Life with Lemons

Tags

God, life, relationships

I really need to learn how to make lemonade.  Little Stevie has been turning tiny fruit into enormous entities.

Today showed me that.

Let me start with the lemon that finished me off.  It was a itty bitty Lemonhead, to be honest, one that I think I could have avoided.  Can I admit that there are times when skipping church can be OK?  I should have skipped this morning’s service.  I should have just avoided.  I knew what was on the service agenda.  My church is ambitious, intent on growing and reaching as many people for God as possible.  That really excites me, especially since I know from watching the church grow over close to 30 years that it is blessed.  In order to grow, that means expanding.  Expanding requires money.  This morning was going to be a commitment service, with members being asked to commit to giving more over the next two years.  That requires faith beyond what I have.  Either that or God is telling me that I am not being asked to commit to giving more.

I hate that.  Damn it, God, I really do hate that!  After searching, working out the financial details, praying about it, I had to decide that going beyond what I have in order to give to a church building project is not wise.  God wants me to be a good steward.  God is not asking me to step out in faith and make money appear out of nowhere.  So I signed the commitment card any way, said that I am committing to give $25 a month more, walked up front and dropped it in the basket.

Remember the story in the Bible about Ananias and Sapphira, the couple who sold a piece of land to give the money to their church, lied about the price when they gave the money, and dropped dead as a result?  It’s in Acts 5 if you want to check it out.

I returned to my seat, stood with everyone while we sang.  All of a sudden, I felt very ill, nauseated and so dizzy that I felt like I was going to collapse.  I sat down.  That didn’t help.  Trying to be brave, I sat up straight, all the while feeling like any moment I was going to pass out.  The anxiety was building.  I didn’t know what was happening, but I was pretty sure that a good deal of how I felt at the moment had to do with that anxiety.

There are a lot of lemons in my life.  Anyone who reads this blog knows that.  I let those lemons be a lot larger than they need to be.  This morning, they about crushed me.

It didn’t help that yesterday I rode close to three hours, only drank about a quarter of the one water bottle that I brought with me.  More than likely, I was still a little dehydrated this morning.  Also, when I had that accident at the beginning of January, my blood pressure was around 170 over 102.  That scared the people who looked me over at the hospital after the accident.  They discharged me with a warning to go have my blood pressure checked by my doctor.  I chalked that up to the shock I was experiencing due to the accident, so I didn’t do anything about it.

So I forced myself to get up out of my chair in the church auditorium at the end of the service.  I was afraid.  I was dizzy, my gut churning, but walking helped a little.  I got in my car and it all came back.. worse.

Long story short, I managed to drive myself to a convenient care.  They took one look at me as I walked in and immediately they grabbed a wheelchair, took me back to exam.  After determining that it wasn’t my heart, they told me that there was definitely something doing on, but they needed me to go to the ER.  A few minutes later, I was in an ambulance and on my way to the hospital.

My heart rate was 165 over 102.  I was discharged a few hours later with a prescription for high blood pressure medicine.  Likely culprit is stress and dehydration, with a diet high in caffeine and sodium.

You know what sucks?  Our current health insurance situation.  At one point during my examination in the ER, an intake person came in with a portable computer system, told me that I needed to pay the $600 deductible then.  A big lemon smacked me in the gut.

I about passed out then.  At that point, it was a real good thing that Miriam had arrived.  She took over.  Turns out she has a credit card that I didn’t know about.

Good things — really all this means is that I am going to have to be on blood pressure meds for a while.  There will be a diet change required, something I was already contemplating.  Coffee will likely no longer be a morning staple.  Salt, something I usually overdo, is going to go away.

And today’s events meant Miriam and I talked about our money situation a lot more, without resistance.  That has been improving as of late, something I have been increasingly pushing and both of us becoming more aware of.. and I have really been stressing over our money.  I don’t feel as alone at the moment when it comes to that.  And my wife cooked for me when I got home, put together a menu and grocery list together, and she is doing the grocery shopping for this week.

Time for those lemons to shrink to lemonade size.

Saturday Wait

Tags

bicycle, life, Nick, parenting, sheltie

It’s Saturday morning, the end of February, almost March.  I live in northern Illinois, the bottom edge of the northern United States.  Winter is indeed winter here, not as harsh as one might think, but this time of year means a mostly indoor existence unless one is willing to take the steps needed to keep warm outdoors.  Daylight hours are short but getting longer, sunrise showing up earlier and sunset extending towards 6 PM.  Cabin couch fever is beginning to get some relief.

