Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.
I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.
As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.
So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.
I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.
But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!
I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.
But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.
Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.
So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.
I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.
The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.
On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.
When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”
Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.
Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”
I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.
I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.
My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.
I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?
… part II coming up …
]]>This is what my co-worker said tonight as I was driving him home. He’s not a jerk, I promise. We were talking about my blog and he asked how it was going. I told him that this month I’m committed to writing a post every day. He was curious how I find content since I have such a normal, not-hilarious job.
Therein lies this writer’s challenge!
So…
Here goes.
Oh, quick aside – I’ve installed a line of code where Google is now going to tell me what percentage of you are chicks. No idea how this is determined, but hope at least a few guys read this thing. If not, I’m just going to give up and start menstruating.
Oh, another quick aside – I lost three pounds last night. I woke up this morning, stepped on the scale, and rejoiced. I mean, I didn’t literally rejoice as I think that involves throwing your hands high to the heavens and singing. I just grunted out a half smile and scratched my nards. And before you tell me that this was simply water-weight let me tell you something, mister! Sure I peed twice during the night and also right before I got on the scale. That I cannot argue. However, earlier I had commanded my subconscious to ramp up my metabolism while I slept. I wish I was kidding, but I really did. I said this affirmation out loud at least twenty times. I know only a moron would believe you can lose three pounds in one night this way, but I’m going to assume that’s what did it. Because it’s more fun.
Let’s keep going with the asides. Today there was a special on beef jerky at Walgreens. I don’t mean some paltry $.50 off coupon. We’re talking $4.00 off a $7.00 item! That’s pretty impressive in the jerky retail world. I happened to notice it and, hey, it’s not like I’m not going to buy beef jerky that’s 67% off. I purchased two packs. In a weird coincidence I had already consumed jerky that morning. I ran out of yogurt the day before and was scrambling looking for food. I found this high-end jerky my girlfriend had bought me for Christmas. I tore into it and had a jerky breakfast. Then, as mentioned earlier, an awesome jerky lunch. Nearly three packs of jerky were eaten today. I smell like death.
Last aside, I promise. I lied to a friend today. We were talking on the phone and I made a comment that the Squatty Potty was changing my life. As soon as I said it I knew I had made a tactical error. See, I was on the Squatty Potty at the time. She asked, “Are you on the Squatty Potty?” Before I knew it a lie shot out of my mouth. “Well, I never!” I shouted in my best offended-woman-from-the-south voice. I know that it’s gross to do this and most of the time I don’t. But she was in the middle of a story and nature called. Maybe deep down I wanted to get caught. I’ll bring it up with the therapist tomorrow.
Okay, I lied to you. One more aside. I’m not convinced that quinoa is anything other than little pieces of plastic. I put that crap into my chicken soup tonight and let it boil for fifteen minutes. These squiggly things pop out of it after a while and then that was the end of the magic. Not very exciting. Plus, it tasted like gravel. It’s the Grape Nuts of dinner.
So yeah, all in all not a very exciting day, but they can’t all be I-single-handedly-discovered-the-nature-of-God days. I’ll try harder tomorrow to do something cool.
photo credit: theimpulsivebuy via photopin cc
]]>This is quite an accomplishment for a man that could eat whatever he wanted up until two years ago. Hell, five years ago I was at 175. I’m just shy of 6’3″ and should clock in between 190-200lbs. That’s ideal for me.
Actually, your scale weight doesn’t matter. Well, not really. I’m surprised more isn’t made about this. Your weight is a combination of muscle and fat. From everything I’ve read all what’s most important is the ratio is between the two. The lower the body fat percentage the better. This way you could be bigger (more muscular and heavier), and still be healthy.
The problem with dieting and not building muscle at the same time is simple – depending on your body type, you could be burning lean muscle by dieting, and the fat remains in the body.
Okay, that’s all I know about the body. I’ll leave you to do your own research. Dr. Oz probably has a whole article on this shizz.
