——-

One of the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me was when I had a colonoscopy. I was having some issues in my “backyard” (rectum). And since  I’m a hypochondriac, I immediately scheduled an appointment with my internist, hoping he could ease my mind with a quick diagnosis or refer me to a specialist.

I met with him the next day, and after a (surprise) “backyard” exam, he referred me to a specialist, who, thankfully, did not give me second exam, but instead, scheduled me for a colonoscopy. Mmm.

The  best  part of a colonoscopy is that during the procedure you’re sound asleep and completely unaware of the violations being committed on your body. I remember drowsily waking after my procedure thinking, “I would be fully content, dying right now, in this peaceful slumber. Take me away…Calgon.”

The  worst  part is the prep for the procedure. The day before, you’re required to drink, what seems like, a barrel full of liquid laxative. The flavor was not unlike what ginger-flavored sewage water might taste like. It’s intended to “clean you out.” In fact, the directions warn, “Stay near a toilet! You will have diarrhea.” Directions like that…I’m gonna follow.

NASA Goddard Photo and Video

I chose to chase the vile liquid with Cherry Coke. It helped me…Not. One. Bit. It was disgusting. What it did help with was taking every crumb of food I’d consumed in the previous six years, that might have been trapped inside the wee crevices of my small intestine, and shot them out my backside with the force of the Discovery blast-off. Repeatedly. All day.
So, of course, I had to share my experience with my best friend.

I found Felicity’s most recent email, opened it, hit reply, and in graphic detail, described to her how my intestines were turning inside out, while simultaneously attacking other organs like a bengal tiger attacks it’s dinner.

I hit send and smiled at the thought of her simultaneously laughing and being grossed out.  Yes, I’m disgusting.

Have you ever experience one of those moments where your brain recognizes your error and screams, “STOP!”, but your body is still moving forward? That was one of those moments.

Instead of hitting ‘Reply’ on the mass email she had forwarded me, I had hit, ‘Reply ALL’!

Oh crap. OH CRAP!!! Her family and friends and our  mutual  friends will see what I wrote about the sad state of my bowels! I mentally scanned through a list of our college friends. No! No! NO!!!

In my panic, I pulled up her email again, clicked ‘Reply ALL’ and quickly typed in the subject line, “Please ignore the previous email from me. Sorry.” and hastily clicked send.

Oh crap. OH CRAP!!! Telling someone to ignore your email is like saying, “Read Me. Read Me. Exclusive information in here!”

Needless to say, over the next hour I received a number of emails guffawing at my error and giving me “wise” words of advice to comfort my bowels.

The really painful thing is that I went through  all  that to find out that I only had your regular, every day, garden-variety hemorrhoids.

Lesson: Be careful when hitting ‘Reply All’.

Source:  dreamjerky.tumblr.com  via  Felicity  on  Pinterest

In fact one of my more popular stories about the time I saw a high school classmate naked  is a friend of hers. She even crafted half of my upcoming book’s title today, and her suggestions were better than what I had penned.

As a thank you to her I promised I’d wax on anything she wanted. Here we go.

• Ingrown Hairs

This is an impressive  coincidence   Just this morning I noticed a red bump on my neck – the result of an ingrown hair. I went online to see if Walgreens carries Tend Skin which cures the red bump things. They do, but only online. Crap. Wait, there’s probably a DIY version of this for the cheapasses like myself. Yep! On a male bodybuilding forum (no shitting here) I found a lively discussion on how to shave your whole body without getting ingrown hairs. The unanimous conclusion was since there is no way to do this, you must make your own TendSkin. Here’s the ingredients – Isopropyl alcohol (70%), crushed aspirin, Witch Hazel. I walked over to Walgreens, bought it, and brewed up a batch. I put it in a water bottle which I will keep under my sink. And yes, it works.

Oh, also, after reading the bodybuilding chest shaving thread I’m pretty sure I’m gay now.

