Talking to my TV
Every so often a commercial comes along that makes me say, "Spot on."
Hanes new commercial starring one Jennifer Love Hewitt is that commercial. Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of bras, but the attitude, the casting, the lines seem perfect.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Kids say the darnedest things
or I am bringing sexy back
I was passed by a 5-year old kid and his mom pushing a stroller today on the way home from the grocery store. He said something quietly to her. She turned around and said, "Did you hear what my son said?"
I had not. She asked him to repeat it.
"You look like Justin Timberlake."
or I am bringing sexy back
I was passed by a 5-year old kid and his mom pushing a stroller today on the way home from the grocery store. He said something quietly to her. She turned around and said, "Did you hear what my son said?"
I had not. She asked him to repeat it.
"You look like Justin Timberlake."
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
In a rare moment I am going to not only admit that I work, but also admit that I care
Today, I learned about pivot tables in Excel. I was aware of the pivot table's existence, having seen a few in the wild, but it had never ocurred to me that I could create one. I didn't think that kind of power was granted to just anyone.
This may open up a whole other dimension to my spreadsheet experience. This must be how movie-goers felt when Smell-o-vision was introduced. This is like a whole new flavor of Excel. Although, I still have to figure out how to really use it. So right now it's still pretty much vanilla Excel with chocolate chip potential.
Today, I learned about pivot tables in Excel. I was aware of the pivot table's existence, having seen a few in the wild, but it had never ocurred to me that I could create one. I didn't think that kind of power was granted to just anyone.
This may open up a whole other dimension to my spreadsheet experience. This must be how movie-goers felt when Smell-o-vision was introduced. This is like a whole new flavor of Excel. Although, I still have to figure out how to really use it. So right now it's still pretty much vanilla Excel with chocolate chip potential.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A greatest negated
I was not having the kind of Ultimate game that I prefer to have yesterday. I'd been more unbalanced than usual. I like to consider myself a pretty steady performer. I'd taken some early shots at the end zone with questionable throws and had some luck. That luck turned sour and I threw away some discs that I'd like to have back. I dropped a disc and I just felt a little out of whack. I had some good moments too, just eluding my defenders for a score and just missing on some defensive efforts. As the game wore on and both teams battled in and out of the lead, I found myself cutting break-side toward the endzone. My teammate, dipped down and threw a backhand around her defender that floated up into the air and toward the front cone and on its way out of bounds. With one of the best players in the local league on my heels, I jumped up after the disc. He bumped me as we went up, but with my body in the way he couldn't get to the disc. I latched on to it with my right hand and then as gravity pulled us down, I flicked my wrist and sent the disc flying over my left shoulder before we landed on the ground in a heap. I rolled over to see my teammate diving into the endzone to catch my desperate throw. A GREATEST! I barely reacted. It seemed right and lucky. Sometimes when a game is moving so quickly and I'm asking my body to be special, I don't get the opportunity to appreciate what is going on like I do when I watch someone else. I really don't know if it was disbelief or something else, but I didn't get to ponder it long. My defender questioned whether I had jumped from in bounds when I made this greatest attempt. Unfortunately, there was no way either of us could see where I had left the ground. Everyone else on the field was fairly far away from the play and no one had a very good perspective. We discussed it briefly and unfortunately decided that the best course of action was the do-over. One of my teammates told me that in my heart I should always remember this greatest, that I was in and it should have counted.
I want to.
I also want to remember the do-over. With the disc back in to the original thrower and a new defender on me, I made another cut for a throw. This was a force-side throw, but it floated as well. I reached for it with my right hand extended and missed. My defender flung his arm windmill-style to swat the disc down, but also came up empty. Spinning around the disc floated down at about shoulder level and I plucked it from the air. I made a couple looks up field and then threw an inside-out flick past my defender to a cutter for the score. For those that believe that the disc never lies, chalk that up as a victory. For those that think that's a lot of hooey, we still got the score.
It's the little moments that make this game so special. The ups and downs of competition, of pushing to the limits, of believing that if I just run hard enough or stretch far enough I will be rewarded-- by a disc that floats to just the right spot or sticks to an outstretched hand. It's impossible. It's beautiful.