Today was the kick in the butt I needed. I hadn’t weighed myself in months. Out of sight, out of mind. Sure, I still ate a full pizza afterwards, but I’m now getting ready to make the shift. I figure I’m eating five hundred calories more than I should be every day. Also, I’m not moving around much.
My girlfriend bought me a FitBit for Christmas and it tracks your steps. I set my first goal at 10k steps – it took four days. I was so proud I told her and she said, “You’re supposed to walk 10k steps every day!” Oops.
It’s funny – I used to have shame about my weight. If I clocked in over 200lbs, I would get mad at myself yelling inward about the poor food choices I had made. Today was different. I acknowledged that I am overweight. Hell, I’m at my fattest. But I had no judgement about it.
To be able to see myself as I am without judgement (at least with weight) is a major step forward for me. Of course I have four years of therapy, too. We sort of work on this stuff. But to be this large and not ashamed is mind-boggling. I’m confused by my own non-self-meanness.
My fear up until recent was that if I wasn’t hard on myself and didn’t constantly demand better, I would lose motivation and not reach my true potential. I don’t think that is true anymore. It’s a shame strategy and it doesn’t compel me to change. It’s paralyzing.
Now that the shame is gone fear is coming up – if I’m not hard on myself won’t I be less inclined to make the proper changes toward healthy living? Won’t I become complacent and get even fatter? The truth is I don’t know.
I have three weeks before I vacation with the girlfriend in Nicaragua. As a representative of the United States, it’s my duty to look svelte and chiseled to the natives. To accomplish this feat will take about six months. Maybe I’ll just crash diet up until the trip and drink water with lemon for lunch. Sure I’ll be woozy and pass out constantly at work, but at least I’ll look undernourished and emaciated. You know, the American beauty ideal!
We didn’t grow up hunting and no-one in the family owns a firearm. I’ve shot a gun exactly once, and that was in the Scottsdale, Arizona desert. I hit 3/5 targets and the instructor said that I had a pretty good shot.
Guns have always scared me. I don’t feel the need to possess or carry one, and I don’t get off going to the range and firing at human-outlined paper targets. I’ve have no desire to hunt deer or rabbits or birds. I enjoy other stuff.
Like turkey sandwiches.
Back in 2007 I started bringing my lunch to work. I was more often than not heading to Subway. I bought the same sandwich every time – turkey on honey oat loaded up with the same toppings and a light vinegar splash.
After discovering that making a turkey sandwich was not beyond my capabilities I began to appropriate the ingredients on my own. Each morning I’d fashion two sandwiches and head to work.
What I learned quickly is that tomatoes don’t sit well on wheat bread over time. Their juice gets into the bread and it becomes soggy. You have to pack them separate. Also, I found that I didn’t like to eat sandwiches whole – it’s better tasting for some reason if I cut them in half. I know – I’m weird.
Problem – the tomato slices were bigger (I bought huge tomatoes) than the bread halves. I understand this is boring stuff here but I’m trying to set the context for why I brought a steak knife to work every day. First I’d unpack the sandwich, then put the tomato in, and then cut the whole thing in half.
I had a briefcase containing the sandwich items and knife. I had no other reason to bring in the case. We weren’t allowed to take client documents home and it wasn’t like I was transporting a filofax. I just dated myself with the filofax comment. No, the briefcase was used exclusively to move the sandwich from home to work.
Months later I boarded a plane to Washington D.C. for a wedding.
At my seat I reached for my briefcase to an open compartment along the back. I had thrown my wallet into that space earlier and wanted to move it. Something bit me. I recoiled my hand and found a few drops of blood on my index finger. Reaching carefully back into the pouch I discovered what had cut me.
A large, serrated steak-knife.
Yes, I had made it through the crack security team of O’Hare airport with the six-inch blade I used everyday at lunch. I felt proud like this was a huge accomplishment and that I had “stuck it” to the man (sorry for the pun – unintentional). I shook my head up and down smugly as I had just pulled off a theft of a Hope-diamond caliber.