• One Ply vs Two Ply Toilet Paper …The Tough Rub

I will hardly dignify this with a response. Your b-hole is worth more than $1.99 a six pack, okay? I’ve never met your b-hole, never seen your b-hole, nor ever introduced my b-hole to your b-hole, but I know this. Your fanny deserves better. And, I’ll even go one further. You deserve even better than just normal two ply. I’m talking about Cottenelle, friends. And it only slightly is edged out by the bidet, the ultimate in ass technology. Since we can’t all install urinals and bidets like we should, you can drop a few extra bucks on the good paper. Remember, we’re having burritos tonight.

• Dickies? Why not?

When I was in my twenties and I went out to meet women, I never wore underwear. In my immature mind that would be the sexiest thing if I was lucky enough to bring a young lass back to my studio apartment. But only sociopaths don’t wear underwear, and a normal girl would run screaming the other way. It wasn’t a good strategy. Now, I wear turtlenecks out every now and then. But the same principle applies. A woman is not going to be impressed when she rips off my sweater vest to find a dickie underneath. Dickies = No Hickies.

• Small Town Cops

I got pulled over by a small town cop recently which I wrote about. Twice actually. No tickets either time. They seem to be less dickish than big city cops. I have no beef with them. It’s the big city cops that suck. Oh, and I noticed something recently. Only big city cops have mustaches! The small town ones are thinner, too. That’s all I got on this one.

• Camouflage Trends and the Modern Man

I have this friend Ron who is the nicest, most peaceful guy on the planet. Except he loves killing things. His dad was a hunter so Ron became a hunter. But you’d never guess that he could even handle a gun. He is a gentle soul for the most part. But he has this closet of camouflage. Probably a whole liter of deer urine too. I hear those guys spray it on themselves before the hunt. Sitting in a duck blind up an oak with another dude at five am to shoot at a rabbit seems like a whole thing I don’t want to get into. Plus, if I owned guns I just know I’d want to try some trick shooting in the house. You know, like set up little targets in the dining room. No good would come of this. So, I stay away from the camouflage.

Oh, and dudes who wear the camo shorts. Knock it off.

Getting into it with my parents is not on my must-do list. I’d just rather not. They’re lovely enough people and I just come off like a spoiled brat. Which maybe I am. I mean, they are pretty generous.

Last night we were getting ready to see The Hobbit. My mother had made a fantastic dish of pasta fagioli, one of my favorites. She even served the soup in a breadbowl. How’s that for finesse? Pretty damned finesse-y if you’re asking a white dude named D.J.

It was 5:30pm and the show started at 6:05pm. The food wasn’t quite ready. I told them there was no way we were going to eat and be out the door in twenty minutes. My father started saying, “We can do it – it won’t be an issue.” I knew better, as someone who has a relatively decent sense of timing. There are things I’m not good at – any math beyond fractions, house cleaning, keeping women interested, not eating all the Life Savers I just bought yesterday. Lots of stuff I can’t do well. But I can see the future of being on time or late. And my crystal ball ain’t cloudy.

I dismissively told my dad he was plain wrong and that I knew what was up. As a normal person being told this sort of  thing, he did not appreciate it. In fact he became more adamant we would make it on time. I continued my stance as I knew I was actually right in this instance. We weren’t going to make it on time.

Now, I know there are ten minutes of previews. I don’t need to see the trailer for the next Adam Sandler travesty. But this is the number one movie in America. It’s Friday night. It’s PG13. Kids are out of school for the holiday. It’s party time.

In my family we pass the popcorn back and forth and we need to sit together. Getting there five minutes after the previews started guaranteed that we would be ten feet from the screen staring upwards at Gandolf’s grey bush. I became vigilant that we needed to get their fifteen minutes early and to hit a later screening. This movie was going to be full of fourteen year old dudes who couldn’t get dates. Like me.

Well, my dad and I came to an impasse. He was exhausted arguing with me. He was plenty angry. He was turning to my mother and pointing at me like, “Look at what a shit you raised.” That part was kind of funny. I know it sounds sad, but I was sort of acting like a shit. Fair enough.

We made silent amends and decided the 6:15pm showing was doable. We raced to the theater and into the movie, popcorn in tow (plus the drinks we snuck in).