This morning started with some worry.  Nick, our Shetland sheepdog, has had a relapse of seizures in the past few days.  Miriam slept downstairs on the couch last night, worried that Nick would venture upstairs if she slept upstairs.  His seizures have made it difficult for him to negotiate the stairs.  A frantic Miriam woke me out of a sound sleep at 5:30 this morning, announcing that Nick was in the back yard — dead.  She needed my help to get him inside.  I pulled on some clothes, went down the stairs and grabbed a blanket on the way outside.  Nick was on his side in the middle of the yard, still breathing, his eyes hollow in the middle of a seizure.  Thankfully, he was alive.  This is the first time that Nick has had a seizure while awake.  It was scary.  We carried him inside to wait for him to come out of the seizure.  He took a little longer than usual to recover, struggled to breathe, lying still on his large pillow bed in the kitchen while we sat next to him and stroked his fur, talked to him.

He came out of it.  It took him a bit more to be able to sit up.  When he begins to struggle to get up, I know he is starting to come back to consciousness from the seizure.  That is a good sign.  He needed help to get up this morning, seemed grateful when I helped him get to his feet.  Nick was ravenous, ate a drank more than usual, but he was fine.  I made a pot of coffee, told Miriam to go get her Saturday sleep upstairs, have been with Nick downstairs for the past few hours.  He has alternated between keeping me company at the kitchen table and posting guard at the bottom of the stairs.  Our dog won’t be happy until he is sure his family is awake and well.

Today is going to be another nice weather day.  This afternoon promises temperatures in the 50 degree range.  Temperatures have been 30 degrees or colder this morning, but in an hour it will be above 40 degrees.  My bike and bike clothes are ready for me.  I will get a few hours out riding the road today.

It’s funny how life has transitioned from busy Saturdays, filled with youth basketball games or practices that I either coached or watched.  Some Saturday mornings I would get up to ride bicycle compu trainers with a friend or two, something my budget would not allow this year.  This winter has given me Saturdays with little responsibility beyond myself, my daughter away at college, my son almost 17 and out of his youth sports stage.  My life is in transition as well, a mystery at this moment as to where life is taking me.  I seem to be at a point where my focus can go towards myself a little more.. and that feels strange.  It’s not that my focus is all that different or that I never had time for my own things.  I definitely had time for my own “stuff”, my bicycles and sports and activities never ceased getting my energy.  I just don’t have to devote as much energy outside of myself at the moment.  My kids don’t need my direct focus as much as they did (at least it seems so).

My son claims he is getting up to play golf this morning.  Say what?  It’s February.  We’ll see.  He was awake past three A.M. playing Xbox games with his friends online.

I am sure that a month from now my Saturdays will be a little different, a little more focused on getting on my bicycle, doing things outside.  For now, though, I spend Saturday morning waiting for the weather to be right to ride, sipping coffee, sharing some time with Nick the Sheltie.

 

Alas Babylon Gets A Tune Up

Tags

books, existence, life

THE SKY IS FALLING!

Made you look, didn’t I?  For that matter, I had to check.  I could have sworn a piece just hit me in the side of the head, but it was just a bit of bagel the toddler sitting a few tables over just whipped at me.

I just finished reading two pleasantly fun works of fiction, One Second After and the follow up One Year After, apocalyptic tales set in northwest North Carolina, close to Asheville and near Mount Mitchell on the Blue Ridge Parkway.  While perusing the new fiction shelves at the local library, the cover of One Year After caught my eye.  Cool.  A story of nuclear war with a twist, an EMP attack on the United States that takes out all modern day electronic circuitry, gamma radiation from a nuclear bomb detonated 20 miles in space, amplified by earth’s atmosphere.  Suddenly the world is without electricity and is thrust into a new Dark Age, most cars rendered useless due to their reliance on computers, communication completely lost.  The resulting chaos creating death from lack of available drugs or machines that keep people alive, pampered humans dying from heart attacks and stress related illnesses.  Food almost immediately becomes scarce, the nation fragmented by lack of transportation and the ability to process food, the dependence on distribution from the nation’s breadbasket suddenly cut off.  Water supply and lack of proper sanitation creates disease.  The community of Black Mountain, NC in these books quickly have to decide to secure their community and filter who comes into their community, as a means of survival.  Decisions have to be made about rationing, who gets what and how much, and those decisions also lead to the tough decision of who is going to die as a result.

One Year After is a sequel, so I also looked up the first book, One Second After.  The author described inspiration for the book coming from books like Alas Babylon, a cold war era novel about a nuclear attack, one of my favorite reads from my teenage years.  After reading that book, I remember thinking that it was something that could actually happen.  That was the reaction to One Second After, a book recommended by Newt Gingrich for that very reason.  William Forstchen was also influenced by Jean Shepherd, a friend of his, who encourage him to write.  Jean Shepherd is best known for writing and narrating A Christmas Story, the movie inspired by a chapter of his book In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash.