When we arrived at the hotel the girlfriend suggested I leave the knife in the room and not to press my luck on the return trip. I agreed and took the knife out and set it atop the armoire.
Well, even though I have a clear memory of removing the knife, apparently I didn’t remove the knife. At the time I must have been sidetracked (probably by something shiny) and forgot to pull the blade out of the bag. Or maybe I did remove the knife and a maid found it, realized it wasn’t the property of the hotel, and put it back in my briefcase. My memory sucks, so this is unlikely.
You can see where this is headed. Yes, on the return trip I, once again, made it onto the airplane with a knife. It was discovered much the same way before – I reached my hand in and found the blade tip. This time I celebrated even more than before. I had twice outwitted security detail. In two consecutive airports, no less!
Had I been caught, I would have explained that I brought that steak knife to work every day to cut a sandwich and left it in there by mistake. It had dried crumbs stuck to the handle and was stained red from tomato juice. Well, maybe the stained-red thing would be an issue. A great moment, however, having the TSA pull out a knife out in front of the rest of the people waiting in line. Maybe an old lady would have fainted.
I don’t carry a knife anymore as I now pre-cut my lunch at home. Which makes more sense. Took me a few more years to figure that one out. Sadly.
Our part of Long Beach was one of the worst-flooded areas during last week’s storm. We live down the street from a major storm drain and pumping station, and when the pump shorted out during our lunch hour (and coincidentally the time of hardest downpour), Tim and I came home to this… (click below to play)
The muffled voice in the background is mine, and it steadily grew more panic-filled the more I tried to steer our dinky Honda Accord through a foot and a half of water. All around us were people pushing their cars through the lake, their engines waterlogged and useless. Only the dudes with the jacked-up pick-up trucks flourished, and they gleefully roared passed us, gifting us with 10-foot sprays of Long Beach’s best water-soluble street grime.
The only thing worse than driving through the flood was stopping. Because then we were able to hear the water lap against the side and bottom of our car, and we started bobbing up and down in our non-amphibious vehicle.
When we were stopped, I saw a single shoe float by us and I immediately thought of Katrina. Although the rational side of my brain knew it wasn’t nearly as bad as that, that shoe began this terrible anxiety growing like a tumor in my chest, and it overtook me. The anxiety was why I was glued to weather websites all day, why I picked my kids up from school at absurdly early hours every day that week, why I could only go to sleep with some pharmaceutical help, along with a flashlight and a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese by my bed, just in case.
Funnily enough, that particular flood cleared out within half an hour of restarting the pump. But my worrying about it lasted much longer.
Later in the week, the winds started to pick up and brought us all sorts of surprises, like pieces of our roof, other people’s flower pots, and hail. But no flooding. I looked outside the window during an especially harsh spell and saw the telephone pole stationed in our backyard sway alarmingly. I tried not to imagine what kind of damage that would bring to our house and our bodies if it fell on us, but I did.
Why was my mind in such a strange space, I wondered. Was I depressed? I felt my brain, like that pumping station, was just filled to the brim with everyday mommy-stuff and Julie-stuff and work-stuff and wife-stuff and hobby-stuff and future-stuff and friend-stuff, that once a little rain started falling, I immediately flooded. It was time for a time-out.
So I decided to meditate. I thought of all those tall palm trees that dot the LA landscape. They have survived decades of harsh weather, and still they stand, some more than 100 feet high. They move with the wind, they let it push them over a little, but they stay rooted. I called upon the immutability of those palms, standing like hundreds of middle fingers shoved into the faces of the gods, and I willed my anxious mind to stand with them.
My father on Easter Sunday, during brunch, asked me how much I weighed. I clock in at just a hair under 6’3″. I get away with a little extra weight as it evenly proportions on my body as it gains. Well, my metabolism has finally caught up with the rest of the bozos my age. I can get fat just like you.
I was not proud to admit it but I was at my heaviest of all time. I had checked the scale just before brunch and then announced my score. I was at a robust 224.