There was a group of four teenagers sitting near the back. That’s it.

The theater was totally empty.

I turned to my father after we sat down and said, “I could not have been more wrong about this.” I was, not joking, a little bit in shock. It’s like finding out you’re adopted at thirty-six. I don’t know what that’s actually like, but I suspect it’s a little jarring.

That  simile  was poor.  Adoption  and getting late to a movie with no people in it are not relate-able. Screw it! I’m making it  relate-able   You hear me God?!

I felt like a dick. I apologized. All is good again. But it is funny to be super wrong. I know what it’s like to have these moments, and the ability to say you’re sorry is one of the most powerful phrases I know. It not only accepts accountability for being a dick, it also sort-of says, “Hey, I was a dick – get over it.”

Famous Chicago pizza place that is two-thirds liquor store and one-third restaurant. It’s been around since 1940 and looks like it was last updated in 1971. The decor is ruby red and all-longue. They decided to go balls-in for the holiday decorations and the results were impressive. I love this place.

Well, I just so happened to have stopped by this past Thursday. You’d think knowing I was going to have Marie’s thin crust pizza on Sunday would have suggested I ought to try one of the eight thousand other restaurants here in Chicago, but no. I walked in and sat at the bar waiting for takeout.

An attractive blonde came over to ring up my order.

—

That’ll be $14.

I’m actually going to be in here on Sunday night. With a party of dudes.

Oh yeah? When?

6pm.

I’ll be waiting on you!

Ooh… we should come up with a joke to play.

Yes – let’s!

I’ve got it – what if I pretended that you were a long-lost one night stand? You come over to the table and jump on top of me because you’re so excited to see me again. We hug and then you take the order. After you leave my smile turns to a frown and I explain to the men, “That chick’s nuts.” I’ll say we met at some bar and we ended up back at my bungalow. You ever know how nobody says bungalow anymore? We should totally start saying that – you and I. Will you promise to try to insert “bungalow” in more conversations?

Jesus – get off the bungalow thing.

I’ll tell the guys how you got super clingy and I had to stop taking your calls. Now, I’m stuck because we’re reunited again. Plus, I’ll tell them that you might be secretly pissed because I lifted $40 from your wallet when you brushed your teeth that night. There may be arsenic in our pizza.

That sounds…

Fun? (fingers crossed)

TOTALLY FUN. We’re doing it!

I’m D.J.

Tanya.

See you Sunday.

-fin-

Well, I have to admit I was more than a little excited. I never play practical jokes. I just can’t do it. It’s not in my blood. This is the reason I could never play poker. I’m not afraid of whipping out a lie, mind you. I just don’t want to do it when looking you in the eye. Much better on the phone or email. But I was going to suck it up and do this. The men would love this since they know my light and dark sides, and my vulnerabilities and fear. They would eat it up.

Sadly, the place was booked and Tanya was at another table. I did go over and kiss her hello, but just in a friendly way. We took a photo and she and I were both bummed we couldn’t play the joke. The pizza was great and I didn’t even grab her fanny on the way out. I’m much too classy.

You don’t look like Ken!

These were among the first words spoken to me by TheAnimatedWoman, J.C. Little. For months the AimingLow staff has been referring to me as Ken (of Barbie’s harem), probably because I took the only hunky photo of me and plastered it everywhere online. Just Google one of my stories and you’ll see it next to the search result. In person I’m quite normal looking. I have virtually no muscle definition and my skin is ghostly pale. I’m not a monster, but nobody’s plucking me out of obscurity to dance with Thunder From Down Under.

One of the reasons I get ribbed a lot by AimingLow writers is that they’re simply not a lot of dudes over there. Plus, I do silly things like show up to BlogHer where it’s five thousand women and twenty guys. The other reason I get my balls busted is that these women are ball-busters. They do it to everyone, not just me. Tonight I heard several inappropriate jokes and social references. And, nobody seemed to be offended. If they did, screw ’em. This is AimingLow, for chrissakes.

