A couple weeks ago, I shared a moment in my life from years ago that forever changed the way I view the world. I’m excited to announce that just this past week I experienced another one of these moments. And this time I can say that it will literally change my view from a physical standpoint.
For the better part of 15 years, I’ve thought that I was 5’ 8”. It turns out I am in fact 5’ 9”.
It’s true. Let that sink in for a minute. I’ve spent my entire adult life believing that I’m significantly shorter than I actually am. I don’t know how this happened.
Maybe my doctor got it wrong during a physical way back when. Maybe I’ve heard friends of mine who are the same height say that they’re 5’ 8” and figured I must be too. Maybe I’ve actually grown an inch over the last 15 years, putting me on pace to be just as tall as the average NBA player by the time I’m in my mid-120s.
Discovering the mistake came easy enough. My son was playing with the tape measure, and after I measured his height, he wanted me to check my own. I obliged, showed him the number and then glanced at it myself, even though I knew what it said. Or I thought I knew.
I was both excited and stunned. “I’m a beast,” I thought.
Then I wondered how different my life would be if I had known all these years that I’m tall. Would I have been popular in high school? Maybe my increased confidence level would have helped me talk to girls without wetting myself. I would have always sat in the front row on airplanes for the extra leg room. I certainly never would have bought a two-door Honda Civic. Perhaps my autobiography and Wilt Chamberlain’s would be eerily similar. At the very least, my driver’s license would say that I’m a towering 5’ 9” instead of a diminutive 5’ 8”.
That’s another thing – the government thinks that I’m short. Should I tell them the truth now, or will they punish me for misrepresentation all these years? Do tall people pay more taxes?
My wife reminded me that she’s 5’8” and that I’m taller than her, so she couldn’t figure out why I was surprised. But I always figured female heights are different from men’s, like foot measurements or pant sizes. For a man, a size 34 in pants means something vastly different than what it means for a woman. How was I to know?
One thing I do know – at one of my son’s recent doctor visits, his pediatrician predicted that, based on his current height and age, he would be over 6 feet. We used to wonder where he got the genes to grow that tall. Not anymore.
You’re welcome, son.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just Call Me Stretch
Monday, August 24, 2009
And Now I Know the Rest of the Story
Growing up, we all had moments in our lives that impacted us and strongly shaped how we view the world. Some of those moments shook the foundation of what we knew, or what we thought we knew, and taught us a great deal – possibly more than we wanted to know.
A lot of things fit all of those conditions: the first time we learned about death, the first time we ate a school-issued lunch and, of course, the first time we learned where babies come from.
As I’m sure is the case for most people, the first time I learned where babies come from was a jarring, unwelcome experience. The information was heaped on me in an unsolicited manner, much like the overcaffeniated people selling timeshares who make it difficult to go anywhere these days, including even Dairy Queen.
I was eight years old, and the messenger of darkness was an older woman – a nine year old by the name of Natalie Something. (I’m omitting her last name not to protect her, but because I don’t remember it. It’s not important.) I was enjoying a sunny afternoon outdoors at my then after-school program (it’s no longer my after-school program), when this harbinger of evil skipped over to me with a grin on her face.
She asked me the seemingly innocent question, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Not knowing the devastation she planned to deliver, I happily obliged by answering, “I have one brother.”
Barely able to control her giggles, she informed me, “That means your parents had sex twice.”
She skipped away, giggling even more furiously than when she approached, leaving me shocked and confused. Not to mention a little nauseous.
I don’t remember how it was that I knew about sex, or how much of the particulars I knew (like why people participated), but I did know about it because I was shaken by the revelation. I didn’t have to ask what sex was, just why God would allow such a thing to be true. Perhaps I saw something on TV after staying up past my bed time, or maybe I heard someone’s older brother talk about it. However I learned of it, I never gave it much thought until Natalie’s brief biology lesson.
In my mind, I probably thought sex was just something done by actors, and even then only because they were getting paid to do it. If anyone in real life actually did it, it was only those people who lived on the fringes of society – belly dancers, lion tamers, New Yorkers. These types of people.
If a subject wasn’t talked about on The Dukes of Hazard, I didn’t care. For all I knew, Daisy wore those skimpy shorts because they were the only pair she had. Looking back on it, that’s true. No one on that show ever changed their clothes. Ever! I know they were poor, but if they could afford enough gas to drive 100 mph all over the state of Georgia, surely Uncle Jesse could afford to go down to the thrift store for ONE new shirt.
I’m getting off topic.
At any rate, as I watched Natalie ask the same question of each of her peers, subsequently destroying the will of the other kids on the playground, I dismissed the notion that my parents secretly put her up to it. My memory is fuzzy after this. Before completely blacking out, I think I ran inside hoping no one would see me and start to think about what my parents had been up to. I was also grateful that I wasn’t the kid in my class who had five brothers and sisters.
(At this point I should mention that three years earlier, a different girl told me Santa Claus isn’t real. If it had been the same girl, you could argue that I grew up around a child with a particular mean streak. However, the fact that two completely unconnected little girls delivered these pieces of information speaks volumes about the female population. Somehow I’m not gay.)