Please understand that at my wedding, four years prior, I was at my thinnest at around 175 lbs. Of course I was totally stressed out and not eating much.
After doing a ton of research I’ve determined that the only thing that really matters is what percentage your body fat is at. I could be 220lbs with 8% body fat and be totally ripped. Conversely I could be 190 with a 20% body fat and be unhealthy. All that really matters is how much lean muscle I have and how much fat.
Well, I have calipers which are the things that pinch your sides and give you a readout of your fat. At the time of Jesus’s resurrection I was at 24%. That is a big, fat boy.
As I told my parents my weight they started laughing. I’ve always been the most fit one in the family. I bike twenty miles to work (which is good), eat like a total pig (which is bad), and have a metabolism that just won’t quit. Since it’s obvious that I had some habits that needed changing, my parents quickly quieted their laughter with a serious tone.
“You need to lose some weight. It’s scary because you don’t look big at all,” my mother said. She was right!
So my dad proposed a bet. My birthday is coming up on June 10th. If I could lose something reasonable, say twenty pounds in ten weeks, then he would pay for my birthday dinner. This is great as we’re going to a pretty expensive place to eat. If I lose, however, the bill comes to me.
Now, instead of getting all caught up in the fat vs. muscle showdown, I realized I needed to peel off some easy weight first. I remember losing five pounds in a week before, when I was younger. Totally thought I would have all twenty pounds down within four weeks. I cut dramatically down on my calories. Not to an unhealthy degree, but enough to have me go to bed a little hungry. I was probably eating 500 less calories a day than I was during my normal gorging self.
Well, it’s been five weeks, and I’m down eleven pounds. While this is cause for celebration, it’s also cause for alarm. I only have four weeks to lose almost ten pounds.
The only option other than blatantly starving myself is to beef up the exercise. Increase the muscle mass and do more cardio. This does not come easy to me. I can’t believe I bike to work even now, as during the winter I don’t move at all. So, to add to that is crazy.
But I’m not getting stuck with a huge birthday dinner bill.
I’m glad, though, that this last ten pounds is a struggle. Struggles are good for the soul. It’s a nice reminder that I’m not the all-powerful being I treat myself as most of the time. I’m just a guy whose body is finally shapeshifting. I was going to complete that sentence with some animal, but I couldn’t come up with one. Oh well…
Once I get to twenty pounds, by the way, I’m going to celebrate by giving away twenty copies of my book to my email subscribers.
So tomorrow my lunch will be, not joking, chicken and vegetables. No seasoning, sauce, or anything that resembles taste. And yes, I know I could put a little sea salt or marinade on there, but I won’t. I want to learn to love it bland. It’s not fun, but this is work dammit!
I’m on my first diet ever, folks. I haven’t had pizza or anything too terrible in over a month. I just hope it becomes a lifestyle.
And, if not, I’ll become the jolly fat guy humorist. Hey, that’s a decent niche!
I’m back on the bike-to-work routine. I put my suit and lunch in a pannier bag that is attached to my bicycle, and then strap my dog to my back. We jump on the lakefront trail and pedal ten miles to work. It’s not an easy commute. Beautiful, but not easy.
Two things.
First, the fanny. Every year this comes up. My fanny doesn’t get a lot of action in the off season. (insert sophomoric joke here) For some reason the cheeks totally forget what a small bicycle seat wedged up there feels like. After my first day of biking (20 miles total), the next morning is like fire back there. And that lasts for about a week. I’m sure it’s all bruised up and gross – I was about to make a “now it’s black, blue, and brown” joke but that was a little too immature, even for me. (but I did it anyway!) Jumping on the bike every morning is painful for my rear, but hey, I don’t use my fanny for much other than pooping, so I can deal with it.
Second, the goddamned wind. Chicago is known as the “windy city” and yes I know that is really a political reference, but it’s windy as all get-out, too. And, for some reason the wind always blows north which means my ride to work is brutal. I’m overweight, carrying a dog, and out of shape facing a steel breeze. It sucks.