I’m amazed at my forgetfulness about how important physical interaction is to my well-being. I chat with many bloggers online and I really enjoy our virtual friendships. In person, however, relationship and connection deepens. I’ve written about this several times, but the idea of finding a tribe and then being with the tribe is so self-nourishing.

I planned our last high school reunion. Most likely I will plan the next one. It’s actually not that much work, and, while I’m not an organizer, I really like the process. I don’t enjoy making to-do lists or assigning tasks with deadlines. What fuels my drive is the vision that being together with my old classmates will feel good. I want to spend time with them. Maybe I’m more  desperate  for human interaction than others. Either way, I know what I want (people hanging out having fun), and it’s worth putting in the time.

I’m assuming this was Anissa’s plan as well. She’s the fearless leader of AimingLow and this is her baby. If you’re not familiar with her, you should read and follow her blog. Her story is inspirational and a great lesson for what can be accomplished through will. She’s also one of the coolest and lewdest woman I know who rocks a wheelchair. (I only know one woman who rocks a wheelchair, to be frank. But still!)

Okay, I have to go and prepare for my talk tomorrow morning. Will be live tweeting over the weekend and sending lots of photos. My girlfriend is joining us tomorrow morning (with her chihuahua, not mine) and everyone is excited to meet her.

Sitting in a conference room with pals is my idea of a vacation. So glad to be here.

But let me give you an example of my version of this gaffe. Back in college I worked at the local grocery in the photo lab. Most of the people I dealt with were students, usually sorority girls dropping off last night’s drunken formal shots. One of my flirting techniques was to say…

How are you doing today?

Uh fine…

Just fine? It’s not like you have cancer, right? Wait… you don’t have cancer, right?

Ha ha. No!

Good. Because if you had cancer you’d have a legitimate gripe. Things are good!

True!

—

Now, please don’t jump on me. It was fifteen years ago and I was just trying to make women laugh. I wanted dates. It was a lonely period. Strangely, the joke always worked. It doesn’t read like it would, but if you’re sort of smiling and laughing during it, it lands fine.

After doing this same bit over and over it dawned on me. I’m batting 1000 on making women smile with this bit. But one of these days I’m going to say this to some poor girl who either lost her parents to cancer or who has cancer herself. And I will feel terrible.

Cancer just isn’t something to joke about. I was young and immature. But I was smart enough to stop saying extreme things to get laughs.

Well… most of the time.

A few months back, at BlogHer, I was in a session with thirty women. We were in class for several hours and then went to lunch. Since I didn’t know anybody, I just sat with the people in our group. Somehow the topic of strippers came up. I can’t remember why, but I said…

Strippers are great girlfriends as long as you’re not allergic to body glitter and getting knifed.

I thought that was pretty safe considering we, as a society, have judgements about strippers being damanged. I’m not saying they are. I’m saying we generally believe they are.  Everyone laughed. It was a solid joke.

Then one of the women from a few chairs over said, “You realize you’re talking to a sex worker, right?”

The color drained out of my face. Holy crap. I just said a horrible thing about a stripper to a stripper.

So, I backpedaled.

Oh, ha, I was just joking. You know, strippers get a bad rap, and I knew one and she was really cool, and all that nonsense about drugs and daddy issues, it’s just nonsense, and I’m sweating right now, and I just think women should be able to exploit sex from men, I mean you ladies have it hard enough, you know?

Then I asked her what kind of sex worker she was.

“Oh, I’m a dominatrix.”

Wait a sec. A dominatrix is a sex worker? I thought you just kneed guys in the balls or stepped on their dick with high heels.

A dominatrix is a sex-worker.

No, not really. You don’t even have sex with the guy, right?

I deal in sexual activity.

Okay. Sorry for offending you with the talk about strippers.

Nah – I was just kidding. Strippers are nuts.

—

She got me good. I was just grateful I hadn’t offended her. I asked about the business and she said married dudes were the best because they had the most to lose and usually kept their mouth shut. That helped her safety from crazy wives. She also tried to convince me that her sons were normal since they all had good jobs and owned houses. I wanted so badly to ask about how the whole thing works, but I chickened out. I’m just too vanilla and probably would have fainted.

