Shove It Up Your Buddha

Once upon a time I was a fairly active guy. I played volleyball, softball, basketball, ultimate frisbee, golf, tennis and swam when I could find water. I mountain biked, backpacked and ran trails. I kept an arsenal of athletic gear and several changes of clothes in my trunk in case the mood struck while I was driving around. I had an enviable resting heart rate and cholesterol levels to die for. I was healthy. Physically.
Emotionally? Not so much. Married to the wrong woman. Hated going home — not that it mattered, since we barely talked to each other for the last years of our marriage. Not pointing fingers, just saying.
So, to summarize, healthy? Yes. Happy? No.
Then came Sandi and, soon after, Thomas (see last post). Happiness came with them (see last post again). But being a dad is, like, the definition of a full-time gig. Sleep deprivation sapped me of any energy that could or should have been dedicated to fitness, so my regimen lapsed as my free time waned. Then, as if to add gasoline to the fire of happiness, precisely 1 year and 30 days after Thomas’ birth, Ethan came. Memories of this time in my life are fuzzy, but I have vague recollections of watching a show about Navy Seal training and yelling, “Quit your whining, ya fags!” at the TV. Dudes, that’s fucked up right there: To be in the shit so deep that you think Seal candidates have it easy by contrast.
Needless to say, my days of physical health and exercise were over. There was no free time. There was no recovery. There was no me. And the weight came. Don’t want to say how much because it’s really embarrassing, but I will say that it landed me comfortably in the “obese” category.
Now, 7 years down the road, life has started to ease up to the point where I can begin to get back in shape. I’ve started working out again and have seriously altered my diet. In the past 6 weeks I’ve lost more than 30 pounds. (Stop that whistling, I’m involved.) My wind is coming back as is my muscle tone. I still have a lot of work to do, but I feel so much better about myself that I’m not worried about sticking with it. I’m starting to remember what it felt like to feel good.
Except that I don’t really feel that good. Every yin has a yang, and if my yin is a thinner body, my yang appears to be extreme irritability. And not like “if you do that again so help me I’ll roll my eyes when you’re not looking!” irritability, but more like “I WILL RIP THE BEATING HEART OUT OF YOUR FUCKING CHEST AND EAT IT WHILE YOUR DIMMING EYES AND YOUR LOVED ONES WATCH!” irritability.
What’s really fucked up — and maybe I’ve just been too fat (ergo, jolly) to notice for awhile — but stressors/triggers are EVERYWHERE! Seriously, I find myself wondering if people have always been this fucking annoying and I just never noticed. Whatever the case, however they got here, they are legion and they apparently believe that while I slumbered in a Ben and Jerry's coma, they inherited the earth. Yeah, well I'm here to tell you that your reign of assholia is officially over, bitches.
And just to be clear, I’m not talking about garden variety assholia, like accidentally cutting me off because you didn’t see me, or bumping into me with your shopping cart because your kids distracted you. I'm not roid raging or anything. I’m talking about the guy who rides up on my ass in standstill rush hour traffic flashing his lights and beeping his horn because he can’t get by, who then gives me the finger when traffic starts moving again as if it’s my fault that somebody broke down a mile up the road.
Guess what, butt munch. Daddy woke up. And if you don't lay off that horn and get the fuck in line I will go so Grand Torino on you that you will believe a band of Gypsies has taken up residence in your asshole.
So now, like oil and water, happiness and health seem once again refuse to mix in my life. I know it's possible to achieve both. I have friends who live it every day -- one particularly amazing, peaceful, mellow gentleman who I'm proud to call friend who was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago and now runs triathalons. With role models like him, I'm confident that I'll find a balance soon. But for now I feel like the best way to put this newly found hypersensitivity to assholia to use is to identify a few case studies so that one day when Thomas and Ethan get around to reading this, they'll be able to use it as a textbook. "Daddy's Official Guide To Asshole Avoidance And Maintenance." Subtitle: Or, Worst Case, How To Dispose Of The Bodies.
Next stop: The Little Fucker Next Door. Stay tuned.

"I be walkin' god like a dog, my narrative fearless. My word war returns to burn like Baldwin home from Paris. Like Steel from a furnace. Calm like a bomb." — RATM

The Wearing Of The Grin

In February of 2002 my life was utter shit. I'll spare you the details (for now), but will tell you quite seriously that because of the pain that had amassed over the years, I thought daily and seriously about taking my own life. It was bleak, it was relentless and it was intensifying each day.

In March of that year not only was the darkness gone, but I was surrounded by such an amazing light that I could barely remember what pain felt like. That month Sandi and I became a couple. She was (and is) perfection. My salvation. The thing that was missing in me for nearly 40 years. I had a hard time imagining my life could get any better.

In March of 2003 my life got better. Thomas came.

