless population in my city. It was important because every person without a home is every much a person as those with homes. They have dignity that needs paid attention to. They have problems that they can't take care of themselves. And they are our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, our children, and our friends. Each step was getting me closer to the reality that I'm part of a big world that should be less about my group or your group or my wants and your needs but more about what can help us all get through each day with some happiness and fulfillment. What a lesson. What a morning. 

Day 166: The Competitive Fire

I've never liked losing--at anything. I've never been so weird and full of myself that I haven't let my kids beat me at games of basketball or Candy Land or whatever else it was that we were playing, but I don't like losing at things where the competition is real and on an equal level. It could be a meaningless mid-week softball game or a pickup basketball game or a trivia game in some bar, but I don't like coming out on the losing end. I'm not some psycho who is going to throw a tantrum or beat his wife when he gets home because I came in second, but I'll curse myself and relive the minutes over and over an unhealthy amount of times if I take a loss hard.

The thing I find fascinating is that over the years, I've put myself in less and less situations where I've had something to compete for. Let's face it, I love playing fantasy sports, but I'm not doing it for the competition. I don't have the time or inclination to spend countless hours fine tuning my lineups, so I typically resign myself early on in the season to accepting the fact that I'm going to lose. I play fantasy sports mostly for the social aspects.

And having a four-year-old doesn't leave much time to seek out competition elsewhere, like in the form of rec sports. I'd rather spend my spare time doing things she wants to do. I also have a daughter who plays competitive sports herself, and my duty these days is to watch her and not put my desires first where that stuff is concerned. Still, when you're a person who has sought out competition and made it a fairly big part of his life for decades, there can be a big void as you age and it's not there anymore.

Another thing I've found fascinating about getting older where competition is concerned is relying less on meeting my competitive addiction from others and relying more on myself. I'm begrudgingly learning to like running a bit more and more, but I'm not sure it's something I'll ever really grasp onto with a full heart. Still, I'm really learning to love the aspect of hitting personal bests again. I thrived on that feeling decades ago as a kid when I ran competitively, and for whatever reason, that feeling hasn't totally gone away today. When I'm running, I'm thinking about how I can make up time, what's possible, what's not possible, what's realistic, what's something I can look to that can propel me to surpass where I've already been.

Tomorrow, I'm running in a 5K, and as much as I'm looking forward to it because it's something that's keeping me fit and off the couch and able hopefully to add years to the duration of my life, I'm looking forward to it just as much to see where I'm at running-wise compared to people my age and where I can be in the future. I haven't been running all that long this time around, but if I'm going to keep it up, I know I'll need motivation, and the best motivation I know is trying to satisfy the fire that burns within. Stoking that fire. Making it soar and feeling its heat.

Ultimately, I'd like to test myself in other individual ways. Take myself to places I didn't believe capable. Test myself on levels that I shouldn't have been able to reach and move beyond. I've always desired, for example, to have a boxing match. I know I'll get punched in the face repeatedly, and it will probably hurt, and I'll probably wonder what the hell I got myself into halfway through, but I want to know what it's like to chew on that kind of fear and swallow it and then push myself beyond it into unknown territory, into places that I don't recognize and maybe not even like. I want to know what it's like to burn with pain but still keep moving forward.

Day 165: Summer Camp

I never got to go to summer camp. I never really even thought about it much as a young kid. Growing up, summer camp seemed like something rich kids on the East Coast did because their parents didn’t want to have to deal with them all summer.

On one hand, I kind of envied those kids for the chance to get away to the woods, hang around other kids their own age at some lake where they could canoe or swim or fish all day. How flippin’ sweet it must have been to sit by a campfire every night before going retiring for the night in some cabin with a bunch of other guys and laughing deep into the night at fart jokes or creeping out to pull pranks. Hell, maybe you would even meet a cute girl if you were lucky at the end-of-the-camp dance and live the summer to end all summers.

On the other hand, the thought of heading off alone to some strange place with a bunch of strange people all under suspect supervision didn’t sound so enticing. I’d miss out on baseball season. I’d miss out on the swimming pool social scene. Would they have fireworks at camp? You probably couldn’t sleep until noon or beyond. There’s probably no air conditioning or TV. Do they have popsicles?

Later on in life, seemingly every summer camp I witnessed through the power of TV or movies was either filled with lunatic serial killers, oversexed teenagers, or a band of misfit losers trying to find their place in the world by conquering the suckheads who had the world handed to them on a silver platter. Always there was beer and girls in short shorts involved. Always there were cutoff shirts, bad headbands on the boys, and some nerd who mucking up everyone’s good time. Still, if Jodie Foster could have a good time at camp, why couldn’t I, I’d reason.

As an adult, I’ve been able to look at summer camp through the eyes of a parent. All of my kids have headed off to some summer camp or another, including my four-year-old who has ventured off each day this week for a few hours at the YCMA camp. My older kids did the church camp and week-long overnight camp scene. I truly believe those camps were as tough on me and their mom as it might have been on them being away from home. I’m not sure to what extent they enjoyed their stays, if they did at all, but I know while they were away I seemed to do nothing but wonder what they were doing and if they were happy and OK the entire time.

But each time they went, I also envied them a little bit. The only camps I went to were basketball camps, which obviously centered around basketball day and night. Seeing some of the camps my kids went to made me want to jump in a canoe and paddle around the lake. Climb up to the top bunk. It made me wonder what if I had made friends with kids I stayed in contact the rest of my life. What if I had met a cute girl? What if I had got to play pranks and learn skills and met different people from different places with different ideas and ways of doing things.