Despite Natalie’s efforts to crush my fragile soul, I eventually grew into a reasonably well-adjusted adult (insert your own joke here). Nevertheless, I can assure you that my son won’t learn about the birds and the bees, or even hear the term ‘sex,’ until he’s 27. And my daughter won’t learn of it until she’s 45. Why the discrepancy in their ages? Well… because that’s just the way it is. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the dad, I make the decisions.
And I’m confident that I’ll have as much control over the situation as my parents had when I first learned the facts.
Yikes.
A lot of things fit all of those conditions: the first time we learned about death, the first time we ate a school-issued lunch and, of course, the first time we learned where babies come from.
As I’m sure is the case for most people, the first time I learned where babies come from was a jarring, unwelcome experience. The information was heaped on me in an unsolicited manner, much like the overcaffeniated people selling timeshares who make it difficult to go anywhere these days, including even Dairy Queen.
I was eight years old, and the messenger of darkness was an older woman – a nine year old by the name of Natalie Something. (I’m omitting her last name not to protect her, but because I don’t remember it. It’s not important.) I was enjoying a sunny afternoon outdoors at my then after-school program (it’s no longer my after-school program), when this harbinger of evil skipped over to me with a grin on her face.
She asked me the seemingly innocent question, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Not knowing the devastation she planned to deliver, I happily obliged by answering, “I have one brother.”
Barely able to control her giggles, she informed me, “That means your parents had sex twice.”
She skipped away, giggling even more furiously than when she approached, leaving me shocked and confused. Not to mention a little nauseous.
I don’t remember how it was that I knew about sex, or how much of the particulars I knew (like why people participated), but I did know about it because I was shaken by the revelation. I didn’t have to ask what sex was, just why God would allow such a thing to be true. Perhaps I saw something on TV after staying up past my bed time, or maybe I heard someone’s older brother talk about it. However I learned of it, I never gave it much thought until Natalie’s brief biology lesson.
In my mind, I probably thought sex was just something done by actors, and even then only because they were getting paid to do it. If anyone in real life actually did it, it was only those people who lived on the fringes of society – belly dancers, lion tamers, New Yorkers. These types of people.
If a subject wasn’t talked about on The Dukes of Hazard, I didn’t care. For all I knew, Daisy wore those skimpy shorts because they were the only pair she had. Looking back on it, that’s true. No one on that show ever changed their clothes. Ever! I know they were poor, but if they could afford enough gas to drive 100 mph all over the state of Georgia, surely Uncle Jesse could afford to go down to the thrift store for ONE new shirt.
I’m getting off topic.
At any rate, as I watched Natalie ask the same question of each of her peers, subsequently destroying the will of the other kids on the playground, I dismissed the notion that my parents secretly put her up to it. My memory is fuzzy after this. Before completely blacking out, I think I ran inside hoping no one would see me and start to think about what my parents had been up to. I was also grateful that I wasn’t the kid in my class who had five brothers and sisters.
(At this point I should mention that three years earlier, a different girl told me Santa Claus isn’t real. If it had been the same girl, you could argue that I grew up around a child with a particular mean streak. However, the fact that two completely unconnected little girls delivered these pieces of information speaks volumes about the female population. Somehow I’m not gay.)
Despite Natalie’s efforts to crush my fragile soul, I eventually grew into a reasonably well-adjusted adult (insert your own joke here). Nevertheless, I can assure you that my son won’t learn about the birds and the bees, or even hear the term ‘sex,’ until he’s 27. And my daughter won’t learn of it until she’s 45. Why the discrepancy in their ages? Well… because that’s just the way it is. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the dad, I make the decisions.
And I’m confident that I’ll have as much control over the situation as my parents had when I first learned the facts.
Yikes.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Cue the Scary Fish Music
There are only a few great television traditions to look forward to each year: the Super Bowl, A Christmas Story on Dec. 24, Duke losing in the NCAA tournament and Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.
During Shark Week, the Discovery Channel runs programming devoted to sharks in some form or another (as they did again recently). Whether it’s stories about world record-setting catches, documentaries about the history of sharks, interviews with people who have been attacked, or the network’s regular shows adopting a shark theme for the week, the programs never fail to entertain.
A lot of times on these shows, people will intentionally get in harm's way for the sake of our viewing pleasure by jumping into shark-infested waters and begging the animals to attack them. I often wonder what these people’s health insurance premiums are like, or if they lie to insurance companies about what they do for a living and just hope none of the adjusters see them on TV. That’s probably a safe bet because I imagine a lot of insurance adjusters only watch Sean Hannity or historical accounts of Native Americans getting robbed of their land and stripped of all their natural resources.
Anyway, Shark Week programming also strikes fear into its viewers by offering evidence that, at the point of birth, most sharks are roughly the size of a subway car. On top of that, during the first week of its life, a baby shark is taught by its mother to crawl on land and hunt down small children as they stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Shark Week even provides some comic relief because there’s always at least one documentary which says humans are more of a threat to sharks than they are to us. Yet these documentaries never show footage of a surfer emerging from the water, arms raised in victory, with a dorsal fin hanging from his mouth.