I was not having the kind of Ultimate game that I prefer to have yesterday. I'd been more unbalanced than usual. I like to consider myself a pretty steady performer. I'd taken some early shots at the end zone with questionable throws and had some luck. That luck turned sour and I threw away some discs that I'd like to have back. I dropped a disc and I just felt a little out of whack. I had some good moments too, just eluding my defenders for a score and just missing on some defensive efforts. As the game wore on and both teams battled in and out of the lead, I found myself cutting break-side toward the endzone. My teammate, dipped down and threw a backhand around her defender that floated up into the air and toward the front cone and on its way out of bounds. With one of the best players in the local league on my heels, I jumped up after the disc. He bumped me as we went up, but with my body in the way he couldn't get to the disc. I latched on to it with my right hand and then as gravity pulled us down, I flicked my wrist and sent the disc flying over my left shoulder before we landed on the ground in a heap. I rolled over to see my teammate diving into the endzone to catch my desperate throw. A GREATEST! I barely reacted. It seemed right and lucky. Sometimes when a game is moving so quickly and I'm asking my body to be special, I don't get the opportunity to appreciate what is going on like I do when I watch someone else. I really don't know if it was disbelief or something else, but I didn't get to ponder it long. My defender questioned whether I had jumped from in bounds when I made this greatest attempt. Unfortunately, there was no way either of us could see where I had left the ground. Everyone else on the field was fairly far away from the play and no one had a very good perspective. We discussed it briefly and unfortunately decided that the best course of action was the do-over. One of my teammates told me that in my heart I should always remember this greatest, that I was in and it should have counted.
I want to.
I also want to remember the do-over. With the disc back in to the original thrower and a new defender on me, I made another cut for a throw. This was a force-side throw, but it floated as well. I reached for it with my right hand extended and missed. My defender flung his arm windmill-style to swat the disc down, but also came up empty. Spinning around the disc floated down at about shoulder level and I plucked it from the air. I made a couple looks up field and then threw an inside-out flick past my defender to a cutter for the score. For those that believe that the disc never lies, chalk that up as a victory. For those that think that's a lot of hooey, we still got the score.
It's the little moments that make this game so special. The ups and downs of competition, of pushing to the limits, of believing that if I just run hard enough or stretch far enough I will be rewarded-- by a disc that floats to just the right spot or sticks to an outstretched hand. It's impossible. It's beautiful.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
My shoes should be on VH1
And not in that washed up, they had a career, but now they don't Behind the Music sort of way. No, sir. My shoes should be on Best Week Ever. Last week at this time, my shoes were hanging out in the Grand Canyon. This Tuesday evening, in all of their red-rock-stained glory they took to the track to help a friend meet a lifelong goal of running a sub-five minute mile. I don't know about my shoes, but I wasn't exactly sure this would be an easy task for anyone involved. We set out to come as close to five minutes as possible. My shoes were in charge of pacing, since they had some experience in this endeavor. The first lap was 76 seconds, one second too slow. It took some convincing, but my shoes and I very carefully resisted the urge to panic about starting off a little slower than expected. My shoes carried us through the second lap at 2 minutes and 31 seconds, exactly on pace for a five minute mile if it hadn't been for that start. Knowing that the third lap can often be tricky, the shoes found some fortitude. The third lap is where a lot of shoes start to ask really poignant questions, most of those questions starting with "What the ???" So the shoes surged to fight off these questions, and together we rolled through the third lap at 3 minutes and 45 seconds, perfectly positioned to run a 5 minute mile. The final lap, with the imaginary bell ringing through my laces brought at the best lap of the day. Cruising in that painful way that only shoes on the track know how to do, my shoes moved to the outside and encouraged my friend's shoes up next to me. Coming out of the last turn our shoes mirrored one another. Pulling and gutting, our shoes charged for the finish line that just wouldn't get there fast enough, finally crossing in 4 minutes and 57 seconds.
Somebody buy those shoes an odor-eater, they're having the best week ever.
And not in that washed up, they had a career, but now they don't Behind the Music sort of way. No, sir. My shoes should be on Best Week Ever. Last week at this time, my shoes were hanging out in the Grand Canyon. This Tuesday evening, in all of their red-rock-stained glory they took to the track to help a friend meet a lifelong goal of running a sub-five minute mile. I don't know about my shoes, but I wasn't exactly sure this would be an easy task for anyone involved. We set out to come as close to five minutes as possible. My shoes were in charge of pacing, since they had some experience in this endeavor. The first lap was 76 seconds, one second too slow. It took some convincing, but my shoes and I very carefully resisted the urge to panic about starting off a little slower than expected. My shoes carried us through the second lap at 2 minutes and 31 seconds, exactly on pace for a five minute mile if it hadn't been for that start. Knowing that the third lap can often be tricky, the shoes found some fortitude. The third lap is where a lot of shoes start to ask really poignant questions, most of those questions starting with "What the ???" So the shoes surged to fight off these questions, and together we rolled through the third lap at 3 minutes and 45 seconds, perfectly positioned to run a 5 minute mile. The final lap, with the imaginary bell ringing through my laces brought at the best lap of the day. Cruising in that painful way that only shoes on the track know how to do, my shoes moved to the outside and encouraged my friend's shoes up next to me. Coming out of the last turn our shoes mirrored one another. Pulling and gutting, our shoes charged for the finish line that just wouldn't get there fast enough, finally crossing in 4 minutes and 57 seconds.