I’m happy my daughter is camping this week, fishing and making crafts and going to a different park each day and making new friends. I even like it when she tells me each night, “The teachers are so bossy; they don’t even let us take our shoes off.” I like that she’s seeing the world from new and different views. I hope it helps her always look forward to summer and hold summer in a special regard.

Day 164: My swing set is smaller than yours, so what?

I wish the world was a place in which every kid had his or her own swing set, if even only for a few years during their childhood. If even only a cheap metal swing set that soon enough attracts rust and bends and cracks and falls inward under the heavy duress of kids happily climbing, swinging, and hanging upside down.

My sister and I had our own swing set. Seems like everyone else did, too. I vividly remember heading outside on summer days bright and early at 7 a.m. while the grass was still wet on my bare feet and the plastic seats of the swings were also covered with dew. I sat down anyway and started to swing. I remember how peaceful those mornings were but also lonely in some ways. The rest of the world still seemed asleep, including any would-be friends who could fill the other swing. A swing set never seemed boring to me. It seemed like a safe place, with its worn out dirt patches carved out of the grass and its chain links and squeaking and dented slide and missing bolts.

It’s amazing to me how sophisticated and intricate swing sets have become over the years. How many hundreds a person can spend building complicated structures features multiple forts and tunnels and enough apparatus to entertain an entire pre-school full of kids. They’re monstrosities. They’re equivalent to houses. In fact, I’m quite sure some the stuff I’ve seen popping up around my neighborhood is larger than what people in some Third World countries reside in. Amazing but not surprising, I suppose.

A couple years ago when we started contemplating a swing set purchase for our youngest daughter, I felt this weird social stigma starting to take hold. Should I buy her a swing set that was on par with the lifelike pirate ships and space shuttles and full-blown edifices being erected in seemingly every other backyard surrounding my house? Or should I stick with the simplicity of tradition A-framer made of good ole’ steel? My heart wanted to pull the trigger on a monster-size set. My bank account screamed “No!” For whatever reason, I couldn’t justify spending a kazillon dollars on something that she was only going to play on for so many months a year and for only so many years of her life. I argued she’d probably not care anyway.

Turns out that I was wrong. Not long after she learned to walk and talk and climb and swing, she started noticing the much bigger and much more fun-looking swing sets in the neighbors’ yards. And then her questions started to come. “Why don’t we have one of those?” I was tempted to tell her “because you were born with a great big imagination and ability to make your own fun without having to have a three-story building in your backyard to do it,” but I didn’t. I just mumbled something about money, groceries, a roof over your head, and other stuff she didn’t give a flip about and changed the subject.

Still, not having the best in outdoor play gear hasn’t stopped her for a second from playing on the mid-level gear that her old man bought instead. She still swings with a smile. She still zooms down a slide. She still climbs on the bars, and soon enough, I’m sure she’ll be hanging upside down risking broken bones. And damned if she doesn’t play on her far less expensive swing set a hell of a lot more than the kids next door with their fancy castles and split-level, ranch-sized hideouts. I’ve no clue what those kids do all day and night all year round, but I rarely see those kids outside getting dirty, getting physical, and getting sweaty. They must be inside playing with their overpriced, fancy indoor toys.

Day 163: Summer Songs

Nightswimming, 
remembering that night, 
September's coming soon,
I'm pining for the moon,
and what if there were two,
side by side in orbit around the fairest sun? 
The bright tide forever drawn
could not describe nightswimming. 


- REM

O can't you see

You belong to me

How my poor heart aches with every step you take

- The Police

There were few things I loved more growing up than the radio. My first radio was a tiny blue transistor. I listened to it constantly, including in bed well after my bedtime. My sister got a matching red one, which she loved as much. Through that radio, I listened to everything. Ball games from distant AM feeds. Talk radio. The CBS television feed. Public radio. Country music. Classical music. Z-92. The Eagle. KFRX. Golden Oldies. KFMQ. You name it. 

I listened to the radio year around, but without question, the summertime was my favorite time to listen to music. I'd sit outside on our patio in one of those old steel and nylon lawn chairs I'm not sure they make anymore with any radio I could get my hands on and listen to tunes deep into the night. On Sundays it was Rockline and The King Biscuit Flower Hour where I'd listen to interviews with whatever musician was featured. On any other night, I just constantly turned the dial up and down, stopping at whatever I like or that intrigued me. 

As the years passed and my tastes became more refined, I started listening to the radio less and less and tapes and CDs more and more. Still, the summertime was my favorite time for some reason. To this day, I associate more songs with certain summers than any other time of the year. If I hear certain songs, whether on the radio, an iPod, a loudspeaker, whatever, it takes me back to a certain age in a certain time and place. Arguably, no two songs have as powerful affect on me in this way than "Nightswimming" and "Every Breath You Take." I'm not sure why, but I don't even question it anymore. I've heard both so many times, there's seemingly nothing new I can learn about either one, but still I do. And somehow, each helps me continue to learn things about myself. Each takes me back to certain social settings. Each takes me back to certain conversations. Certain nights. Certain emotions. Certain situations. I play those out. I revise history. I question actions. I relive laughs and smile. I explore all the places I was so fascinated with originally. The fantastic thing about these songs, and songs in general, is that somewhere, someplace, I know there are certain people who share of  the same feelings I do when they hear those songs but also experience their own intimate memories and emotions. 

I love that music gives people their own special emotions. I love that songs can transport people to specific moments lived out in different eras. I love that summer songs can elicit certain smells, certain sensations, certain power. Today, by whatever cosmic force that's at work, I heard both "Nightswimming" and "Every Breath You Take" at different times in the day. Both times, my day became just a little bit better, if only temporarily. 