I know, I know, every year thousands of sharks are poached by hunters, but by and large the practice is limited to the eastern hemisphere of the globe. Not that that makes it right, I just personally don’t know anyone who’s ever had shark fin soup or has the complete set of a Great White’s upper and lower jaw mounted on their wall.
When I hear that we’re more dangerous to them than vice-versa, I don’t think about the reality of sharks being hunted, I instead think about the fantasy of a person wrestling a shark. It’s what we as American males do. We like to picture two creatures – human, animal or a mix of both – and imagine which one would win in a fight.
If you're factoring in strategy, sharks have multiple rows of teeth, and each tooth has a column of serrated “mini teeth” running vertically along its side. They clamp down on their prey, then whip their head back and forth, effectively sawing into their victim. My money’s on the shark.
I think we all went to high school with a guy who we thought had teeth like this (someone who probably repeated the 10th grade a number of times), only to learn he simply suffered from a severe lack of oral hygiene rather than being the product of some evolutionary man-fish crossbreeding. Whatever the cause, that guy was always in a lot of fights and he always won. It’s mother nature’s way – if you have shark teeth, you are winning most fights. You may not climb the corporate ladder, but that’s an issue for another day.
What was my point? Oh yeah, Shark Week is cool. And don’t get in a fight with a guy who has rows of teeth.
During Shark Week, the Discovery Channel runs programming devoted to sharks in some form or another (as they did again recently). Whether it’s stories about world record-setting catches, documentaries about the history of sharks, interviews with people who have been attacked, or the network’s regular shows adopting a shark theme for the week, the programs never fail to entertain.
A lot of times on these shows, people will intentionally get in harm's way for the sake of our viewing pleasure by jumping into shark-infested waters and begging the animals to attack them. I often wonder what these people’s health insurance premiums are like, or if they lie to insurance companies about what they do for a living and just hope none of the adjusters see them on TV. That’s probably a safe bet because I imagine a lot of insurance adjusters only watch Sean Hannity or historical accounts of Native Americans getting robbed of their land and stripped of all their natural resources.
Anyway, Shark Week programming also strikes fear into its viewers by offering evidence that, at the point of birth, most sharks are roughly the size of a subway car. On top of that, during the first week of its life, a baby shark is taught by its mother to crawl on land and hunt down small children as they stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Shark Week even provides some comic relief because there’s always at least one documentary which says humans are more of a threat to sharks than they are to us. Yet these documentaries never show footage of a surfer emerging from the water, arms raised in victory, with a dorsal fin hanging from his mouth.
I know, I know, every year thousands of sharks are poached by hunters, but by and large the practice is limited to the eastern hemisphere of the globe. Not that that makes it right, I just personally don’t know anyone who’s ever had shark fin soup or has the complete set of a Great White’s upper and lower jaw mounted on their wall.
When I hear that we’re more dangerous to them than vice-versa, I don’t think about the reality of sharks being hunted, I instead think about the fantasy of a person wrestling a shark. It’s what we as American males do. We like to picture two creatures – human, animal or a mix of both – and imagine which one would win in a fight.
If you're factoring in strategy, sharks have multiple rows of teeth, and each tooth has a column of serrated “mini teeth” running vertically along its side. They clamp down on their prey, then whip their head back and forth, effectively sawing into their victim. My money’s on the shark.
I think we all went to high school with a guy who we thought had teeth like this (someone who probably repeated the 10th grade a number of times), only to learn he simply suffered from a severe lack of oral hygiene rather than being the product of some evolutionary man-fish crossbreeding. Whatever the cause, that guy was always in a lot of fights and he always won. It’s mother nature’s way – if you have shark teeth, you are winning most fights. You may not climb the corporate ladder, but that’s an issue for another day.
What was my point? Oh yeah, Shark Week is cool. And don’t get in a fight with a guy who has rows of teeth.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
To even the most casual observer, baseball's outlook has probably looked bleak for some time. Dwindling World Series ratings and sliding participation rates among growing minority populations in the U.S., particularly among African-Americans, are a fairly good indication. Then there's Major League Baseball's performance-enhancing quagmire, which, despite current drug testing, continues to haunt the league thanks to its past demons.
Meanwhile, the popularity of many other professional leagues and their athletes is on the rise.
The NBA has enjoyed rising Finals viewership over the last few years, a return to the global mountaintop after the U.S. won gold in the 2008 Olympics, and soaring popularity for a number of its stars. The league has also kept itself at the forefront of fans' minds during its off-season the last two years, due to numerous star-player trades and the tantalizing 2010 free agency market. (Comparatively, baseball's biggest off-season story this year involved its highest paid player breaking off his marriage to date octogenarian pop stars and admitting he tested positive for a banned substance in 2003.)
The PGA's top two money makers on and off the course last year, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, were also the top two money makers in all of sports (Sports Illustrated, July 6, 2009 issue). They're so marketable that Mickelson made almost as much in endorsements ($46.6 million) as the top endorsement earners in baseball, football and basketball combined ($49.5 million). And Woods is so far ahead of the pack that he earned nearly double that of Mickelson.