Somebody buy those shoes an odor-eater, they're having the best week ever.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Even big beards are tiny in the Grand Canyon
I had the look of a man on a backpacking trip, so long as the look includes cheap white plastic cat's eye sunglasses with fake rhinestones, a thick curly brown beard surrounded by week-old stubble, and a sweat-stained full-brimmed safari hat. I had that look, but the look was secondary to the attitude. The attitude is in the freeze-dried Teriyaki chicken and rice, in four liters of water, in full length toothbrushes and deodorant left behind. The attitude is in one short-sleeve shirt for three days, a sleeping bag that takes up 3/4 of that previously enormous blue backpack. The attitude is in 38 pounds, a walking stick, and the silent pleas to my knees and in the rankle of my ankles.
We'd descend a vertical mile while traversing six. We plunged into the canyon I'd always planned to save for later, but the company proved to be too much to pass up. I was a member of the death group, males in my age group tend to die in the Grand Canyon with greater frequency than others, but fortunately I had my family looking out for me. We made our way down the South Kaibab trail, only once passing through New Zealand, and only ten times passing through the scorch of a desert spring day. At 30 degrees shy of summer temperatures, my parched lips wondered how the summer crowd handled the intensity. At the bottom, just down the creek from Phantom Ranch, there was a campground with real toilets, lots of running water, and picnic tables. Phantom ranch had a small shop and a pay phone. The bottom of the Grand Canyon, where less than 1% of all Canyon visitors go, is really quite cushy. Cushy if you stay on the main trails and don't veer into the 47 degree Colorado river or into the vastness elsewhere. In our bid to reduce cushiness where we'd landed, we slept in our tents next to the creek, and only lit our tiny stoves when we needed to boil our bags of dinner or fire up our oatmeal.
Our trip up proved much easier, as it taxed heart and lungs rather than pounded down on my poor legs. Every bite of food transferred the weight on my back to my stomach- the poetry of "the weight of my decisions" dissipated into the calories for me to burn up, up, and up. We split the trip back to the rim into two sections of 4.5 miles each. The first half took us to the Indian Garden, where there was a campground, cushy, but not like Phantom Ranch. This walk may have been the most pleasent of all of our days, as the morning crowd was thinner. The trails we chose, even with 99% of the visitors hanging out near the rims, were surprisingly crowded. Moments of solitude were best caught between breaths and breaths were best caught in the narrow sections where the sun wasn't shining and the mules had not recently found relief. Or maybe it was the following morning, when the rim was just a few hours away, the bag was just a few pounds lighter, and the trenches carved by those same mules made for steps that resembled starting blocks, allowing hikers to propel up the hill when they found the right rhythmn. With a bounce in my step, and most of 2 liters emptied from the bladder on my back into the bladder in my middle, I began a final surge through the rim crowds. I passed hikers that wouldn't leave the relative comforts of the canyon wall. I passed families with their flip-flop shod children bounding down the trail and I thought about the nearly 15 miles behind me. Was I emerging from the big hole a different person? There was a sense of purpose in my step and a sense of accomplishment. I could feel the admiring stares of the underdressed as I lugged my now lighter backpack up the final yards. Putting the enormous pit behind me, I began focusing on the only pit that would be my reward- the pit toilet. With a final high five from the boy scouts that tormented my elders, I made it to the bathroom and to the top of the canyon. I felt more triumph than I'd anticipated and more pride when my family joined me. There was a twinkle inside matched only by my rhinestones. Immediately, I began to wonder what was next and what look I would need to cultivate to cross that off my list.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Go to bed
-October road has mastered the close-up are they? or aren't they? "falling in love" shot. Tonight's episode featured at least 4 instances. The punky perky pizza delivery girl look pretty much sealed my fate- I will continue to watch this show. It's a little booky, sometimes to the point of forcing literary references, but it feels like the show has its heart in the right place... maybe too much heart.