Day 162: Just Move On

What a weird day. I was on vacation. That's good. I got a lot done. That's good, as well. I got to play quite a bit with my little girl. Definitely good. Going to have some pizza for supper. Not bad on any day. Still, I have to say, this day mostly sucked. Why? Who knows. I'm too tired to examine the why and ifs and buts. Sometimes, you have to accept that they came along at the wrong time and place and there's not much you can do about it. It is what it is. Let it go. Look to the next minute. And just move on. It's a Monday. I tend to think that's what Mondays are for anyway. Now, Tuesday, what do you have in store? 

Day 161: 6/10/67

Glad to be alive another year. To watch my kids grow. To see my wife smile. To hear my dogs bark. To feel my cats' fur. To hear music. To feel the sun. To read meaningful words. To learn and reason. To be in the midst of friends and family. To help the cause. To play my guitar. To be inspired. To hear music. To walk and talk. To forgive and forget. To lift up. To experience. To love.

Day 160: Warriors Who Flock Together . . .

I've been running three times a week and working out on the off days since January pretty much for two reasons. The first is I'm 44 years old and I have a four-year-old daughter. Keeping up with her was getting harder and harder. I was quickly reaching the point where I realized that if I didn't do something to strengthen my endurance, I wasn't going to be able to be the kind of dad I want to be. The kind of dad that plays with his kids when they want to play. Who isn't too tired after work to go to the park. Who isn't too tired by the end of the day that he couldn't still do the things he wanted to do for himself. The second reason I've been working out since January is the Warrior Dash, a 3 mile and change run that mixes in 12 obstacles along the way. In no way was I ready to tackle the challenge in January, but I knew dangling it out there in front of me would get my every-broadening gut and butt off the couch and into gear. And so from January until today, that's exactly what I've done. Today was the payoff. 

The Warrior Dash is an event in every sense of the word. It's a national event, in that it's held in numerous states. The Nebraska version reportedly attracted 23,000 people over Saturday and Sunday. It's a fun event. There's a festival like feel to the grounds, complete with giant stage and band, food, drinks, people of all sorts of flavors and ages, sunshine, and a good all around vibe. It's a personal event in that it's very much a mental and physical challenge beginning with the half mile run to start that goes straight up a steep hill on through the waist-high trudge through a pond full of mud and muck and finishing with a couple of jumps over fire. Once conquered, the Warrior Dash is a monumental event in that the sense of accomplishment is undeniable and something that can't be taken away from you. 

Today, I learned a little bit about myself. I learned that there are times when I really want to quit. I just want to pack everything in, take my proverbial ball and go home, find a nice comfy place on the couch and never leave it. But I learned there something residing somewhere deep inside me that is stronger than that desire to quit. I just have to find it and let it out. Today, I was gassed. Exhausted. Fatigued. Mentally and physically shot. But yet I keep taking another step. I learned you can always take one more step if you want to. Doesn't how matter how quickly you take it, but you can take it if there desire is there. Maybe it was the 61-year-old lady climbing along the rope in front of me that inspired me. Maybe it was the older men who ran like teenagers. Maybe it was seeing the finish line off in the distance. Maybe it was just the fact I didn't want to fail. I also learned that it sure the hell helps if you have someone by your side whispering in your ear, "Dude, you can do it." 

Man, I have to say thanks to those dudes who took the challenge with me and helped me today. Each finished. Each ran his ass off. Each was in high spirits afterward, as he should have been. Each pushed me along the trail, even when they didn't realize it. Much appreciation for the inspiration. 

What a day. What a positive experience. What a great culmination to months of hard work and a great gateway toward more great events ahead. 

Thanks Daryl, Tom, Randy, Steve, Chris, and Tim. 

Day 159: Moved To Tears (Almost)

To be honest, I started writing today’s entry on a subject that had a completely smart-assed tone about it. Sarcastic and snarky and probably even a bit degrading, and all really for no particularly good reason other than I haven’t been in a really good mood today and I was making myself feel better by demeaning others. Really, what I was writing wasn’t worth the time I was spending on it, and it wouldn’t have progressed me or anyone else in the least.

Then about midway through the pile of crap I was stringing together, off to the left of where I sit at work, I watched a man who is retiring today get up from his desk and start making his way to the door, leaving the building for the last time as an employee. Along the way, he stopped to shake the hand or give a hug to every man and woman in his department, many of whom I know he has worked with for probably close to 20 years or more. After he gave the last hug, which went to his long-time manager, everyone in his department stood up and gave him a round of applause. Now, maybe this is common occurrence where some people work, but it’s a scene that I haven’t witnessed in my 15 years working where I do or anywhere else for that matter.

I sat at my desk, witnessing the entire scene play out with an almost surreal sense of wonder. In all honesty, it moved me—not quite to tears but almost. I couldn’t help but wonder what the man was feeling as he greeted each man and woman. Regret. Relief. Excitement. Uncertainty. Fear. Optimism. I couldn’t help but wonder what he would be thinking when he reached his car, got in, and sat alone in the parking lot while all the people he just said goodbye to picked back up with their duties and carried on. What would the ride home be like? What would Monday morning bring? Was he reflecting on past year or potting future ones? I wondered all this despite my only interactions with him being pretty much limited to an occasional “hello” while passing each other in the hallway.  

It’s moments like these that make me believe and trust that there is a greater force working in the world, a force that would take the effort to refocus the pathetic thoughts that were working in my mind and churning out worthless tripe of good to no one into thoughts being formed by witnessing a genuinely moving, touching moment—a moment overflowing with history and newness. Life is strange, and it’s strange how life can bring acquaintances and strangers together in a manner that they can share the same moment in drastically different ways. I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling right now, but I know that I’m in a whole lot better place than I was before.  