I was in the delivery room, holding Sandi's left leg as she pushed. I stared in awe as his head glided out. As the doctor turned him slightly to align his shoulders, our eyes met. Mine was the first face he saw when he came into the world. Nothing has ever come close to moving me as profoundly as that moment. Except every single moment since.
The night of Thomas' birth, St. Patrick's Day 2003, the weather was unseasonably warm. The moon was full and larger than I remember ever seeing it before. I felt so connected to every blade of grass, every budding leaf, every cricket. It didn't seem to me that I'd grown more sensitive to my surroundings so much as they had grown more intense around me. The world seemed to be screaming out to me, thanking me for fulfilling my part in it, and promising me the greatest reward it could muster.
Midnight feedings, diaper woes, panic-inducing mystery ailments and all the credentials folks cite to earn them a place in the parents' club ... they were all there. You file them under "Shit You Have To Do" and you move on. But those moments filed under "Life Altering Shit That Nobody But A Parent Could Understand" ... those moments handily slammed that other file closed. Most nights Thomas fell asleep in my arms in our big leather recliner as we watched Dora or Thomas the Tank Engine. And on the nights when sleep wouldn't come so easily, he and I would drive around listening to music for as long as it took. When we returned home, I would carry him in and put him in his crib, hating how much emptier I felt the second his weight was off my arms. He was (and is) my counterpart. We resolve each other.

Thomas, when I look at you I see me, but better. You are so, so smart. And kind. And beautiful. And funny. And talented. And generous. And sympathetic. And sensitive. You're the best big brother in the world and Ethan worships you. When you cry I want to pick you up and hold you, tickle you and make you laugh until you forget that you were crying at all. And when you hurt I want to find the thing that hurt you and kill it. I would lay down my life for you without hesitation. I would sacrifice anything for you. I tell you this because I know you'd never abuse the knowledge. I see just a hint of the man you will become and I am already so proud of you.
In the past 7 years I've had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about life and relearn it the right way -- with truth at the center. The lessons have been so hard that at times I thought I'd go insane, but Thomas, you're a good teacher. If you learn half as much from me as I have from you, you'll make Buddha look like Slingblade.
Thank you for all you've taught me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being perfection. My salvation. The thing that was missing in me for nearly 41 years. I love you so very much. Happy birthday.

"You're my first child. I'll do you no harm. I'll teach you my love." -- Nil Lara

What Day Do We Get On Down At The Disco?

Friday has come and gone. And even though it was one of the longest days of our lives, I count it as a good one. Kinda Zen, hard to capture on video. A lot of synchronicitous stuff that didn't make it to the final edit, either because of time constraints or because it was just impractical to shoot it.
For instance, while in the waiting room (site of the infamous booger eating scene), a stunningly beautiful young lady -- 20-ish if I had to guess -- came up and, having noticed Ethan's ear, introduced herself. She had been born with atresia-microtia and had rib graft surgery with Dr. Brent at the age of 6. Unfortunately, she was not a candidate for atresia repair, so to this day she has no ear canal. But she graciously let Ethan and I look at her ear. Our conversation was cut short by a nice lady calling Ethan to come back to the exam room which sucked because I really wanted to hear about how her ear had affected her life. Still, I did learn a few valuable things in our brief time together. She said of her surgeries that at 6 she couldn't understand why her parents were doing that to her (rib graft can take 4 procedures), but she is now very grateful that they did what they did. I wondered if I'd have noticed her ear had she not pointed it out. She had the tell-tale ever-so-slightly crooked smile that seems to be the domain of atresia-microtia kids. Ethan has it, too. We learned in Psych class in college that symmetry is at the heart of physical beauty, but there's just something about that smile. Maybe it's more accurate to say there's something about the people behind it. Whatever.

Ethan and I burned several CDs for the trip, each song hand-picked by Ethan. We listened to the Monkees "I'm a Believer" no fewer than 20 times, but Eth found some new favorites on the ride, too. Like the North Mississippi Allstars "Shake 'Em On Down." He sings the Chris Chew line really well. Shake 'em on down/shake 'em on/shake 'em on down. Shake 'em on down/shake 'em on/shake 'em on down.
There were a lot of great things I had intended to show you, like the Smokey Mountains, but it was just too damn rainy. Visibility was lower than a mole's ass. And there were some white knuckle times with wind gusts in the 40-50 m.p.h. range.
But of the stuff that actually made it to the video, I'm struck by how tired I look to me. Plus, I feel the need to remind you that the camera adds 40 pounds. And makes you look like you have much less hair than you actually do. And makes you sound like a dick. But for some reason, it makes kids look really cute. And it helped me share the day with Sandi, and now you.
So thanks for watching. Unless you didn't, in which case fuck off. Kidding.

"What's the use in trying? All you get is pain. When I needed sunshine I got rain. But ... now I'm a believer." -- The Monkees