Men's tennis celebrated Roger Federer's record-breaking 15th Grand Slam title last month, surpassing Pete Sampras, but the question of which one of them has stirred up less controversy during their careers is still up for debate. During their dominance of the sport over the last two decades, Federer's and Sampras' likability quotients have rarely been disputed.
Even the NHL has its playoff beards and the coolest trophy in all of sports.
Then, of course, there's football - the undisputed titan of American fandom. Every year the Super Bowl earns the highest ratings of anything on television, no matter which two teams compete in the event. In the NFL, the product is so good, the action so packed, and the athletes so stellar that nary anything they do off the field can diminish our passion for their feats on it – not steroid use, dog fighting convictions or DUI manslaughter charges. For years, baseball has been America's past time in name only.
So what is baseball’s allure in the face of rising competition and its own continuing controversies? What does baseball have that no other sport does?
Well, for one, its music. Or rather, its song.
That in-game hymn that’s shared by every major, minor and independent-league team, college and university, little league and pee-wee squad alike. At no other organized sporting event, at least inside the U.S., will you hear everyone in attendance simultaneously break into song no matter where their allegiances lie. No other game has a tune devoted to that very thing – the game.
The next closest thing, likely, is college football, where fans often serenade one another with the home team’s fight song. But if there’s just one fan in attendance cheering for the other school, you’re not getting so much as a hum out of that person. Plus, should you venture to a different campus the following week, you’re not likely to hear that song repeated. Nor would you want to. They’re meant to unite the fans of a team in creating one more stitch in the blanket that is home-field advantage.
And yet, when the seventh inning of a baseball game arrives, something feels right about the entire stadium gleefully singing the same number, no matter who the majority is rooting for or how many runs back they might be. If anything, even when the game seems out of reach, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” can serve as a welcome relief.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Wrigleyville. Fans fill the stands day after day, year after year, and no matter how bad the contest, or the season, is going for the Cubs, they all stand and belt out the melody. Oftentimes, it’s at the urging of a celebrity or local pro athlete who is leaning out the broadcast booth with a microphone in tow. Not that the organization needs them; instead it’s usually viewed as an honor to lead the rendition. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s tough to find a more captive audience.
But boisterous versions of the song are heard in hundreds of ballparks in and out of the country. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is universally known; sung by baseball fans before they’re old enough to distinguish right field from left. It’s believed that the song is so popular that for decades everyone sang it at the beginning of each MLB game, and that the ritual eventually moved to the middle of the seventh inning to accommodate L.A. Dodger fans who were just arriving to the stadium.
Even a book dedicated to the history of the song (Baseball’s Greatest Hit: The Story of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”) came out in 2008 to help commemorate the tune’s 100th anniversary.
Through constant change – integration, relocations, expansion, stadium lights, the designated hitter, artificial turf, the extinction of artificial turf, the wild card and interleague play – it’s been a staple, giving fans (pardon the pun) something to sing about no matter what the circumstances. The notion that the sport continues to draw major interest because of an in-game diddy is not the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever heard. Let’s face it, it’s not because of the beer prices.
Whatever the reason, it does continue to draw major interest. The current recession aside, attendance figures through the end of 2008, Major League Baseball is happy to tell you, suggest that the sport’s performance-enhancing drug controversy is not enough to keep fans away. Many view this as proof that the media are the only ones who care if the players use steroids or other banned substances.
Don’t be fooled. Fans care. They’ve always cared.
As a show of protest we could all stop attending games, stop watching the broadcasts, stop buying the merchandise, and subsequently force sponsorship dollars to dry up. But even given the economic downturn, that’s a lot to ask. Especially when, presumably while clean thanks to current effective drug testing, there’s a guy in St. Louis slugging his way through history. Or when there’s a hitter in Minnesota flirting with .400. Or when Kansas City is excited about one of its pitchers for the first time since Bret Saberhagen. Or when a member of the White Sox just achieved perfection.
Take away all this drama and the fans still wouldn’t stay at home.
There’s just too much singing to do.
Meanwhile, the popularity of many other professional leagues and their athletes is on the rise.
The NBA has enjoyed rising Finals viewership over the last few years, a return to the global mountaintop after the U.S. won gold in the 2008 Olympics, and soaring popularity for a number of its stars. The league has also kept itself at the forefront of fans' minds during its off-season the last two years, due to numerous star-player trades and the tantalizing 2010 free agency market. (Comparatively, baseball's biggest off-season story this year involved its highest paid player breaking off his marriage to date octogenarian pop stars and admitting he tested positive for a banned substance in 2003.)
The PGA's top two money makers on and off the course last year, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, were also the top two money makers in all of sports (Sports Illustrated, July 6, 2009 issue). They're so marketable that Mickelson made almost as much in endorsements ($46.6 million) as the top endorsement earners in baseball, football and basketball combined ($49.5 million). And Woods is so far ahead of the pack that he earned nearly double that of Mickelson.
Men's tennis celebrated Roger Federer's record-breaking 15th Grand Slam title last month, surpassing Pete Sampras, but the question of which one of them has stirred up less controversy during their careers is still up for debate. During their dominance of the sport over the last two decades, Federer's and Sampras' likability quotients have rarely been disputed.