-Put this on the list of calls that I'd prefer not to receive from the cops, "Sir, we found your pants...and your wallet on campus. Call me back at 555-555-5555."
- I've been thinking about cutting my toothbrush down, but I'm hoping I can handle the weight of a full-length brush.
-October road has mastered the close-up are they? or aren't they? "falling in love" shot. Tonight's episode featured at least 4 instances. The punky perky pizza delivery girl look pretty much sealed my fate- I will continue to watch this show. It's a little booky, sometimes to the point of forcing literary references, but it feels like the show has its heart in the right place... maybe too much heart.
-Put this on the list of calls that I'd prefer not to receive from the cops, "Sir, we found your pants...and your wallet on campus. Call me back at 555-555-5555."
- I've been thinking about cutting my toothbrush down, but I'm hoping I can handle the weight of a full-length brush.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Advice columnist domino in age-awareness explosion
Dear Amy,
I'm 30-years old, never married....
This was how one young man began his letter to an advice columnist. I may have read the rest of the column, but this is the only line I remember. My brain immediately began racing- how many 30-year old men or nearly 30-year old men did I know that had never been married? Bazillions! was my first reaction. Granted, I live in a transient land where men and women come and go, which was suggested by the word transient, rather than stay and grow roots, but has the world gone mad?
As I arrived home, plopped my keys on the Star Trek-insignia-shaped table, and pilfered my mail, I noticed a "Save The Date" card. This wasn't one of those fancy-schmancy wedding cards. No, no, this was the announcement of an impending high school reunion. In theory, I have always wanted to attend my high school reunion out of "curiosity." In practice, I now realize that attendance is much more daunting than I previously anticipated. Why? myspace.com, that's why. Without the Internet, I may have been able to prod and pluck a few pesky memories from my mind about high school, but with visual aids strange feelings of both inadequacy and superiority have come flooding back. For some strange reason, I am unable to look at my high school classmates and not make some sort of comparison- my god man, you call that a beard? LET ME SHOW YOU A BEARD. Or on the flip side, how is it possible that in ten years you have only gained hotness? Isn't there a law of physics that prevents that sort of continual hotness upswing?*
Beard and hotness issues aside, perhaps the most daunting piece of all is acknowledging that 10 years have passed since I left high school. Somehow, I feel the need to account for those 10 years. I suppose 4 of them can pretty well be summed up in the 300 pages of blog postsings here. It's mundane and vague, but life has those moments. Then I can fire up the juicer and squeeze out a mention of college, ski lift operations, and the never-ending drum that beats a tune on a plastic disc. That covers another 5 years. I must have a missing year, wait, no, most of that was spent with a plastic disc. I guess that covers a big chunk of it. Throw in some travel, a little heartbreak, some really great friends, the on-going but lackadaisical search for meaning in running, novels, and life and we're getting pretty close. Not so bad.
Perhaps though, the tough part isn't acknowledging what has transpired in the last 10 years, but in what hasn't. So tough, that I can't bring myself to do it right now.
*Not all of my comparisons are quite so superficial, but give me a break, all the girls have private profiles and it's easier to compare looks than actually dig up memories and try to compare those with all the valuable information in a myspace quote.
Dear Amy,
I'm 30-years old, never married....
This was how one young man began his letter to an advice columnist. I may have read the rest of the column, but this is the only line I remember. My brain immediately began racing- how many 30-year old men or nearly 30-year old men did I know that had never been married? Bazillions! was my first reaction. Granted, I live in a transient land where men and women come and go, which was suggested by the word transient, rather than stay and grow roots, but has the world gone mad?
As I arrived home, plopped my keys on the Star Trek-insignia-shaped table, and pilfered my mail, I noticed a "Save The Date" card. This wasn't one of those fancy-schmancy wedding cards. No, no, this was the announcement of an impending high school reunion. In theory, I have always wanted to attend my high school reunion out of "curiosity." In practice, I now realize that attendance is much more daunting than I previously anticipated. Why? myspace.com, that's why. Without the Internet, I may have been able to prod and pluck a few pesky memories from my mind about high school, but with visual aids strange feelings of both inadequacy and superiority have come flooding back. For some strange reason, I am unable to look at my high school classmates and not make some sort of comparison- my god man, you call that a beard? LET ME SHOW YOU A BEARD. Or on the flip side, how is it possible that in ten years you have only gained hotness? Isn't there a law of physics that prevents that sort of continual hotness upswing?*
Beard and hotness issues aside, perhaps the most daunting piece of all is acknowledging that 10 years have passed since I left high school. Somehow, I feel the need to account for those 10 years. I suppose 4 of them can pretty well be summed up in the 300 pages of blog postsings here. It's mundane and vague, but life has those moments. Then I can fire up the juicer and squeeze out a mention of college, ski lift operations, and the never-ending drum that beats a tune on a plastic disc. That covers another 5 years. I must have a missing year, wait, no, most of that was spent with a plastic disc. I guess that covers a big chunk of it. Throw in some travel, a little heartbreak, some really great friends, the on-going but lackadaisical search for meaning in running, novels, and life and we're getting pretty close. Not so bad.