Day 158: Making A Bucket List

I’m getting to that age where making a bucket list makes sense. I think there’s merit to creating a list of things that sound enticing and would fulfill your soul. What’s the harm, after all? Even if you never check off even one item, hasn’t just creating the list given you a certain amount of joy by pondering and imaging the possibilities and experiences?

I’ve never created a bucket list proper, but I do have boxes of items stored away in the back of my cavernous mind filled with various things that I want to do. I also have boxes filled with things I’ve wanted to do, tried, failed to do, but would like to try again. Waterskiing is such a thing. I’ve tried several times, gotten up for a few seconds, and crashed with nasty glory. I’m not sure why I can’t do it. I’m fairly athletic. I can snow ski. I can rollerblade and roller skate. I can chew gum and walk at the same time. But I can’t waterski, and it kind of pisses me off. But I digress.

I’m not sure if there are any unwritten or written rules to creating a bucket list. I’m guessing there aren’t. But I think there should be. You shouldn’t be able to add just any item, for example. Only the big stuff should qualify; stuff that’s hard to obtain or pull off and that takes some doing. Take walking on your hands, for instance. No way that belongs on a bucket list. Now, walking across the state you live in or across the country, that does. So, by that qualification, the first item I’m putting on my bucket list is “Walk The Entire Appalachian Trail.” It’s not an insurmountable goal, and I don’t think I should even have to do it all at once, but it’s not something that I can just wake up tomorrow and pull off, either.

I also think that a bucket list item should hold some special meaning to the person making the list. Painting a picture of your house, for example, isn’t worthy. Painting a picture of the house you just built with your own hands does. So, based on that, the second list I’m adding to my bucket list is “Build My Own Guitar.” Given the tools and the knowhow, I think that’s something that I can do and it’s something that would mean a great deal to me because A.) I can play guitar, and B.) being able to play guitar helps maintain my sanity. Playing a guitar that I made, therefore, would be extra special and just maybe even extra soothing.

Now, this may cause a bit of controversy, but I don’t believe a bucket list item has to be something you do alone. Take skydiving, for example. It’s possible you’ve always wanted to leap out of a plane. It’s also possible your spouse has always desired to throw herself into the blueness, as well. I don’t see a reason why you can’t add this item to your own list but do with someone else. So, to that end, the third item on my list is “Become a Peace Corps Volunteer When I Retire.” If anyone plans on retiring at roughly the same time as me and also wants to do the Peace Corps a solid, I’d be grateful for the company.

I’m sure there are all kinds of other rules I could apply where bucket lists are concerned, but I don’t want to make the thing too complicated. My bucket list rules would leave a little wiggle room so as to allow for creativity and built-in forgiveness. Like, say you’ve always wanted to swim with sharks but would prefer to do it while in a cage. I’m OK with that. If you’ve always wanted to have a boxing match with a real boxer but don’t want to get hit in the face, I’m OK with only body shots. If you’ve always wanted to sail the Atlantic but didn’t necessarily want to captain the ship, eh, that’s a borderline call, but I’d give it a pass.

Day 157: Summer Softball

This has been a hard summer. For various reasons, I’ve yet to play golf, and golf was the game I started playing in earnest to take the place of playing softball when I gave that up years ago. I miss playing softball. I miss it for a lot of reasons, mostly because I just loved the game. At times, softball could be exciting, heated, demoralizing, and fulfilling in a brief stretch of moments. It was also a hell of an escape from the stress of life.

Most of all, I miss the camaraderie of hanging out with guys that softball supplied. I played on the same team with mostly the same guys for, man, roughly 15 years or so. Every spring we’d gather for a few practices before spending the summer taking the field a couple times during the work week to do our thing. On the weekends, we’d trudge off to some city or town and hopefully spend all day Saturday and Sunday doing the same in one tournament or another. You get to know people pretty well when you spend that much time together, and you get to be friends. You even enter a few battles, including some where coming to blows appears unavoidable. You get to know your teammates’ wives and kids, as well, and you look forward to seeing them and you enjoying seeing how much they’ve grown during the offseason. When all that ends, it’s hard to replace.

Look, I’m not trying to make myself out as some gloried athlete who had to walk off into the sunset and is missing his glory days. At best, I was a fair to average player. I could hold my own, and on some occasions I was clutch. But better than anyone, I realize a softball game is just a softball game. The world isn’t going to stop turning in the event of a loss. No one ever threw a parade because I hit one out to dead left. But when you enjoy something, it doesn’t really matter what it is that elicits the happiness. It’s the happiness that’s important.  

I could probably still play softball if I really wanted to. Hell, I saw plenty of guys playing well into their late 50s. The thought of waking up on a Monday morning and pulling my work pants up over a big-ass strawberry I got on my butt sliding into second is in no way appealing anymore, however. Neither are the sore shoulders, sore feet, abs, and grounders taken off the shins, forearms, and face. Just as unappealing is standing in 100-degree July heat for five games in a row or waking up with a hangover early Sunday morning after getting drunk Saturday night, only to have to take the field to play the first game of the day because you lost your last game the night before. I don’t miss the bitching and moaning from guys who swear “I should be batting third, damn it” or “I don’t know why I’m playing right field.” I don’t miss the glares from an irate wife after I showed up late for some engagement or another because that one beer after the game stretched into 12. I don’t miss muscled-up hotheads who couldn’t control their temper and who defined their entire lives by how far they hit a round white ball. I sure don’t miss those 9:15 p.m. games on Monday night that didn’t really start until 9:40 and didn’t really end until 11.

What I do miss are the nicknames. Plug. Special K. The Finagler. Spewdog. Rat.