She tried to convince me that one of my good friends was probably seeing a dominatrix. I’m looking your way, Jerry.

After that near-miss, I’m more hesitatnt to make jokes that contain judgement.  Which means I had to throw out a post I had ready to go called, “Old People Smell and It’s Time To Tell Grandpa.”

Actually, you know what? No old people read my blog. Screw ’em! They suck!

Just kidding. I’m sure your Grandfather rocks. Even with all his stank.

photo credit: Chuckumentary via photopin cc

The whole bike ride from work I could feel something powerful. A slow warmth seemed to spread the faster I pedaled. I was listening to my regular music and podcasts and nothing obvious was instigating this sensation. Ironically, the harder I pushed myself on the bike path the more intense the warmth became. This surge of powerful energy kept rising. I didn’t think much about it, as I notice some version of this on most Fridays. I was forward thinking to the burrito I would purchase and the Doctor Who I was going to watch. These are exciting thoughts to me. But this time the energy was more intense than usual.

By the time I got to my condo building, I was  exhausted. I paused for a few seconds at the bottom of the back stairwell soaking wet. Then I hoisted the bike on my shoulders and climbed four flights. I arrived at the top and dropped the bike down with a bang against the wooden deck. Took off my helmet, released the dog, scratched the cat, and stood in the kitchen dripping and breathing hard.

Then I realized – this intense feeling was anger!

I wasn’t just a little fired up like when I find my cat has peed on clothing I left on my bedroom floor. No, I was seeing red. Energy was bursting through my wrists and I wanted to destroy stuff. Which is kind of a cool feeling, by the way. It’s powerful and masculine and if you start shadowboxing the air, will definitely be impressive to any nearby females. I’ve had three fall to their knees and clutch my shins in admiration just this month!

Note – As I reread that last sentence I see how it may be misinterpreted as hanky panky. God, the expression “hanky panky” is funny. Good song, too. Also, it should be noted for my girlfriend that no ladies approach and fall to the knees grabbing at me for protection. No dudes, either.

I couldn’t believe it but my body had switched from exhausted to energized. Since I’ve been learning how to sit with feelings I used to run from, what occurred to me was to stay present with the anger. I quickly tried to figure out what I was angry about and nothing came. There wasn’t any obvious event that had transpired to push my buttons. This made it easier to stay with the anger. If I realize I’m going to punch a hole in the drywall because I miscalculated the number of Fresca’s left in the ‘fridge, well, that seems a little extreme. I talk myself down from that sort of nonsense.

I decided to roll with this madness and have some fun.  I stomped around the house, tossed a few hard punches in the air, and even screamed like a rabid animal. All of this was done within thirty seconds. Then the anger went away.

I examined what had happened to locate any meaning and found nothing. That was even more exciting to me. My body got angry for no obvious reason and I went with it! Then it went away! And I hung in there with it and didn’t shame myself for feeling it! I have probably done this a total of seven times in my life. I’m not used to handling tough feelings.

Anger is incredibly important to my well-being. I never learned growing up how to experience it without shaming myself. While anger is normal, it’s rarely logical. Even when I know why I’m angry, it always seems to be an  overreaction. And many times it is. But anger is used to effectively defend emotional and physical boundaries, and it works well. Like any other muscle, however, it needs practice.

What I have found is that feelings come and go in a beautiful and and random dance. Sometimes sadness overwhelms. Or fear. Shame knocks me to the ground. Anger makes me want to kill the world. All of these are normal instances. Learning how to stay with them and not run is the tricky part.

I’ve been afraid of my anger because I assume I’m going to hurt something or somebody. Except I never actually have. By letting it run its short course, I find that it processes quickly and then disappears into the ether.

So, I’m encouraging you to help me get more practice with anger. Call me the c-word. Tell me my beautiful hair is effeminate. Make fun of my lame author photo where I’m obviously trying to look tough. Tell me how cool it is that you think I live in and write about Paris, France. Do your worst!

photo credit: alphadesigner via photo pin cc

In my condo I have bay windows in the family room. My windows look out over a courtyard and also across the way at my neighbor’s unit. Since there’s only thirty-three units in the building we all sort of know each other. If you don’t know somebody’s first name you certainly know their face.