Perhaps though, the tough part isn't acknowledging what has transpired in the last 10 years, but in what hasn't. So tough, that I can't bring myself to do it right now.
*Not all of my comparisons are quite so superficial, but give me a break, all the girls have private profiles and it's easier to compare looks than actually dig up memories and try to compare those with all the valuable information in a myspace quote.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The world is not black and white.
I know because I am constantly reminded of the gray.
In fifth grade, for somebody, I learned about opportunity cost. I'm quite sure there was a hypothetical example. This example allowed that I could either buy a walkman or a baseball glove, but not both. I had to weigh my options and consider how I was going to spend my money. If I picked the walkman, the baseball glove was the cost. If I picked the glove, no radio. I remember being intrigued by this concept. Learning economics at such an age seemed kind of cool and grown-up. Decision-making, big words, walkmans, and gloves- for someone who had just entered the double digits, this was pretty revolutionary stuff.
I had no idea that opportunity cost would be the governing principle of my existence. If I had, I think I would have been a little more reluctant to choose a hypothetical tape deck with headphones.
I know because I am constantly reminded of the gray.
In fifth grade, for somebody, I learned about opportunity cost. I'm quite sure there was a hypothetical example. This example allowed that I could either buy a walkman or a baseball glove, but not both. I had to weigh my options and consider how I was going to spend my money. If I picked the walkman, the baseball glove was the cost. If I picked the glove, no radio. I remember being intrigued by this concept. Learning economics at such an age seemed kind of cool and grown-up. Decision-making, big words, walkmans, and gloves- for someone who had just entered the double digits, this was pretty revolutionary stuff.
I had no idea that opportunity cost would be the governing principle of my existence. If I had, I think I would have been a little more reluctant to choose a hypothetical tape deck with headphones.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Exercise the darkness inside
Sometimes, when it's cold and a bunch of hot bodies gather to sweat and pant and stuff in Gold's Gym, the windows fog up. If the panters, and sweaters, and stuffers create enough of the exercise fog to cover the windows, then when I walk by I see only shadows bouncing up and down to some unheard rhythmn.
It's a little like a glimpse into an alternate universe. An alternate universe where the opaque people only bounce up and down and never seem to get anywhere at all.
They have ponytails in the alternate universe, so it can't be all bad.
Sometimes, when it's cold and a bunch of hot bodies gather to sweat and pant and stuff in Gold's Gym, the windows fog up. If the panters, and sweaters, and stuffers create enough of the exercise fog to cover the windows, then when I walk by I see only shadows bouncing up and down to some unheard rhythmn.
It's a little like a glimpse into an alternate universe. An alternate universe where the opaque people only bounce up and down and never seem to get anywhere at all.
They have ponytails in the alternate universe, so it can't be all bad.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
From high to low
It's curious that highs and lows very rarely average out. Last Saturday, I was on Ultimate Cloud 9. Today, a storm has blown through and the wind carried my Ultimate-related joy away with it. Wind makes Ultimate a curious game; a lot less beautiful and a lot more blooper-ful. Add in my own recent battles with sickness and that's some sense of how far down I've tumbled from 9.
If I may be so bold as to compare Ultimate to knitting, which thanks to the Internets I find myself doing more often than I thought possible, I'm starting to wonder if I have too many projects going at once. I think I'm getting a little tangled up in what other people want and I am struggling to remember what I want. It's easy to pick up the needles, and it seems that the knitting is fairly straight forward once you've got the knack, but the trick I think is to actually choose the right yarn and turn that yarn into something useful or beautiful or at least accomplished. I've been knitting mittens with the same basic yarn for about four years now. Recently I have found myself with a whole lot of new yarn and ideas for all kinds of projects. I can't knit them all even if I knit furiously for the next 6 months, so sometime soon I need to pick a yarn and a project and knit something I can be proud of. It's ok if that's not mittens; it's ok if it is.