Even the NHL has its playoff beards and the coolest trophy in all of sports.
Then, of course, there's football - the undisputed titan of American fandom. Every year the Super Bowl earns the highest ratings of anything on television, no matter which two teams compete in the event. In the NFL, the product is so good, the action so packed, and the athletes so stellar that nary anything they do off the field can diminish our passion for their feats on it – not steroid use, dog fighting convictions or DUI manslaughter charges. For years, baseball has been America's past time in name only.
So what is baseball’s allure in the face of rising competition and its own continuing controversies? What does baseball have that no other sport does?
Well, for one, its music. Or rather, its song.
That in-game hymn that’s shared by every major, minor and independent-league team, college and university, little league and pee-wee squad alike. At no other organized sporting event, at least inside the U.S., will you hear everyone in attendance simultaneously break into song no matter where their allegiances lie. No other game has a tune devoted to that very thing – the game.
The next closest thing, likely, is college football, where fans often serenade one another with the home team’s fight song. But if there’s just one fan in attendance cheering for the other school, you’re not getting so much as a hum out of that person. Plus, should you venture to a different campus the following week, you’re not likely to hear that song repeated. Nor would you want to. They’re meant to unite the fans of a team in creating one more stitch in the blanket that is home-field advantage.
And yet, when the seventh inning of a baseball game arrives, something feels right about the entire stadium gleefully singing the same number, no matter who the majority is rooting for or how many runs back they might be. If anything, even when the game seems out of reach, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” can serve as a welcome relief.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Wrigleyville. Fans fill the stands day after day, year after year, and no matter how bad the contest, or the season, is going for the Cubs, they all stand and belt out the melody. Oftentimes, it’s at the urging of a celebrity or local pro athlete who is leaning out the broadcast booth with a microphone in tow. Not that the organization needs them; instead it’s usually viewed as an honor to lead the rendition. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s tough to find a more captive audience.
But boisterous versions of the song are heard in hundreds of ballparks in and out of the country. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is universally known; sung by baseball fans before they’re old enough to distinguish right field from left. It’s believed that the song is so popular that for decades everyone sang it at the beginning of each MLB game, and that the ritual eventually moved to the middle of the seventh inning to accommodate L.A. Dodger fans who were just arriving to the stadium.
Even a book dedicated to the history of the song (Baseball’s Greatest Hit: The Story of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”) came out in 2008 to help commemorate the tune’s 100th anniversary.
Through constant change – integration, relocations, expansion, stadium lights, the designated hitter, artificial turf, the extinction of artificial turf, the wild card and interleague play – it’s been a staple, giving fans (pardon the pun) something to sing about no matter what the circumstances. The notion that the sport continues to draw major interest because of an in-game diddy is not the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever heard. Let’s face it, it’s not because of the beer prices.
Whatever the reason, it does continue to draw major interest. The current recession aside, attendance figures through the end of 2008, Major League Baseball is happy to tell you, suggest that the sport’s performance-enhancing drug controversy is not enough to keep fans away. Many view this as proof that the media are the only ones who care if the players use steroids or other banned substances.
Don’t be fooled. Fans care. They’ve always cared.
As a show of protest we could all stop attending games, stop watching the broadcasts, stop buying the merchandise, and subsequently force sponsorship dollars to dry up. But even given the economic downturn, that’s a lot to ask. Especially when, presumably while clean thanks to current effective drug testing, there’s a guy in St. Louis slugging his way through history. Or when there’s a hitter in Minnesota flirting with .400. Or when Kansas City is excited about one of its pitchers for the first time since Bret Saberhagen. Or when a member of the White Sox just achieved perfection.
Take away all this drama and the fans still wouldn’t stay at home.
There’s just too much singing to do.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wait, I'm How Old?
The fact that I can remember the professional pinnacles of three celebrities who died last week (Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, all with careers that peaked in either the ‘70s or ‘80s) has left me feeling a little old. Not that it’s the first time.
Nevertheless, this seemed like a good opportunity to ponder what it means to be my age: 30 something.
In your 30s, you realize you’re no longer the target audience for things like athletic shoes or energy drinks, and discover instead that every advertisement geared towards you includes baby food or life insurance policies.
In your 30s, you no longer need an alarm clock to wake up before 8 a.m. If you have kids, they wake you up long before that. If you don’t have kids, you still wake up before 8 a.m. because… well, you’re 30.
In your 20s, you can get a full night’s rest by sleeping in a folding chair and not feel the least bit sore the next day. In your 30s, you can get a full night’s rest on a comfortable mattress and wake up with a mysterious injury that can only be explained in the following manner: “I must have slept on my (name of injured body part) wrong.”
Your 30s is the first time in your life when every car you own throughout the decade is “practical.”
You’re no longer embarrassed to yell at passing vehicles that are driving too fast.
Filing your taxes becomes infinitely more complicated and/or expensive.
You start to take serious stock of your diet.
If you’re single and in your 30s, odds are you’ve tried clinging to your youth by going out to a club or two, and have been in complete denial about the fact that everyone inside is staring at you and thinking, “Wow, that’s sad. One of his friends should really say something to him.”