Forstchen lives in the area he used as the setting for his books, an area that I have an appreciation for, having ridden a bicycle tour in that area called the Assault on Mount Mitchell (three times).  I could literally see the area in my head as I read the books.  At one point in the story, a skirmish with a cannibalistic satanic cult scouring the western NC mountains like locusts, begins in Marion, NC.. the check in and 80 mile mark of the Assault on Mount Mitchell.  Marion is also where the torturous climbing to the Blue Ridge Parkway starts on that ride.  The whole area between Marion and Asheville is very familiar to me.  I have left a lot of bicycle sweat and tears in those places.

The underlying theme of most apocalyptic stories is a pampered society that relies too much on technology and machines.  Those who have resisted the march of progress or those who adapt to the lack of luxury are the ones who survive, heroes who have the strength to accept that their comfortable and instant supply existence no longer is available.  Comfort is painted as a shallow existence, a weakness that kills when comfort is removed.  Almost always in these type of stories we someone lost in denial on day one, clad in their fancy clothes and clinging to their BMW, crazed as they try to cling to what supposedly gave their life significance.

There are no zombies in One Second After or One Day After.  Rather the antagonists in the story are those who try to take away the strength that Black Mountain achieves as it survives — its people, its youth, its return to electricity, medicine.  As the community rises out of the dark age that it was thrust into, it resists the feudal attitude that the rest of the surviving world has apparently embraced.  People, not resources, are seen as the strength of survival.  They learn to help others outside to survive with them, take from what they have inside their community rather than steal from others.

For a while, as I read these books, I began to wonder if my world really is weak from comfort and ease.  Are we too afraid to lose those nice things we have, too attached to our things?  I have seen that attitude in practice, fired from a 25 year job by a man who is too afraid of losing any of the luxuries he has to care about people any more.  He values his possessions over anything else.  Is that what we have become, people who exist in our tiny little world, controlled by our possessions, paying our taxes and hoping that the people that we pay will take care of us and those who need help?  Will we die if those things go away?

I sound very American right now, don’t I?

It’s easy to fall into the mindset that we are a pampered people, most of us any way no matter where we are, for the most part.  I don’t know if that is bad, but I think that I (at least, since I need to be responsible for myself) need to be aware of what I have and how that affects me.

Excuse me.  I need to take my son to McDonalds……

 

 

 

Of Boobages and Kings

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

– Lewis Carroll from Through The Looking Glass and What Alice Found There

“Honestly, I don’t understand it”, said SHenry.  “Women here in blog world have no issues with talking about the non-existence of their boobs.  None whatsoever.  I have yet to find a man, however, who is comfortable pining on the non-existence of his penis.”

I guess it goes without saying — “Of cabbages — and kings –“.

(blog inspired by a new blog friend who talks about her non-existent boobs)

King of the Road

I must begin tonight’s blog entry with a helmets on to my friend, Big Daddy Carbon Dingleberries, the Vicar of Venge.  Jim, I need bike psychos like you to keep me motivated, and reading your blog definitely does just that.  I am pretty sure that the last two days were inspired with the fact that I did not want to pass this weekend up without riding, because I know I would be reading about  your rides.  Kudos, and roll on, brother!

♫Trailers for sale or rent♫

Never mind.

Weather reports at the beginning of last week showed near 60 degree temperatures on Friday, with sun.  Saturday would be close to the same weather.  I looked at those weather reports with excitement and anticipation, as well as a little bit of dread.  The weekend was going to be one of those get off of the couch or else face ridicule types.  A little bit of the dread was due to the fact that the dirt singletrack was not going to be suitable for riding, the affect of freeze/thaw creating a mess of mud that any responsible off road cyclist must respect by staying off of the trail.  I also got word from my friend Pete that he was finished with the rebuild of the rear wheel for my titanium road bike.  He had reused the hub, refitted it with new bearings, put together a new wheel with new hoop and spokes.  I knew what type of riding that I would be doing yesterday.. it would be road riding.

I really wasn’t dreading riding my bike.   That needs to be clear.

It’s just that I was a little sheepish about approaching my neglected road bike.  I’m pretty sure she was mad at me.  After all, it’s been since last September that her rear wheel was broken.  She hasn’t been out on the road since then.  She has had to endure my mountain bikes getting all of the attention.  Bike girlfriends aren’t unlike human girlfriends.  They get a little hard to deal with when they aren’t getting the proper attention.