Now to be fair the ride home is usually easier because the wind rarely changes direction during the day, so it’s at my back. But I’m also beat from the day so I don’t get to enjoy it as much.
What I’ve learned by riding my bike is that I don’t really love bike riding. I do it for the exercise. And it’s really tough for me. I’m also, once I start, no matter how difficult it is, unable to stop. If I want to just walk the rest of the way I’d have to hail a cab and figure out how to get the bike in that backseat behind the plexiglass. In other words, there’s no way out. I must keep going, no matter what.
I’ve been caught in 35 mph winds and torrential downpours.
So, at 7:30am if the wind is blowing 20mph in my face (this just happened yesterday), there’s nothing I can do but push on. It’s a great reminder that I am not in control of things. I just have to put my face into the wind and pedal even though I want to quit. Chop wood, carry water, and all that zen bullshit.
Aside from being beaten by the elements the other benefit is that I get to spend two hours a day with myself. Most of the time I just drone it out with music or podcasts. Since I don’t do transcendental meditation or anything that requires silence I really have an opportunity to learn more about myself. This means getting quiet and noticing what’s inside.
There will be a time where I’ll be remarried with children and quiet won’t exist except for when I take naps and lock the bedroom door from the inside. Daddy is sleeping and needs you to hang out near the television for an hour. Watch something. I don’t care. Good luck.
I am challenging myself this year to turn down the music and listen to what is going on within. Hopefully there’s something worth reporting. If not, it’s back to my medley of John Mellencamp songs that I’m embarrassed to have on repeat.
Within a week my fanny will be healed, my legs will be back in shape, and I’ll be digging the ride. For now, it’s uncomfortable.
Oh, and I don’t wear those lame skin-tight spandex clothes, so you can’t goof on me for that nonsense. Old Budweiser t-shirts and crappy gym shorts is my thing. But I do have a seven pound chihuahua in a backpack, so I imagine that is something to laugh about.
If you commute like me, good for you. Unless you’re a rollerblader. All those guys are dicks. It’s true.
photo credit: thisisbossi via photopin cc
]]>There’s no way that last sentence was grammatically or syntactically accurate. I wish I knew stuff!
Well, I have an opportunity to redeem myself this weekend.
This Saturday I will be flying out to chilly Las Vegas for Blog World (now called New Media Expo). There will be around four thousand bloggers in attendance all there to hang out, learn junk, and network. And I won’t know even one person there.
Last year I wrote about the most fun and the most boring persons I met at BlogWorld. Since then we have stayed in touch and I would say that there has been solid, developed friendships. Sadly both of these bozos can’t make it this year. One is pregnant and the other one’s company won’t spring for the ticket. I offered to let her crash in my room, but her husband was unhappy with this arrangement. Lame.
Now, I’m not a famous blogger by any means, but I do a respectable amount of web traffic. I’m number one on Google for “dick stories” for chrissakes. That is something, people. It’s not hyperbolic or an ego stroke to think a few of the people in attendance might be readers of this blog. But I don’t know one of them who are coming to this event.
Now, in the last post I talked about how I’m perfectly comfortable going to parties where I don’t know anyone and making friends. No big whoop. During the weekend I’ll do just fine going up and meeting people. I did this with five thousand women at BlogHer and never felt even the least bit awkward. Of course the idea of being in a group of five thousand women is exciting, in and of itself.
But two things do scare me. First are meals. I will have nobody to with whom to eat. There are but a few options. One is to find someone in a session and offer to take them to lunch. This takes balls. The next option is to approach a group of people already eating and ask to join their table of friends. This takes even more balls. Last is to just being my laptop, jump online, and eat by myself. This takes no balls.
I suspect I will do all three.
As long as I push through the initial fear of approaching strangers and adding them to dinner, then I’ll be proud of myself.
But to be clear, eating is not the scariest part of going to a conference alone.
The nighttime parties are.