In your 30s, you start to move into managerial roles at work.
Or worse – you don’t. Then before long you realize everyone in your department is 5-10 years younger than you and that you really need to get it together and start moving into a managerial role.
In your 30s, you give up trying to follow the most current popular music and proudly make claims like, “Bon Jovi should go down as one of the all-time great bands in history.”
You convince yourself that you can still do everything, physically, that you could do in your 20s, only to receive serious medical attention for the bone/muscle/cartilage that you broke/fractured/pulled/tore/shattered while proving yourself wrong.
In your 30s, you form comfortable patterns at home and at work. Each day largely resembles the one before, with very little excitement to punctuate the passing hours. You either feel happy about your routine or begin to think, “Oh yeah, I can definitely see a mid-life crisis on the horizon.”
In your 30s, you no longer make your beer choices based on whatever’s cheapest. Which is a good thing.
You also have serious, lengthy political conversations without ever hearing the words, “The government should just legalize pot.” Which is nice too.
In your 30s, you begin to appreciate what your parents were getting at, and think the response, “Because I said so” is a damn good reason for telling your own kids to do something.
And finally, in your 30s, you find yourself thinking life’s not so bad after all because “at least I’m not in my 40s.”
Nevertheless, this seemed like a good opportunity to ponder what it means to be my age: 30 something.
In your 30s, you realize you’re no longer the target audience for things like athletic shoes or energy drinks, and discover instead that every advertisement geared towards you includes baby food or life insurance policies.
In your 30s, you no longer need an alarm clock to wake up before 8 a.m. If you have kids, they wake you up long before that. If you don’t have kids, you still wake up before 8 a.m. because… well, you’re 30.
In your 20s, you can get a full night’s rest by sleeping in a folding chair and not feel the least bit sore the next day. In your 30s, you can get a full night’s rest on a comfortable mattress and wake up with a mysterious injury that can only be explained in the following manner: “I must have slept on my (name of injured body part) wrong.”
Your 30s is the first time in your life when every car you own throughout the decade is “practical.”
You’re no longer embarrassed to yell at passing vehicles that are driving too fast.
Filing your taxes becomes infinitely more complicated and/or expensive.
You start to take serious stock of your diet.
If you’re single and in your 30s, odds are you’ve tried clinging to your youth by going out to a club or two, and have been in complete denial about the fact that everyone inside is staring at you and thinking, “Wow, that’s sad. One of his friends should really say something to him.”
In your 30s, you start to move into managerial roles at work.
Or worse – you don’t. Then before long you realize everyone in your department is 5-10 years younger than you and that you really need to get it together and start moving into a managerial role.
In your 30s, you give up trying to follow the most current popular music and proudly make claims like, “Bon Jovi should go down as one of the all-time great bands in history.”
You convince yourself that you can still do everything, physically, that you could do in your 20s, only to receive serious medical attention for the bone/muscle/cartilage that you broke/fractured/pulled/tore/shattered while proving yourself wrong.
In your 30s, you form comfortable patterns at home and at work. Each day largely resembles the one before, with very little excitement to punctuate the passing hours. You either feel happy about your routine or begin to think, “Oh yeah, I can definitely see a mid-life crisis on the horizon.”
In your 30s, you no longer make your beer choices based on whatever’s cheapest. Which is a good thing.
You also have serious, lengthy political conversations without ever hearing the words, “The government should just legalize pot.” Which is nice too.
In your 30s, you begin to appreciate what your parents were getting at, and think the response, “Because I said so” is a damn good reason for telling your own kids to do something.
And finally, in your 30s, you find yourself thinking life’s not so bad after all because “at least I’m not in my 40s.”
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Road Trip
With 318 miles in front of us, I check to see that the suitcases are loaded in the back and all seatbelts are clicked securely in place. Everything we physically need to accompany us is intact. The mental faculties are the ones in question.
Screams immediately fill the vehicle, even before the car pulls out onto the asphalt. Little can be done to soothe them, aside from an abrupt end to the journey altogether.
The young one’s angst is understandable – only four months into the world and instead of the freedom to explore the abundance around her, she’s shackled in an uncomfortable, unforgiving car seat; forced to watch the magic pass her by at 70 mph.
Comfort sets in for the rest of us as we hold firm to the knowledge that soon she’ll fall asleep. The hum of the highway will turn her current despair into quiet slumber.
Reports of unfavorable weather filter in from the radio airwaves. Soon our trip will likely be met by high winds, rain and even hail. We could delay the drive by an hour and avoid the treacherous weather. With evening rush-hour traffic starting to thin out, however, the risk of inclement weather feels like one worth taking. A shared glance with my wife is not necessary to know we would both prefer to drive through the storm and complete the trip sooner rather than later.
Miles tick by and tension begins to mount as the screaming persists longer than anticipated. By occupying the passenger seat, the role of quieting the baby falls to me. Either by giving her a pacifier, gently rubbing her head, singing her to sleep… something must be done. The family is depending on me. As the father and the husband, it’s my duty to restore calm and order to the chaos that ensnares us. This is my role. I cannot fail. I mustn’t.
But I do.