I gave the morning a chance to catch up yesterday.  Instead of going out at sun up, my usual habit for a Saturday morning ride when it’s warm out, I watched the temperature until the mercury edged over 40 degrees.  By 8:30, I was out prepping my titanium beauty, rubbing her down, getting her ready for her first ride in a long time.  Her new wheel slipped on easily, turned nice and true and free.  She rolled out to the street with little effort.

Titanium is light and very strong.  It was amazing how light she felt after riding the mountain bikes for so long.  One problem.. one slight problem that I should have expected.  She WAS a little upset with me.  At first pump, her cranks refused to give. Crap.

But she wanted to go.  With a few turns, her resistance gave way and she turned perfectly.  I was treated to the extreme pleasure of listening to the first pings of a newly rebuilt wheel, the spokes setting on the first few revolutions and stress.  Ahhhhhhh.

Such a beautiful day to ride.  So wonderful.  Not a cloud in the sky.  Cool, the kind of day perfect to get acclimated to the ride again.  I decided not to ride with my friends, opted for a casual get used to spinning the wheels ride.  I didn’t push it nor did I dog it.  I found my zone.

My zone.

That’s what biking, especially road cycling, is about.  It’s about finding your zone, letting your body and the rhythm of turning those pedals bring your body and mind together.  Believe me, it’s cheaper than paying for therapy, no matter how expensive your bike equipment is.

25 miles.  Enough for me to feel like I put out some effort, not so much that I was hurting at all.

Or so I thought.  After yard work and cleaning up the cars, I settled in for a mid afternoon nap, slept at least 30 minutes.  9:30 last night, I was in a deep drooling sleep on top of the covers, still in my clothes.  I blame it on the fresh air, not the ride.  🙂

For good measure, I put ten miles in this afternoon.  Slow miles.  Good miles.  A tail wind pushed me home, my legs loose as I pulled in the drive way, a song on my lips as I reentered the house.

Thanks for the motivation.  I would ask if your rides on the other side of the Lake were as good, but I know better than to ask.  Two wheels are our drug.

 

 

 

I Learn To Accept My Celebrity Status

Tags

celebrity, humor

Life just isn’t the same any more.  Not since the day.  Or at least this morning.

I was at the coffee station in my favorite bagel place this morning, minding my own business as I shook the fine cocaine-like granules of Splenda and poured them into a paper cup.  There is a certain simple pleasure gained from the feel of the packets as they empty into the bottom of the cup and I am certain that my face demonstrated the elation that welled up in my soul as the heavenly sweetness blessed what would soon be dark coffee nectar.

Someone was sharing my moment.  I looked up to see a man observing me from a table ten feet away, his head cocked to the side with a quizzical ‘who are you?’ look in his eyes.  The guy wasn’t even hiding that he was watching me.

Geez, I know that I have five packets of Splenda in my hand, but geez it’s how I like it.  I mean, I like a little coffee with my sweetener.  Just wait until I add the half and half creamer.

He pointed at me, certain that he recognized me but just couldn’t figure out why… “Bob?” he asked with uncertainty.

I smirked back at him, “Nope.  I’m not Bob.”

A weird thought popped into my head — I hope he doesn’t think I resemble some guy he saw in an online personal.  Then it dawned on me.  Church.  This guy recognizes me from church.

“I bet you and I go to the same church.”

The light bulb went off, especially when the guy sitting across from him turned and I could actually see the light bulb over his head.  OK, yeah, there was a lamp over his head.

“Church?  Yeah!  That’s it.  We go to the same church!”

“CCC?  Yellow box?”

“Yep.  YOU’RE PARKING LOT GUY!!!!”

I likely looked a little sheepish as I acknowledged his accurate identification.  Yes, indeed, I am ‘parking lot guy’.  CCC (Community Christian Church) or the yellow box as attendees like to refer to it, due to the distinguishing yellow color of the church building, is a big place.  Our services each Sunday attract thousands of people.. and that requires parking lot supervision.  Usually there are one or two of us out in the church parking lots, clad in bright orange vests, walkie talkies in hand.. parking nerds who help the helpless find a spot to park, then make sure that no one generates too much road rage leaving the lot after service.  Not once have I had to escort someone back into the church building after saluting another motorist with a one way to heaven salute.