I miss playing on my work teams with guys who’d never played before and didn’t know left from right field.

I miss the routines, like playing pepper.

I miss sitting in a bar between games and soaking in the A/C.

I miss playing keno and ballpark food.

I miss the trips to Kansas City and Iowa and sitting in the hotel parking lot drinking cool ones from a community cooler.

I miss playing on astro-turf.

I miss playing deep into the night in games where you’d have to score a run in the last inning or stop the other team from doing the same.

I miss the inside jokes and the rally cries made in unison that only your teammates knew the meaning of, like “onion powder” or “EPIGAWA.”

I miss keeping book.

I miss fall ball and playing co-ed. 

I miss the high-five walk after a win.

I miss getting a new hat every season and getting it filthy by the third game.

I miss the rally inning.

I miss the #17 on my back.

I miss pulling my glove out of my ball bag, fishing out a decayed, cracked softball, and saying “who wants to throw?”

I miss the feeling of watching a ball that I’ve hit go over the fence (I didn’t happen that often) or driving a ball into the gap and watch it one-hop off the fence.

I miss the warning track.

I miss diving for balls, turning double plays, scooping a ball out of the dirt, and rubbing dirt on the bat’s handle.

I miss the smell of grass at night and the shadows of crisscrossing ballpark lights.

I miss seeing my kids, young and full of life, climbing up and down the bleachers.

I miss wearing my spikes and the smell of Ben-Gay.

I miss spitting sunflower seeds all day long.

I miss the batter’s box and the dugout.

I miss playing second base.

I miss being on deck.

I miss throwing the ball around the horn.

I miss spending seven innings at a time with my friends. 

Day 156; No Such Thing As Halfway Crooks

Here’s the thing about losing your temper and losing control: I’m all in favor of it—as long as it doesn’t happen perpetually and as long as no one really gets hurt. Otherwise, I see great benefits in losing your wig once in a while.

I may be alone in this thinking, but letting people see, hear, and feel that you’re coming apart at the hinges has its benefits.

1.) It lets them know you have a breaking point, and if you continue to push me toward that ledge and beyond, you’re going to have to deal with some ramifications, and they might not work out in your best interest.

2.) Going loco periodically allows you to hit the Reset button and start anew. That’s a must as far as I’m concerned. Acquire too much baggage or allow too much to go on unchecked or do too much enabling or carry too much of the weight and eventually your back starts to break. Better to let the load crash temporarily, freak the hell out, regroup, and pick the load back up and carry on than to be completely broken and never be able to carry the load again.

3.) Letting pent up anger blow with great force shows those involved, in so many words, that you’re not a sucker. You won’t be played. You won’t be disrespected. You will only succumb to so much pushing, prodding, needling, and shenanigans before you engage. And once engaged, fully engage. Don’t half-ass your commitment to enter the battle that’s been brought to you. You didn’t ask for this conflict, but you’re willing to finish it. To quote one of my favorite lyrics from Mobb Deep, there’s no such thing as halfway crooks.

Now, all that said, let me qualify what I’ve written up to this point.

1.) I don’t endorse losing your temper or control right from the get-go. Numerous attempts to reason with those involved should be completed first. My experience is that this stage will be met with varying degrees of success. Some people won’t respond to reason. Some people simply are too ignorant to understand reason. Some people just can’t see the big picture and can only process one emotion or one situation or one idea at a time. Complex constructs aren’t their forte. But some people can, and it’s better to investigate this possibility first than assume it doesn’t exist.

2.) I don’t endorse physical demonstrations of losing temper and control. Things very well may come to that, but avoid it if at all possible. It’s demeaning, it’s permanent, and it’s the low common denominator. Brain power is where it’s at.

3.) Avoid belittling, name-calling, and personality assassinations. You can’t take them back, and once that stuff is out there in the air, it stays there for a long time. If fact, that stuff never really goes away. If you’re lucky, it will fade into the background, but it’s still there, and it will be remembered, and you’ll have a hard time defending it in any way in which you come out looking noble or honorable.

4.) I’m a big fan of sarcasm, but use it in small doses and consider your audience. Some people don’t understand the finer nuisances of sarcasm and will interpret your attempts as being literal. You’ll spend more time explaining that what you said was meant to be sarcastic to such people than is really worth your time, and in the end, they still probably won’t get it.

5.) Be ready to apologize, even if you don’t feel like it. You most likely owe one, it shows you’ve thought about the situation with some level of depth, and it indicates that while you may be somewhat of an ass you’re not a complete ass.

Finally, let me say that all this advice should be taken with a big scoop of salt. I’m in no way a virtue of remaining above the fray or always playing fair or even running through stages 1 through 5 before losing it. I live a complicated life. I wake up some days with buttons popping off my shirt. Still, I firmly believe God gave us humility and forgiveness and regret to counterbalance our periods of white-hot anger.  

Day 155: Dancing

Way back in 1985, guess who was voted the Best Dancer in his senior class? That’s right, good people, yours truly. (I was also voted as Best Dressed and Best Hair, so you can take that distinction for what it’s worth.) These days, my dance steps basically amount to bobbing my right knee a couple of times and then alternating with a couple bobs to the left. I might mix in a spin move once every few measures just to keep my dancing partner honest, but that’s about it. Fred Astaire I ain’t. But I sure enjoy the hell out of watching people dance, especially little kids.

This past weekend I watched my four-year-old dance her heart out song after song along with her little cousins. She has some moves, too. I like her little Beyonce “All The Single Ladies” hand shake the best, but she can twirl a nice circle and do a little Hip-Hop bounce that pretty tight, as well. What I liked most, though, was how much fun she was having, and how for even a little bit getting caught up in the dancing going on brought her out of the shell she tends to stick in from time to time around strangers. Even better were the smiles that her and her little cousins brought to all the other faces watching them.