From the back, the elder child makes a request for some driving music. Eager to not enflame any other passions, I quickly grant the request. We are soon serenaded by the chorus sounds of “E-I-E-I-O!” It means nothing to the baby, but typically keeps our two-year-old son gleefully occupied, even if it’s just for the short term.
However, his younger sister’s cries make his favorite songs less enjoyable, so he joins me in the task of trying to calm her down. Being a small child, his simpler, more direct plan involves looking at her and yelling, “Stop crying!”
A genius plan, and yet… it too fails.
Soon the noise level inside the car is matched by the noise level outside the car. Rain begins to pound the windshield. If nothing else, it distracts my son from his sister’s screams, as his pleas of “Stop crying,” turn to shouts of “Rain!” Oddly enough, it’s a welcome change.
Peace is momentarily restored inside the car as the little one finds happiness in a padded baby book. Its mere presence dries her tears. Controversy stirs, though, as the sight of the book in the arms of the infant sets off a primal, territorial reaction from the first born. He wants it. What is she doing with it?
Attempts to appease my son with the other 30+ books we brought for him come up short. Apparently there is some magic contained in the padded book that is unequaled by any other piece of children’s literature.
I find myself wanting the book; to be swept away by its powers of escapism.
The car is in danger of getting swept away, not by the reading material, but by the increasing wind and rain. The unexamined option of postponing the trip now seems like one worth exploring. No matter, though. Should we find ourselves in peril, we can always cling to everyone’s favorite padded book as it calmly floats us down the river to safety. The kids clearly believe in its capabilities.
Besides, the storm pales in comparison to the threat of hearing damage we’re all suffering from due to the internal - rather than external - factors.
An eternity passes. The sun begins to set and the rain finally lets up. Soon we will arrive at our destination. I gaze out the window at the sign by the highway to see just how close we are.
Only 298 miles to go.
Screams immediately fill the vehicle, even before the car pulls out onto the asphalt. Little can be done to soothe them, aside from an abrupt end to the journey altogether.
The young one’s angst is understandable – only four months into the world and instead of the freedom to explore the abundance around her, she’s shackled in an uncomfortable, unforgiving car seat; forced to watch the magic pass her by at 70 mph.
Comfort sets in for the rest of us as we hold firm to the knowledge that soon she’ll fall asleep. The hum of the highway will turn her current despair into quiet slumber.
Reports of unfavorable weather filter in from the radio airwaves. Soon our trip will likely be met by high winds, rain and even hail. We could delay the drive by an hour and avoid the treacherous weather. With evening rush-hour traffic starting to thin out, however, the risk of inclement weather feels like one worth taking. A shared glance with my wife is not necessary to know we would both prefer to drive through the storm and complete the trip sooner rather than later.
Miles tick by and tension begins to mount as the screaming persists longer than anticipated. By occupying the passenger seat, the role of quieting the baby falls to me. Either by giving her a pacifier, gently rubbing her head, singing her to sleep… something must be done. The family is depending on me. As the father and the husband, it’s my duty to restore calm and order to the chaos that ensnares us. This is my role. I cannot fail. I mustn’t.
But I do.
From the back, the elder child makes a request for some driving music. Eager to not enflame any other passions, I quickly grant the request. We are soon serenaded by the chorus sounds of “E-I-E-I-O!” It means nothing to the baby, but typically keeps our two-year-old son gleefully occupied, even if it’s just for the short term.
However, his younger sister’s cries make his favorite songs less enjoyable, so he joins me in the task of trying to calm her down. Being a small child, his simpler, more direct plan involves looking at her and yelling, “Stop crying!”
A genius plan, and yet… it too fails.
Soon the noise level inside the car is matched by the noise level outside the car. Rain begins to pound the windshield. If nothing else, it distracts my son from his sister’s screams, as his pleas of “Stop crying,” turn to shouts of “Rain!” Oddly enough, it’s a welcome change.
Peace is momentarily restored inside the car as the little one finds happiness in a padded baby book. Its mere presence dries her tears. Controversy stirs, though, as the sight of the book in the arms of the infant sets off a primal, territorial reaction from the first born. He wants it. What is she doing with it?
Attempts to appease my son with the other 30+ books we brought for him come up short. Apparently there is some magic contained in the padded book that is unequaled by any other piece of children’s literature.
I find myself wanting the book; to be swept away by its powers of escapism.
The car is in danger of getting swept away, not by the reading material, but by the increasing wind and rain. The unexamined option of postponing the trip now seems like one worth exploring. No matter, though. Should we find ourselves in peril, we can always cling to everyone’s favorite padded book as it calmly floats us down the river to safety. The kids clearly believe in its capabilities.
Besides, the storm pales in comparison to the threat of hearing damage we’re all suffering from due to the internal - rather than external - factors.
An eternity passes. The sun begins to set and the rain finally lets up. Soon we will arrive at our destination. I gaze out the window at the sign by the highway to see just how close we are.
Only 298 miles to go.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Happy at the Bottom
To me, climbing the corporate ladder sounds as much fun as falling off an actual ladder and hitting every rung with my face on the way down.
Is it a lack of ambition? Maybe.