Truth be known, I am a little embarrassed to be parking lot guy.  It’s not that there is anything wrong with it.  I don’t even mind the sexy orange vest.  During the summer months, I get a chance to work on my man tan, the glow of my skin matching the glow from my heart as I serve God at my church.  Additionally, I am not the type of guy who is happy with just going to church and sitting in my own pew.  I need to do something.  I need to be involved.  There was a time when I was well known around the church for being the funny guy who acted in the sketches performed each service.  That was real cool and it got me a lot of recognition.  Those days are long gone, though, and now I am parking lot guy.  My real purpose isn’t to maintain motor safety, it’s to stand in an appropriate spot to greet people as they arrive and as they leave.  I usually have a coffee cup in my hand, high on Splenda, toasting everyone as they drive by, a massive grin on my face.

Welcome to CCC!  Come again.  Have a blessed week.

There was one Sunday last year when a guy stopped me on his way in to the building, told me that he missed seeing me on stage.  Awwwww, shucks.  Someone still remembers.  I promised to save him a spot close to the building from then on, just for the kind words.

So this morning I simply acknowledged the recognition as I filled my paper cup with coffee, stirred in the creamer.  Honestly, the guy seemed genuinely excited to see the parking lot guy.  I felt the tinge of celebrity wash over me.

I found a quiet spot in a corner, ate my hot and tasty Asiago bagel, sipped the soothing warm nectar, read the book I had with me.  Those precious fifteen minutes I allotted to myself before work are important to me.  When I walk through the office door, I like to be relaxed and ready for business.

However, I made sure I walked over and said a thank you before I left.  It felt good to be recognized.  Tony and Matt, my two new fans, will now be two new friends when I help them park this Sunday.

Parking guy.

Mister Matchstick Strikes Again

Tags

bathroom practices, humor

Apparently, living in the new office complex is going to require acclimation to the scent of fresh Sulphur poop in a confined space.

There is a new meaning to the term “floater”.  Apparently they really do all float down there and now they have the gift of a matchstick each Monday through Friday.

I met Mister Matchstick as I entered the men’s room the other day.  He was standing at the sink, a book on the counter next to him, a box of Caesar’s Palace matches resting on top of the novel he had very recently been meditating on.  MM looks to be very fastidious, about six inches shorter than me (I am 6’1″ tall), pressed shirt and downtown shoes, one of those cool shaved temple haircuts.  Unfortunately, he fit the stereotype of a guy who is afraid of turd cloud.  The guy must have been terrified.  He wouldn’t look me in the eye, avoided eye contact as he rushed out of the room.  Apparently he was embarrassed — he looked a little flushed (hahahhahahahahhaaaaaaa).

I made sure that I took a nice loud deep breath as he exited.  Ahhhhhhhhhh….

Contrary to what some might be thinking right now, I am not used to people avoiding eye contact with me.  That needed to be cleared up.

The smell of match lingers all afternoon in the small enclosed tile space of that men’s room.

I wonder if he observed Ash Wednesday?  Has that happened already?  My new office suite neighbor observes “Afraid of A@@ Smell Wednesday”.

I shouldn’t make fun of him, butt he inspires a pun(gent) or number two.

Maybe I should leave a candle for him.  There are a few in the bathrooms at my house.  My wife also practices the fine art of match lighting.  Had she met Mister Matchstick before she met me, they would have been a matchstick made in heaven.

OK.  I’m leaving now.  Nature calls.

 

 

Daughter Smiles

Tags

daughter, family, fatherhood, parenting

This is not what I expected to write about today.  Heck, I have four other topics written down and ready to write, but I really like thinking about this one.

I have written about what a daughter means to her father many times.  I think about it this way — I married someone who takes me to one level, a relationship with a girl who goes beyond what I have known before with a female, closer than any relationship before if not just because of the obvious physical bond.  Marriage brought me to know a woman in a way that goes beyond what I know with my mother, a closeness and intimacy that I believe God created.  My wife wanted me in a way no other woman could or should know me, a need to please me and know me that God indeed created, a completion and pleasure that filled the purpose God created me for.  And my wife gave to me a daughter, who completes me in a whole other way.  I get to see myself through someone who looks at me in a way that comes closer to God than I ever will be for anyone else.

My daughter is someone who is me in a way that no one else will ever be.  She wants to please me in a way her mother never can.  I am her hero, a man who has little to do but to be her father.

That is all that I want.

God gave me a blue eyed redhead, a curly haired strong willed and confident little woman.  There is so much of me in her.  I admire her for shunning what her mother tried to force on her, yet absorbing the best of what her mother and I have to offer to her.  She is motivated, vulnerable yet confident, an intelligent girl who intimidates all the boys who are looking for the weak and easy.  My girl is a leader.  My girl fills in the gaps of what God did not give her by sheer will.

And she wants to please me, like only a daughter can.  I understand now what the word complete means, because my wife can not complete me on her own, but the daughter she gave to me helps bring that completion to its full.