The next morning, as she and I took a walk together around the neighborhood, I asked her why she didn’t save a dance for her old man. She said, “all that dancing wiped me out.” I can accept that. I’ll get my dance with her later on. For now, I’m content watching her live it up from afar, especially if it keeps me off the dance floor. 

Day 154: Get Married, Gain Family

Some people get married and don't like their in-laws. I'm not one of those people. In fact, I'd say I made out pretty well. 


On one hand, my wife's mother's family stretches from the West Coast to the East Coast and is wonderful all around. Great aunt's, good cousins, loyal and loving fathers and mothers, and generally fine people with fine values and excepting hearts. They greet you with a hug, and they leave you with the same. They shoot straight, and they're good with a story. 


On the other hand is my wife's father's family, of whom I saw and spent time with many this weekend. They also shoot straight, they also greet and depart with hugs, and they're also good people with strong attachments to one another. 


Like anyone else with in-laws, I'm closer to some of them than others, and I get to see some more than others, as well. But in general, the thing that attracts me to all of them is their sense of family and their ties that bind. I admire that. I see the value my wife puts into and how much it means to her, and I admire that, as well. 


When my wife tells me so and so is coming to visit and is going to stay a while, I don't start making plans to be gone. I don't start griping or complaining. I don't immediately ask, "For how long?" I look forward to those visits. I look forward to the sense of community it creates. I like hearing old stories. I like hearing new ones, too. I like watching my kids interact with their relatives and creating bonds that I hope will carry on into future generations. I like meeting the new little ones and seeing how it's changing their parents, many of whom I've watched grow up from afar. I like seeing them start news lives, and I like watching their parents look on with worry and pride and happiness. I like sharing meals and experiences. I like taking part in customs that were born long before me and carried on throughout the generations. I like seeing respect and honor paid to the older generations. I do like these visits, and I'm grateful they occur. 


My in-laws on both sides of my wife's family are like my own. Diverse. Opinionated. Honorable. Real. It's good to be part of what they've created. I'm grateful my children will always have that resource to go back to again and again as needed. 

Day 153: Garage Sale Person

This morning, as I started off on my run, I passed several garage sales going down in my neighborhood, all of which had already attracted a quite impressive group of people poking and prodding the goods strewn about on the grass and the driveway in front of them. I love garage sale people, or at least I love that trait concerning  garage sale people that allows them to see the value in used goods. It's an interesting notion that the things that one person no longer sees value and want to do away with have intricate value to someone else who is willing to pay for them, but only pay so much. I love the idea of seeking out a bargain. Of finding a pearl in the rough. I love the idea of wondering what memories and history are tied up in the furniture and books and paintings and clothes on sale. I wonder if the people selling those items feel pangs of regret or mountains of joy as they watch them leave their premises forever. I wonder if they're happy to be rid of this stuff cluttering their houses or sad to see them go. I suppose their emotions fall on both sides of the fence.

I bought my first guitar at a garage sale. Well, actually, my mom bought it for me. I loved that guitar, despite the fact that it was beat up and probably not worth the $10 or so she paid for it. But it came with it's own little plastic case, it has six strings, and it was all mine. That guitar put a lot of thoughts of possibilities in my head, and eventually when I learned to play, that guitar was the impetus for a lot of joy for me. I've bought a lot of books at garage sales over the years that poured a lot of knowledge into my brain. I learned a lot of words and traveled a lot of paths and lead a lot of lives in those books, most of which I might have paid maybe a quarter for. I've stored my personal belongings in tables that I picked up at garage sales. Stored my writings in crates. Stared into paintings. Listened to hour after hour of music that floated out of albums and tapes and CDs I lifted from the previous owner. I've bought my kids toys they "just had to have," and I've bought myself a few, as well.

I wish I had the time and ambition to roam from sale to sale more often. I wish I had a family member or friend who shared that passion for seeking out some used treasure on Friday and Saturday mornings, who shared that longing for bringing another collected item into the home that wasn't really needed but was just too good to pass up.

The notion of garage sales is a romantic one to me for some reason. It's American. It's authentic and real and ground in reality. It's people communicating with other people in a personal atmosphere that has nothing to do with long aisles in overly big, stale, stores filled with nothing but newness. It has nothing to do with exchanging money with disinterested sales clerks. It has nothing to do with lining the pockets of some corporation that pushed a local five-and-dime out of business to make its mark. Garage sales are real people doing commerce with real people, maybe haggling a little bit, but both sides appreciating a good deal and a fair exchange. No markups. No coupons needed. No "for a limited time" only scams. Just good business. 

Day 152: Meeting The Other Me

Last night I met a guy, who I swear, if I'd have taken a few different paths in my life previously, could have very easily been me looking back at me. It was bizarre how much we had in common and how similarly we thought and how very much alike we even spoke. Seemingly the same dispositions. Seemingly the same hobbies in our downtime. Seemingly the same mannerisms. 


As I sat there contemplating this chance meeting, I wondered how many other mes there are out there? What do they do? Where do they live? What would it have taken for me to wind up in their positions rather than the one I'm in now? In many way, looking at this "me" sitting across from me last night made me envious of his existence. I realized all the while, though, that what my alternative "me" was missing were the very things I love so much about my life, namely a wife and kids. So, although we share a passion for the same music, documentaries, golf, language choices, and probably a lot of the same morals and ethics, I have a few things that other me doesn't, and for that I'm thankful. Still, it would be nice to meet more of the other mes and walk a few steps in their shoes to see the sights I may have missed. 