I actually haven’t formally met the owner of that unit. I think he just recently bought it, or maybe he was renting it out the first six years. Either way, he’s in there now. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s a nice guy.

Even though we’re told not to judge someone on their looks, can’t we tell, most of the time, whether somebody sucks or not based solely on their looks? I definitely can. People that suck look like they suck.

Well, tonight I am writing this post from my bedroom.  So, why am I not in my family room, the preferred place of writing?

Because my neighbor is having a party on his porch. We have these huge wooden decks (never figured out the difference between porches and decks) that you probably associate with Chicago. They’re 10’x20′. He’s got fifteen guys sitting on his porch having cocktails and talking.

My plan tonight was to sit at my coffee table and write. What I mean by this is to literally sit on the floor with my back against the  couch and legs under the table, with the laptop on top. It’s very comfortable to me, but I’m sure it looks completely stupid to anyone else.

The truth is that I don’t want these fifteen guys seeing me do this. Okay, fine, so I just won’t write. I just ordered a video game and I’ll play that. No, I don’t want them to see an adult playing a video game. Fine, I’ll watch Doctor Who. No, I don’t want them to see me alone on a Saturday night watching television.

I know this is a shame thing. By thinking they’re looking at me (they’re not), I assume they’re judging me (they’re not) and that somehow shames me for not doing more responsible “adult” activities. It also must mean that I have no friends (I have friends). So, I am self-banished to my room because I don’t want them to see the real me. In a way it’s kind of funny – I sent myself to my room because I’ve been bad.

And I’m just waiting for them to go out for the evening. Now, I have big curtains, and technically I could close them on the guys. But I would feel like a dick doing that, and I wouldn’t want them to think I was pissed at them.

So, I won’t shut the blinds. I can’t stay there because I don’t want them to see me. I’m in my room.

I’m thirty-six years old and not socially awkward. I’m 100% convinced I could go over and hang out with these men. They appear to  be friendly dudes. But I won’t go.

This only happens like twice a year, so I’m not constantly removing myself from view, but it is indicative of my self-judgment. I can’t wait until I can just think, “Oh yeah, I guess there are a bunch of people over there partying. Good for them. Hey, that sexy Cinemax movie is coming on – let’s peel down to my skivvies and flip it on!”

Okay, I went too far there. I just wanted to say “skivvies.”

So, I’m going to do something courageous (at least to me). I’m about done writing. I’m going to head into my family room, turn the lights on, and start playing my video game in full view of the party. And everything will be okay and nobody will point and laugh. I’ll be uncomfortable but I’ll forget they’re there after an hour or so.

Oh, and nobody tweet me during the Cinemax movie that comes on at 10:30pm – I’m going to be busy. VERY BUSY.

photo credit: Troy McClure SF via photo pin cc

Since my sister sold her condo in the West Village, I’m staying with her and her boyfriend out in Queens.  The commute to the MidTown Hilton is about forty minutes.

I’d like to point out I’m not a douche who sits.  I stand and let the ladies sit.  I’m amazed how many dudes in their twenties are sitting.  I guess they don’t know that if you give up your seat for a woman she will have sexual relations with you later that evening.

I should have probably looked at the subway map before departing.  Would have been a strong tactical decision.  However, I did not, and realized this near the end of the ride.  What I’m saying without exaggeration is that I had no idea at which stop to get off.  I guess I just assumed there would be a map in the subway car.  No.  Or that my phone would work on the train.  No.  Or that a stop would just list “Hilton – D.J. Get Off Here!” No.

I asked a young guy next to me and he said to get off at the next station.  When I emerged I was at 40th on 6th.  I needed to get to 53rd. In Chicago blocks this would have been cause for a taxi.  Here the blocks are laughable.  I started trekking.