My daughter is not an athlete.  I am.  Let’s not go too far with that.  I am not a truly gifted athlete, but I have a bit more physical gift than your average Joe.  Baseball and basketball are joys of mine, enough that I have experienced enough success playing those sports in my lifetime that I can call myself above average.  Both of my children have grown up with a father who likes to play sports.

Each of my children have played sports from an early age, my son starting baseball at age 4, a boy who was larger than his classmates who elicited bigger expectations than he was ready to fulfill.  My daughter decided to try softball as a little girl, never really gifted but a favorite because of the effort she always demonstrated.  Her first year of fast pitch softball, her coach gave her the “Charlotte Hustle” award at the end of the season.

Sports were never really my daughter’s thing.  She turned to her studies and music as she progressed through school.  I didn’t care.  She was my daughter and I always have liked what she has done.  I have always liked when she looked at me for validation, wanted my approval, so easy to give.  My daughter has always been better simply because she wants to be.

Maybe that’s why, when she turned 13 and wanted to try playing organized basketball, I was so happy.  It wasn’t that she wanted to play basketball, I had a boy who loved to play the game.  My daughter wanted to play basketball for me.  If she wanted to play basketball, then I had to be her coach.

So I did.  And she succeeded.  A few months after she started park district basketball, she made the middle school team.  My daughter was a started on that team.  I like to think that some of her success was because she listened to me, played the game the way I taught her to play the game.  Her game was smart, played in a way that took advantage of the advantages that her body and abilities gave to her.  My daughter played two years of organized basketball, then focused on priorities of academics and music.  She liked to play the game, but she knew what would be better for her future.

Six years later, she still likes the game.  Today she texted me, excited to tell me about how well she played in an intramural basketball game at college. She wanted me to know.  Maybe I will win like you did, she told me.  My daughter is the only one that remembers and cherishes the stories I have from winning college intramural basketball championships.

Daughers are cool.  Daughters are a gift to their fathers.

 

 

Super Bowl Shuffle

Tags

life, marriage issues, parenting, relationships

I don’t know.  There was a time when I knew how to dance.

Have you ever experienced an emotion that feels like a mutation, a tiny horrid little piece of dust slime that somehow figures out how to evolve into a form of life, then crawls inside of you?  The creature digs into your heart, an uncomfortable manifestation that tries to mimic what it finds there.  No amount of effort will make it go away.  The pain is unfamiliar yet close to what you have encountered before, a bother, an aggravation.

That happened to me yesterday.

It was one of those times when I needed to feel like I was wrong, as a means of justifying how I felt.  I needed guilt.  I needed permission from myself to be selfish.  There are plenty of times when I know I have been wrong, fought with the guilt, knew I was being selfish.  That tiny horrid little evolved creature latched onto those feelings and fed on them.

My wife and I were invited to a Super Bowl party, a small affair with three couples that we know well.  These were people that I like, people I know that my timid wife is comfortable with.  Most years I sit at home, eat my snacks in front of my own TV, watch the majority of the game by myself.  There were years we went to parties together, mostly before children came into the picture for us, but for the most part the Super Bowl has been celebrated in solitary glee.  So when the email invitation came, I asked my wife about it, received an answer that masqueraded as a yes, then RSVP’d that we would attend.  My friend enthusiastically acknowledged, followed up yesterday morning with a text saying that he was looking forward to seeing us.

Saturday night came.  Our 16 year old boy announced that he was staying home to watch the game.  Suddenly, I could see my wife waffling.  Question marks filled our tiny living room.  There was no way she would leave him at home to watch the game by himself.  There was no chance at all that she would consider bringing him along to the party with us.

I was doomed and I knew it.  The boy would watch for five minutes, then retreat to his room.

The guilt.  The selfishness.  Both worked on me.  I still feel both.  I wanted to go to that party.  I wanted to enjoy some time with other couples.  I wanted to enjoy a night where I felt like my wife was doing something with me, enjoying a time away.

She knew I wanted to go.  Time came yesterday afternoon to leave for the party.  She was dressed and ready to go.

Instead, she continued to wrestle with our boy, could not decide what to do.  He got in the shower, yelled at her to go get snacks for him, make something for him to eat during the game, stay home.  I told her that we should just go to the party for an hour or so, then excuse ourselves.  We had said we would go.

She wouldn’t go.  I sat at the top of our stairs and a few feet away from her, my head in my hands.  That tiny horrid little creature was working on my heart.  I was beginning to experience a hurt that I can not describe.  I had felt something like it before, but never mixed with the other emotions of guilt and selfishness and fault.  Neither was I angry.