Day 151: The Frosty Treat vs. The Dairy Cone

You know what my kids have been missing all their lives? They’ve been missing that on-the-corner greasy spoon they can comfortably walk to along with their friends during the day or night and call their own. They’ve been missing the succulence that is a mystery meat sandwich whose ingredients some enterprising woman concocted in her mind with big aspirations to feed the local citizens galore. They’ve been missing that certain place they call go to, sit in a booth as long as they want to escape the summer’s heat, and get caught up on their town’s gossip as told straight from the mouths of the teenage girls working behind the counter. They’ve been missing piping hot French fries and onion chips, big-ass malts and milkshakes, pinball machines in the corner, Ms. Pac-Man at the ready, and a welcome alternative to the grub the school is serving for lunch that day all with the knowledge that every penny they spend there goes straight into the pockets of their neighbors, not The Man. My kids have been missing a Frosty Treat and Dairy Cone in their lives.

If you live in a small town or grew up in a small town, chances are damn good you know of what I speak. You know the tasty vibe I’m spreading here. You can smell the loose-meat sandwich right now. You can taste the bit of pickle that’s mixing with the ketchup and mustard in your mouth. You can feel the hotness of the chicken strip you just bit into burning your tongue, and you’re reaching for your chocolate shake to cool it down. You know what I saying, but my kids don’t. My kids know Dairy Queen (boring). My kids know McDonald’s (ugh). My kids know Burger King and Wendy’s and the whole other slew of run-of-the-mill craptraps spread across the country and world for that matter. What they don’t know is the homegrown magic being spun daily at a local dive. My kids are city kids, and city kids are brainwashed into seeking out the ordinary. What a travesty.

I was lucky enough to have two such places to escape to: The Frosty Treat and The Dairy Cone. Now, family allegiances pulled me to the Frosty Treat. My aunt worked there forever. Countless cousins worked there, too. My cousins owned it at one time, in fact. My dad played for the Frosty Treat softball team along with a bunch of other relatives when I was a kid. To this day, my relatives keep the Frosty burger alive by cooking up a batch for various occasions, and all it takes is one bite for the memories to start clogging my arteries again with the most welcomed acceptance. But here’s a secret, despite the vast amounts of ice cream I devoured at the Frosty Treat, and despite the most glorious of onion chips consumed, and despite spending many a lunch hour there, I actually preferred the beef burger served at The Diary Cone. I always felt a sense of betrayal and guilt from my taste buds’ preference, but not enough that it kept me away for long durations or from ordering three beef burgers at a time. Here’s another secret, my mom preferred the beef burger, as well. (By publicly stating this, I’m sure I’m putting her at all sorts of risk.) Thus, when the two of us were left alone to fend for ourselves at supper time, it wasn’t uncommon for us to covertly make our way to The Dairy Cone, place our order, and make tracks before we were seen. But oh, was it worth it. I can just picture that wonderful sandwich right now, wrapped ever so well in wax paper and secured with a toothpick, just waiting for my mouth.

Sadly, the Frosty Treat is no longer. In my opinion, there should be a landmark where it once stood, but I may be in alone in that thinking. At any rate, I’m beyond grateful for the memories that the place provided, not just food-wise but socially and historically, as well. I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to a chain restaurant to get a hot fudge sundae, and I’m glad that the first place I got my little cup of ketchup was from a mom-and-pop and outfit. I’m glad I have memories of sitting in my parents’ car, watching intently as my mom ordered ice cream cones from the back screen window, and made her way back to make my day. I’m glad for the three or so blocks I could walk to the Frosty Treat from school over lunchtime with my friends and talk about the talk. I’m glad I could sit at the counter at the Dairy Cone and make fun of my friend Chris as he tried in vain to make another ice cream cone. I’m glad for the grease that still courses through my body. 

Day 150: Living What You Believe vs. Settling

“Are you doing what you believe in, or are you settling for what you are doing?”

That’s a question I read in an article entitled “30 Questions That Will Change The Way You Think.” It’s a question I’ve actually been pondering in one way or another for, seemingly, ever. Even if not thinking about the question as it’s specifically worded here, I’m still thinking about it, wondering if I could better be using my time, questioning if I’m wasting my time, thinking about how I could better serve the time I’ve been given, etc.

This has been particularly true as of late. I’m turning 45 in a few days. I know that I probably won’t live until I’m 90, which means I have fewer years ahead of me than I do behind. That fact has me feeling as if I’m in a pickle or sorts. Given all the responsibilities and obligations that I have to myself and others, how do I get done the things I really want to get done? For example, I don’t want to ever mow my lawn again, and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t an expected obligation that society has placed on me. So I do it once a week or so for a couple hours at a time, along with too many other similar obligations than I can count. Performing all these obligations takes time. A lot of time. A lot of time I could otherwise use to, say, climb a mountain or walk the Appalachian Trail or live a monk’s existence for a few months or read every book that I’ve ever wanted to read or spend day after day learning martial arts or spend all my energy and time fighting to win every fight I deem worth fighting. That last item alone would easily take up every second of the rest of my life, and I’m quite certain even if I did, the possibility of even winning one battle, say, endless homelessness in America, would be a miracle.

I totally get why some people check out. Just decide one day that they’ve had enough and escape all the pressures and worries and start doing only what they want to do. I also understand that to do so successfully requires a massive amount of selfishness and willpower to abandon anyone and anything you previously were responsible to, but I understand why certain people have a breaking point and do it. I don’t particularly admire or condone such a decision, but I understand it. The people I really admire are those who can manage to live up to their obligations but still live life according to what they believe in, whatever that might entail. Sure, there are all kinds of sacrifices we have to make day in and day out, but how many of us ultimately just settle? Just throw up our hands and resign ourselves to believe that “this is as good as it gets?” Some of us make peace with that resignation. Some of us let it eat us up little by little until we become nothing but bitter shells of our former selves. But the best of us, the best of us find the middle ground where we don’t settle and don’t abandon responsibilities and live deeply personal purposeful lives.