Each night there are really fun and crazy parties put on by the sponsors. Now, you might think it’s easier to make friends at a bar than just walking around a convention center, but for me it’s not. I’m not exactly cutting rugs, dancing jigs, or poppin’ and lockin’ my way to the dance floor’s heartbeat. Also, I don’t drink. I can’ even order up four Harvey Wallbangers and send ’em down to the skanky chicks in the micro-minis. Also, the music is always way too loud at these things, so it’s hard to talk.
The good news is that everyone else is there pretty much by themselves. You’d think it’s all computer nerds but there hardly any nerds in attendance. It’s all passionate people who blog about food, travel, fashion, being a mom, or themselves. So, in a sense, this is another example of going to a bar all alone. The difference is that many of these people will be by themselves or with their one buddy.
You know, I just wrote myself out of the fear. I’m totally good now.
Okay, now that everything is fixed, why don’t I leave on a weird note. On 12/31/12 my traffic doubled. Why? I went to trust Google Analytics to find out. Turn up that I was #1 on Google that day for the lovely key phrase “New Year P**n.” I don’t think I’ve even written the p word ever on this blog. No idea. But, I am glad to get some of those perverts over here. They need to laugh, to.
Notice how I made the assumption that whoever comes over here is guaranteed to laugh? Oh yeah! I said it!
I ride the subway to and from work during the winter months. Lately I’ve noticed that I’m one of the older people. It’s mostly kids in their twenties. At thirty-six I don’t feel too old to take the train. In NYC you have people in walkers dropping dead on the D line. But here in Chicago the “L” (short for “elevated train”) is a young man’s game. Even the pretty women look too young. They’re twenty-five but look like children. I’m getting older.
Most of my friends who are married with children have moved to the suburbs for some yard and quiet. I don’t blame them. The suburbs are a place where you can focus on family. Who wants to navigate a stroller through Wrigleyville streets during the hour after a Cubs victory? Dudes with painted chests are heaving into sewer grates. It’s funny, for sure. But maybe not ideal for a lactating mother.
Oh, by the way in eighth grade our school hired this performance artist to work with us to do a show. I was chosen along with about ten others and we created a live piece to go along with some dopey Shel Silverstein poems. The artist was this woman that wore this spandex uni and at the end of each practice her front was soaked at the nips. I didn’t understand what was going on at the time. I just assumed she had a sweat thing going on. Anyway, artists are weird.
I’ve written about not being one of those dicks who takes a seat on the train. Stand up if you’re a guy. I ride forty-five minutes each way and have sat down maybe ten times in twelve years. But, as manly and rugged as I am for standing, I am carrying two bags. One is the backpack that I stuff my dog. Technically she’s not allowed on the train but technically she’s not allowed in the grocery store either and I violate that rule weekly. But because I only want to seem like half a weirdo, I don’t wear the backpack when on the train.
There’s a few reasons for this. First, it takes up space. We’re usually crammed in pretty tight and I don’t want to be banging my dog’s skull against some dude’s iPad. Yes we’re all impressed he have the WSJ app loaded up for all to see. The second reason is I wear a suit to work. Nothing looks dorkier than a guy in a suit with a backpack. Lastly, I don’t want to be the guy who’s like, “Hey look at my cute tiny dog in the backpack!” I’ll let iPad guy with the Beats Audio headphones get all the attention.
Also I carry, and I’m not exaggerating or joking, a blue tote bag. This houses my lunch, my keys, a to-do notebook, and some random papers.
There’s no pockets, zippers, or anything resembling masculinity. I had a steak knife in there up until yesterday when I saw the blade poking out of the side. I stuffed it in there a few weeks ago to cut a sandwich at work and forgot to take it out. I’d say the odds are good I nicked a few passengers without noticing.
So, between the blue tote bag and the dog backpack I have some cargo. Still I stand. I put these both between my legs. They’re just a little too wide for a normal stance, so I end up wider than I’d like. It’s like I’m starting to go into a groin stretch. I’m sure it looks real normal.