If I went to the party without her, I would be the only one there without their wife or girlfriend.  They would know why.  If I did not show, these friends would know enough about us to know why.

I stood up.  I told her that I was going.  If she wanted to join me, then she could call and I would tell her how to get there.  I went, told my friends that my wife had decided to stay home with our son, gave her blessing for me to go to the party, might join us later.

I knew she had made her choice.  It is the choice she always makes.  Just once I wanted it to be different.  It needs to be different.  The hurt felt different this time thanks to that tiny horrid little creature.

—-

Today I finally went to the Five Love Languages web site and took the love languages quiz.  Honestly, I hate stuff like that.   But I hoped taking that quiz might help me understand things a little more.  Here is how I scored.  The maximum points for any category is 12:

Physical Touch – 10, Acts of Service – 9, Words of Affirmation – 6, Quality Time – 5, Receiving Gifts – 0

It should be no surprise that as a guy, my highest score was the Physical Touch category.  What that really indicates is that I have a strong need for intimacy, a sense of closeness, something that involves companionship.  Maybe yesterday played on my need for intimacy, closeness, companionship.  I think I have been clinging to the hope that will return, that she wants to show me our marriage is worth saving.  That she wants to be with me.  Instead, she made the choice she will always make.  There was a feeling of finality when I walked out the door to that party yesterday.

Diary of a Non-Wimpy Kid

Tags

gym class, lessons learned, life

A popular topic for many male comedians seems to be the angst they feel when remembering the suffering of school gym class.  They recall the hilarious horror of being forced to climb a rope, wrestle a sweaty Sasquatch, or run a torturous mile around the track while being harassed by a drill sergeant-esque P.E. teacher.  If it is a movie there is always a brainless early blooming bully that makes the pipsqueak’s academic adventure a living hell, an antagonist with evil intent, or the perfect creation whose ultimate goal in life is to advance their fragile ego by mocking those less physically fortunate.  In that world, gym class is/was Dante’s inferno, purgatory on earth, a suffering rite of passage survived with dread and agony.

I rarely find those portrayals funny.  Maybe it’s because I was less like Greg Heffley (Diary of a Wimpy Kid), more like Jesse and Leslie (Bridge to Terabithia) when I was in school.  Gym class was fun to me.  Unless it was square dancing week, which I loathed, I was the guy who looked forward to gym class each day.  In the hall after first period, I always looked for the guys who had first period gym class and asked them what they did in class that day.  I liked to run, loved any kind of ball game, accepted fitness testing as a competition and challenge.  Never was I tempted to hide under the bleachers.  I lined up at the start line with the thrill of the race coursing through me.

Don’t get me wrong.  Steve Henry was not the big oaf nor was he the overly physically gifted perfect creation (I know that’s hard to believe).  On the contrary, both the Greg Heffleys and the Sasquatch despised me and for the same reason.  Steve Henry was the average overly enthusiastic gym class kid.  I was the try hard, the guy the gym teacher would use as an example in an attempt to get my classmates to break a sweat.

The only near exception to my gym class enthusiasm existed at the beginning of my freshman year of high school.  At that time, I still had a little bit of growing to do, was probably 5’11” tall, 130# when sopping wet.. and all of my weight was below the waist (no, not that.. I was not and never will be a porn star candidate).  I still brought bounding enthusiasm to each gym class but coming to gym class some days held a bit of an element of fear.  Why?  Neanderthals.  Seniors who must have surely been held out of school to work the fields, man boys who wanted to put gym class over achievers like me out of commission.

There were two man boys in particular who struck exceptional fear in my heart — Robbie Cheffe and Elmer Boehme, both high school seniors.  Robbie had a large black curly afro, mutton chop side burns and a fu Manchu, covered in black body hair.  His nick name was “Fur Burger”.  Elmer was an unwashed beast, lived in an old wood sided farm house that looked like it had been painted white at one time, surrounded by the carcasses of old farm machinery and trucks.  Elmer had long scraggly hair and an equally scraggly dirty beard.  He was large and muscled from years of farm labor.  Elmer’s presence always made itself known before he entered a room, if you get my “drift”.  Both guys usually smoked outside of the gym before class, a practice that baffled my young mind.  And they both despised my type, an opinion that was not helped by the gym class teacher the first week of gym class.