Laziness? Sure.
But mostly I don’t want to be anyone’s boss, and I’m sure no one would want me to be theirs.
One reason I’m not “management material” is because, despite not wanting to supervise people, I would take seriously the task of hiring employees, which immediately disqualifies me for the job. For instance, I would try to learn as much as I could about a potential employee’s personality and not just get them to rehash their resume. Instead of asking ridiculous, formulaic questions like, “Give me an example from your previous job when you successfully overcame an obstacle,” I would ask questions like, “After the first month or two of working here, will everyone think you’re a total douche?”
Habitually late, poor hygiene, steals from the company… I don’t care. But if the new guy always uses the middle stall in a men’s room with only three stalls, I couldn’t live with myself for hiring him.
Managers are also in a no-win situation. If my meticulous hiring practices paid off and everyone liked one another and worked well together, the only one left for them to turn on would be me. And they would because I’m not sure I could turn off my supervisory sensor after leaving the office.
What if, while enjoying a Saturday night out, you saw one of your employees get thrown out of a bar for acting like a drunken nuisance? It’s happened to a lot of people, and it doesn’t make anyone a criminal, but can you really ignore that come Monday morning?
What if, while driving home one night, you see a car pulled over by a police officer and notice it’s one of your employees? At first you assume he was just pulled over for speeding, but as you pass the scene, you start to wonder if the cop will want to inspect the car. He could find something that might be a tad bothersome, like pot, or something slightly more worrisome, like a body. Some might argue that’s even worse than always using the middle stall. I would not argue this, but someone else might.
And the boss always has to be careful of a watchful eye too, right? Let’s say you bump into a colleague at the drug store while nervously scanning the condom aisle. As the boss, do you immediately grab the box labeled ‘Magnum,’ knowing that if you don’t, you risk losing the respect of your employee and everyone in your department (since he’ll surely tell everyone)? On top of that, do you load up your cart with eight or nine boxes and shoot him a confident look that says, “That’s right, I’m grabbing eight or nine boxes”?
Or what if you, the boss, are at the pharmacy on your lunch break, and the guy you just interviewed for a job is strolling through the same aisle? Do you say to yourself, “He’s being responsible” or do you eliminate him from consideration because you think he won’t be willing to work weekends? What if he grabs the ‘Magnums,’ but the job you’re hiring for is a professional stair climber? You can’t hire him now because it would mean imminent disaster (mostly for the stair climber).
See, there’s just too much to worry about. I couldn’t do it. Let me climb the corporate chair or one of those midget ladders you use for painting indoors.
Is it a lack of ambition? Maybe.
Laziness? Sure.
But mostly I don’t want to be anyone’s boss, and I’m sure no one would want me to be theirs.
One reason I’m not “management material” is because, despite not wanting to supervise people, I would take seriously the task of hiring employees, which immediately disqualifies me for the job. For instance, I would try to learn as much as I could about a potential employee’s personality and not just get them to rehash their resume. Instead of asking ridiculous, formulaic questions like, “Give me an example from your previous job when you successfully overcame an obstacle,” I would ask questions like, “After the first month or two of working here, will everyone think you’re a total douche?”
Habitually late, poor hygiene, steals from the company… I don’t care. But if the new guy always uses the middle stall in a men’s room with only three stalls, I couldn’t live with myself for hiring him.
Managers are also in a no-win situation. If my meticulous hiring practices paid off and everyone liked one another and worked well together, the only one left for them to turn on would be me. And they would because I’m not sure I could turn off my supervisory sensor after leaving the office.
What if, while enjoying a Saturday night out, you saw one of your employees get thrown out of a bar for acting like a drunken nuisance? It’s happened to a lot of people, and it doesn’t make anyone a criminal, but can you really ignore that come Monday morning?
What if, while driving home one night, you see a car pulled over by a police officer and notice it’s one of your employees? At first you assume he was just pulled over for speeding, but as you pass the scene, you start to wonder if the cop will want to inspect the car. He could find something that might be a tad bothersome, like pot, or something slightly more worrisome, like a body. Some might argue that’s even worse than always using the middle stall. I would not argue this, but someone else might.
And the boss always has to be careful of a watchful eye too, right? Let’s say you bump into a colleague at the drug store while nervously scanning the condom aisle. As the boss, do you immediately grab the box labeled ‘Magnum,’ knowing that if you don’t, you risk losing the respect of your employee and everyone in your department (since he’ll surely tell everyone)? On top of that, do you load up your cart with eight or nine boxes and shoot him a confident look that says, “That’s right, I’m grabbing eight or nine boxes”?
Or what if you, the boss, are at the pharmacy on your lunch break, and the guy you just interviewed for a job is strolling through the same aisle? Do you say to yourself, “He’s being responsible” or do you eliminate him from consideration because you think he won’t be willing to work weekends? What if he grabs the ‘Magnums,’ but the job you’re hiring for is a professional stair climber? You can’t hire him now because it would mean imminent disaster (mostly for the stair climber).
See, there’s just too much to worry about. I couldn’t do it. Let me climb the corporate chair or one of those midget ladders you use for painting indoors.
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