Around 47th street I noticed perspriation beginning on the front of my shirt.  While I don’t sweat from my armpits, my chest and back cry like a bastard.  It’s not sexy.  By the time I got to the Hilton, I had destroyed my shirt.  This was a ten-minute walk.  I’d like to point out that I bike twenty miles every single day and eat healthy.  I’m not overweight and have no medical issues.  Except this.

I was way too embarrassed to go to the conference in this condition so I took to the bathroom.  I didn’t know what to do other than wait it out.  I immediately took my shirt off in the stall.  Standing in a men’s room bathroom stall shirtless sweating is no way to start a day.

Some more tactical errors.  I used toilet paper to wipe away my stomach and back sweat.  I google’d “stop sweating” and learned that wiping sweat off just makes you sweat more.  Biology, yo.  Just for a goof I pressed my back against the side wall of the stall.  I left an amazing sweat-angel.  I should have photoed this as you’re probably not believing any of it.  But it’s all true.

The conference started at 9am, around the same time I got into the bathroom.  I wasn’t in a condition to get out until 9:50am.  And believe me, if I could have left a moment before then I would have.  My shirt dried faster than my body.

So, I missed the opening keynote which is a bummer.  But I was there for everything else.  Actually I’m still here and getting ready to hit up some of the parties.  President Obama addressed us live via satellite and I got to meet some amazing bloggers.

While God didn’t make me obese, hair-lipped, or  follicle challenged, he did create an amazing chest and back sweat system.  Tomorrow I wear an undershirt like an old man.

I don’t mean because I whine and cry and throw tantrums.  I do, but that’s not where I’m heading here.

My routines are that of an infant.  That’s probably exaggerated for dramatic narrative effect.  And it’s certainly a subjective assessment.  But let me make the case.

From what I understand babies need structure and routine.  This has traditionally been my struggle.  I’m wired up for creative thought, and not naturally inclined to adhere to logic and reason.  If I spent ten minutes a day cleaning my condo it would always been pretty spotless.  That’s logical.  But for some reason I don’t.

Give me a blank piece of paper and I can crank out hundreds of words on a random topic.  This skill set is not particularly useful doing routine tasks that must be completed.

In order to compensate for this natural deficiency, I’ve built in routines that keep me structured and disciplined.

For example I know that if I don’t burn several hundred calories a day I’m going to be a pain in the ass to everyone.  I just have extra energy that needs to go.  My solution is to ride my bike to work.

Even though it’s an physically demanding adult task, there is something child-like about getting on a bicycle and riding to work.  I feel much like a child with my helmet and my backpack.  It’s a funny scene to me.

Then, when I get home after the ride back, I’m usually exhausted.  And hungry.  So I make myself something healthy because that’s the disciplined, healthy thing to do.  But if I don’t portion out my dinner I’ll eat way too much.  This is what usually happens.

After I’ve eaten too much for dinner I feel tired.  I tell myself I need to “meditate.”  I actually believe I’m going to do this, but the truth is, it’s me lying down in bed and passing out.  I’m like a mother putting her baby to bed after a feeding.  I think I’m going to just go unconscious for fifteen minutes and wake up rejuvenated.

Ninety minutes later I awake groggy.  Then I remember I never put the leftover food away or cleaned up the countertop, so I hustle to get those items done, brush my teeth and then back in bed.

This is my daily routine.  It’s not particularly goofy or destructive.  The worst decision I make is to eat an extra few hundred calories at dinner which forces me to pass out.  It’s not like I’m posting ads on Craigslist looking for Russian call girls.

Are guys still doing the Russian mail-order bride thing?  I feel like we haven’t heard about that stuff in a decade.  There should be a reality show with dudes and their mail order brides.  We could call it “Natasha C.O.D” – since all Russian women are named Natasha.  I believe that could get ratings.

I’m proud of the structure I’ve created in my life to get things done.  I just never realized I would feel so much like a child doing these routines.  I wonder if the tide will ever turn and I’ll feel like an adult.  Probably when I have kids.  Of course, I’m going to order Russian kids from the same agency I get the wife.  Then we’ll pitch “Mail Order Family” to TLC.  I think I could sell it.

photo credit:  Sergey Galyonkin  via  photo pin  cc