Once again this post totally got away from me. My intention was to write about the cute girl with the nose piercing that I see almost every day. She gets on my train and has been doing so for a good year now. We’ve never spoken and I’m not interested in talking with her, but I’d love it if we gave each other a tip of the cap each morning. In my fantasy world I pull her aside and say, “Hey, nose-stud, every time you get on the train, wink at me and nod your head knowingly. In return I’ll make room over by me for you to stand so you never again have to feel a stranger’s erection against your back. I take care of my own.”
Note – “my own” meant “my friends and family” not “my privates.”
But these things never go well. The moment I say, “Hey, I’m going to talk to you now which nobody else does to each other on the train! Don’t be weirded out that seventeen other people are hearing our conversation,” she’d think I was hitting on her and then it would be awkward every morning. Or maybe she’s start going to a different car – the ultimate rejection.
So, I’m just going to keep standing with a dog between my legs, a tote next the that, and a spread eagle stance on a crowded train. I’ll keep my mouth shut and my “Hey, I know you!” smiles to myself. Or maybe I’ll talk to her if for no other reason that to report back to you guys. If my next post is, “Pepper Spray Doesn’t Do Dick” than you know I tried.
]]>I hired a guy about six months ago for a position. He was in his early sixties and one of the nicest people I had ever met. His past career had been in education and he was a dean at a university prior to working with us. He would come in every day and sit at his desk working to build a business in real estate.
Then, suddenly, he died.
His daughter called me on a Monday morning to tell me her dad had collapsed during dinner over the weekend. They were at a restaurant on Navy Pier. He was rushed to a hospital and passed away.
This was a few months ago and he’s sort of faded from my memory.
Today I was in my office and a Jimmy John’s delivery guy was ringing the doorbell. This is not unusual as people in the office often order subs from Jimmy John’s. Too boring for my taste.
I just realized how ludicrous it is for me to say Jimmy John’s is boring when I bring the exact same lunch to work every single day. Two turkey sandwiches with a slice of American cheese, spinach, and tomato on whole grain. I’m not exaggerating when I say every day. I probably brought something different maybe a dozen times this year. The rest were turkey sandwiches.
Anyway, somebody yelled throughout the office looking for whoever had ordered the lunch. Nobody answered.
I was on the phone at the time and didn’t really see what was happening. The next thing I knew I saw a huge platter of Jimmy John’s sandwiches being set down on a table. I assumed it was a freebie as from time to time they do this as a thank you for all the business we give them.
Well, it turns out the employee that died had put his card in a fishbowl months ago to win lunch for ten people. Apparently he had won. When the delivery guy arrived nobody knew what to do. I guess the thought was, “Well, we have ten people… They already made the sandwiches… Uh…”
So, we ate them.
I’d love to say that we sat around a break table silently reflecting, but we all eat at our desks and business was still going on. I, myself, grabbed a few turkey sandwiches (shocker) in between a video I was editing.
I felt sad and confused about eating subs which were really meant for a dead man. He might have planned on taking those home to his family – might never have been intended for us. The Jimmy John’s deliverer was not told that the man had passed on. I don’t know about the rest of the guys, but it sort of felt like we got away with something. There was never any malicious intention to steal food. I guess they didn’t know what else to do.
Thus far I haven’t had anyone close to me pass away. I’ve lost grandparents I hardly knew and a dog that was eighteen and a half, but it wasn’t devastating. When I got divorced, that was devastating, and it is loss. But I can still call my ex-wife if I need something, and I actually spoke to her this weekend about pet medicine. To lose a best friend, though, that’s coming my way eventually. Whether it will be my future wife or my buddies from gradeschool or my dad. It’s all in the plan.
I was reminded that intimacy is the only thing that matters when we’re alive. Or, at least that the best “meaning of life” I’ve deduced. Or induced. Whatever the right one is. I think it’s deduced.
Oh, and Jimmy John’s needs to have a wheat sub bread. This white bread crap is over. It’s almost 2013 for chrissakes. I got a near-hallucinogenic sugar high from three half-subs. And I eat candy all the time. I need to show them my lunch sandwich. They’d be so impressed.