Robbie and Elmer were not gym class over achievers, especially when it came to running.  The first week of gym class focused on physical training, all spent out on the high school’s track.  I loved it, eagerly ran each assignment and finished before most of the class.  Our gym teacher had a bright idea to motivate the seniors in our class.  He called me to the front of the class.  Next, he called Robbie and Elmer to stand next to me.  If either Robbie or Elmer could beat me in a mile race, the teacher announced to our class, all seniors in our class would be exempt from running the rest of the week.  If Robbie and Elmer did not finish the race, all the seniors would be running double laps.  A collective groan emanated from the class, simultaneous grunts from each of the hulks next to me as we lined up at the start line.  Our gym teacher had an even more humiliating idea, likely inspired by the glares and groans from Robbie and Elmer as they stood next to me.  He led both seniors to the other side of the track, lined them up there to give them a half lap head start on the quarter mile track, a smug smirk on his face as he returned to where I lined up to race.

The starting gun went off as I casually sprinted off the line.  My hope was that pride would motivate my opponents to at least try.  They did try.  But it wasn’t fair.  I passed both before they finished the first lap, their bulk and smoking habit working against them.  I slowed down, tried to keep them close, but the gym teacher yelled at me to keep running.  It was never a fair contest and I finished more than a full lap ahead of them, barely a sweat on and my breathing easy as I watch both man boys wheeze around the track.  To their credit, they kept running.  They crossed the finished line, bent over and throwing up.

And I was a marked freshman from that day on.  Out of sheer self preservation, I usually had to skip taking a shower and changed into my clothes as quick as possible.  Luckily, my gym locker was close to the gym teacher’s office or I may not have survived the first semester of my freshman year.

With cold weather our class moved inside.  Our gym teacher always ended class with a line drill, where everyone in class lined up at the baseline to wait for the whistle.  When the whistle blew, everyone ran to the first free throw line, touched it and ran back, repeating the drill at half court, the other free throw line and baseline, finishing where we started.  You may have guessed that the teacher used me to motivate the seniors and our other classmates.  If you didn’t beat Steve Henry, you had to run the lines again.  Stupidly, mainly because I loved to run the lines, I ran them full speed.  How I lived through that first semester is a mystery.

A favorite Friday gym class activity, one that most people enjoyed, was a sadistic game called Team Handball.  The wooden bleachers were usually pulled up to the side so that two games could be played simultaneously.  A large box was taped on the bleachers at each end of the court to make a goal.  A small gym ball was tossed onto the court, passed around with the objective that the ball be thrown past a goalie inside the taped goal box.  When thrown by the right person, the small gym ball became a frightening projectile, a small cannon ball that hurt like the dickens when it hit you.  Most goalies left class with round purple bruises on their bodies.

Robbie and Elmer were proficient at team handball.  They relished the fear that they created, knocking players down and throwing the ball so hard that we all sweared there was the smell of burning rubber.  No one wanted to play goal when either Neanderthal was on the opposing team.

Can you guess what the gym teacher did?  I bet you can.  One Friday, both Robbie and Elmer ended up on the same team.  No one wanted to play goalie against them.  That’s right.  The teacher put me in goal.

Crap.  I was scared to death.  For possibility the first time, I was not enthusiastic about the gym activity of the day.  My terror escalated as both Robbie and Elmer sneered in my direction, drool dripping as they expressed their intentions of revenge.

You’re going to die, freshman.

The whistle blew and the gym ball was tossed on the court.  Everyone wanted to see the carnage that would be inflicted on me as goalie, especially the seniors on the court.  First pass was to Robbie, the area around him cleared to give him a clear shot.

I remember screaming as the smoking ball rushed at my face.  I closed my eyes to prepare for the certainty of intense pain.

To this day, I don’t know how it happened.  Much to my astonishment, I caught the ball, perhaps the first miracle that I had ever experienced in my life.  Incredulous, I looked at the ball in my hands and passed it to a team mate who easily scored a goal against opponents who were frozen in amazement.

The whistle blew, the ball was tossed on the court again, our gym teacher not only smirking but laughing hysterically at what had just happened.  This time the ball went to a determined Elmer, drool still on his lips from his earlier anticipation of destruction.  Elmer laughed maniacally as he fired the ball at me with a loud grunt.

I smiled this time, even as I still shook from the adrenaline rush that lingered from the previous shot on goal.  This time I smirked nervously, caught the ball with the confidence learned from unexpected success.  Once again, my team scored an easy goal.

Don’t ask me who won that game.  I don’t remember.  Most likely, it was my team.

What I do remember, besides the victory of stopping those shots on goal, was the respect I won from Robbie and Elmer.  From that day on, I could do no wrong.  They told their friends, even protected me in the halls if someone tried to cross me.

And that day helped Robbie and Elmer.  It was the last day that the gym teacher used me as motivation for the seniors.  Maybe he didn’t need to after that.  I don’t know.  I’m glad I was too stupid to shrink away from the challenge, more than a little bit grateful that I lived to tell this story….