Ultimately, I have to believe that doing what you believe in is possible, even if done in small increments. It could mean putting an extra $5 in the collection basket or keeping the gym open five extra minutes for the poverty-ridden urban kids who don’t have much of a home to go to or just walking down a stretch of road and picking up the damn trash. As for myself, I firmly believe I have a duty to live out the next half of my life responsibly and productively and use whatever skills I’ve acquired to better those things that I can. Change can happen at any time and in any place and take any form. That’s what I want to believe in, and that’s how I want to live. 

Day 149: Personal Bests

I've been running since late January training for the Warrior Dash, which is exactly 10 days away. Over that time, I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing whatsoever that I like about running. Well, nothing except the feeling I have when I'm done. The rest of it I find boring and repetitive. Also, I'm not very good at it anymore. And that's hard to swallow. There was a time when I was a good runner, and there was a time when it did come easy. But those days are over, and now living with that fact it's a big, fat, nasty tasting pill to swallow.

I started running long distance in eighth grade. I tried the hurdles initially, but it took exactly one time of tripping and falling to convince me that wasn't a wise choice for me. Also, I was slow. Really slow. Getting from point A to point B when the distance in between was relatively short wasn't my specialty. So on to the longer runs I ventured. I settled on the 800 and the mile. At age 14, I came within seconds of breaking 5 minutes in the mile at the last meet. My coach convinced me to train and run all that summer because he evidently saw potential in me. So, that summer I did just that, running about six miles every night--twice around the Ashland town square. My freshmen year, the training paid off. I dipped well below 5 minutes in the mile, and I was on top of the world. Better, when I ran, it felt as if I was floating most of the time. It wasn't work. I didn't strain. I didn't tire. It didn't feel hard or exhausting. Some nights I felt like I could run forever. Some summer nights, when it was so quiet and warm and all that I could hear was my footsteps and the crickets singing and playing their music, I felt as if I was the only person alive. My favorite movie soon became "The Jericho Mile" and I found myself daydreaming about Peter Strauss and picturing myself running with him around that prison yard. Running was really the first thing that I felt like I was good at and that I could become very good out. And then, as happened with a lot of kids in a small town, I found beer. I still managed to run sub 5-minute miles my remaining years of high school, but running took a back seat in the spring time to socializing and staying out late. Looking back, I think what a shame it was. Who knows what could have happened if I would have had my head on straight?

I never ran with as much conviction and joy after those early years. Between 14 and 44, I've barely ran at all. Since January, though, I've run three times a week every week, and although I take pride in that, I haven't really enjoyed it much. The only aspect I do find rewarding is bettering a previous personal best time. In my case, that doesn't take much because my personal bests are pretty pathetic. In fact, they're embarrassing. But I'm persevering and hitting the trail every other day. Today, I ran the longest distance and time since I started running again, and I have to admit, it felt good. It didn't change the fact that my brain  constantly taunted me by strongly suggesting "quit, man, quit," but I endured. On the big scale of running accomplishments, I realize mine rank well near the bottom compared to others, but I'm progressing, and who knows, maybe one day running will transform from something I have to grind through each time into something I look forward to. I'd really like to feel like I did back in my Peter Strauss days, sprinting 400s, having a kick, and my lungs full of life. For now, I'll settle for being a 44-year-old man getting back into the game, slowly and surely. 

Day 148: this is what it's all about

This is my ball of positivity. The only reminder I need that life can and will be good.

Day 147: When Plans Change, Your Character Shows

So, I had all sorts of plans for this weekend. All sorts of things I wanted to get done. And for the most part, I've failed miserably. Most because I hurt my back Friday morning. Since then, my existence has been one that's largely been lying on the couch and thinking nonstop about all the things I'm not getting done. Today, that frustrated came to a head and I blew, in so many words. Primarily, I let my bad mood take over and vent itself all over everyone else. Exactly the thing I didn't want to do. Now, I'm pissed at myself.

People take their crap out on other people all the time. Usually the people who get the crap taken on out are family, or at least those who are conveniently within earshot. I hate taking crap out on my family. It never leads to any good. It only leads to having to make a bunch of apologies and beating yourself up, which is what I've been doing most of the day, and deservedly so. My back doesn't feel any better, my self-worth feels even worse, and the crappy, lonely feeling that was pouring all over my head before has only turned into a downpour. Nice.

Now, the question is what am I going to do about it? Anybody can be Mr. Good Guy when everything is going right. Not everyone can be as stand-up and quality when everything is going poorly. I don't want to be Mr. Ass just because things aren't all rosy and cuddly for me right now. I don't even necessarily want to be Mr. Good Guy. I just want to be honest and straight up. Hey, I'm in a bad mood. Things kind of suck right now. Let me warn you that I'm likely to be a jerk at any minute, so take caution. And if I should take my crap out on you, I apologize up front. I don't mean to be.

I really do hate days like these, where it feels like I'm walking in a desert and there's no way to water. No where to shade. Just unrelenting sun beating on my head, stripping away layers one after another. Nothing satisfies. Nothing soothes. Nothing makes even one second better. All that there is really to do is ride the wave out. Just ride it out and try not to take anyone with me as I do.

I have great kids who can really accept an apology and understand when their parents aren't having their best days. I'm very lucky in that regard.