I don't know if it matters, but I'm also starting to worry that I'm about to pass my knitting prime.
It's curious that highs and lows very rarely average out. Last Saturday, I was on Ultimate Cloud 9. Today, a storm has blown through and the wind carried my Ultimate-related joy away with it. Wind makes Ultimate a curious game; a lot less beautiful and a lot more blooper-ful. Add in my own recent battles with sickness and that's some sense of how far down I've tumbled from 9.
If I may be so bold as to compare Ultimate to knitting, which thanks to the Internets I find myself doing more often than I thought possible, I'm starting to wonder if I have too many projects going at once. I think I'm getting a little tangled up in what other people want and I am struggling to remember what I want. It's easy to pick up the needles, and it seems that the knitting is fairly straight forward once you've got the knack, but the trick I think is to actually choose the right yarn and turn that yarn into something useful or beautiful or at least accomplished. I've been knitting mittens with the same basic yarn for about four years now. Recently I have found myself with a whole lot of new yarn and ideas for all kinds of projects. I can't knit them all even if I knit furiously for the next 6 months, so sometime soon I need to pick a yarn and a project and knit something I can be proud of. It's ok if that's not mittens; it's ok if it is.
I don't know if it matters, but I'm also starting to worry that I'm about to pass my knitting prime.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Variations on not yet dying
Sick leaves. They aren't the ones falling from the tree. No. No. Those are already dead. Poetic as they may be set to music from 1963. Poetic like a plastic bag dancing in the wind or so the Americans would have us believe.
Sick leave. Spending days in and out of sleep, I recall a time when this is what I did. It kind of makes me want to go back to work just so they won't make me go to that place when I had nothing to do with my day except wait for the next one. It also seems like a good opportunity to reflect on the value of health and how easy it is to overlook that on a day-to-day basis. I think I'll drink some orange juice to that. This also provides an opportunity to reflect on all the other important things in my life, but then I realize that I don't feel that great and I'd rather curl up and go back to bed, but not before I make a joke.
Stick leaves. I'll miss that little stick.
Sick leaves. They aren't the ones falling from the tree. No. No. Those are already dead. Poetic as they may be set to music from 1963. Poetic like a plastic bag dancing in the wind or so the Americans would have us believe.
Sick leave. Spending days in and out of sleep, I recall a time when this is what I did. It kind of makes me want to go back to work just so they won't make me go to that place when I had nothing to do with my day except wait for the next one. It also seems like a good opportunity to reflect on the value of health and how easy it is to overlook that on a day-to-day basis. I think I'll drink some orange juice to that. This also provides an opportunity to reflect on all the other important things in my life, but then I realize that I don't feel that great and I'd rather curl up and go back to bed, but not before I make a joke.
Stick leaves. I'll miss that little stick.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Intersection of sickness and speed
In a strange twist of fate, today I found 4 willing partners for a track workout and then I had to bail out when I couldn't overcome the sickness swirling inside of me. Despite wheezing, vomiting, and a lot of complaining, they claim there'll be an encore next week. I plan to be ready for it.
In a strange twist of fate, today I found 4 willing partners for a track workout and then I had to bail out when I couldn't overcome the sickness swirling inside of me. Despite wheezing, vomiting, and a lot of complaining, they claim there'll be an encore next week. I plan to be ready for it.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Winter league isn't cold. That's the weather.
Moments before the celebration had been more individualized; like passengers mulling around baggage claim in the pre-bag wait. Rarely do we document those moments that are neither journey nor destination, but this one sticks out in my memory.
The bundled-up young woman who usually arrived at winter league games with only the space between her upper lip and her eyebrows exposed was looking up at me warmly. Her smile was big and bright like the snowflakes that would fall on the following day. "I'm so happy," she told me in words that matched her expression. "I was starting to wonder if I'd ever win the close ones." My smile and my thoughts echoed hers. If facial expressions could hug, I think ours did.
Then answering some unspoken call the team came together to form a circle as we tried to hold onto what we'd just nabbed. Arms draped over shoulders in an unbroken chain. These were the same faces that had endured mini strategy sessions and soothing pep talks. Faces splattered with mud and freeze-dried perspiration looked on in appreciation. Now was the moment to take it in and enjoy the company of teammates. Now was the time to take stock in what it meant to be a team.
Moments before the celebration had been more individualized; like passengers mulling around baggage claim in the pre-bag wait. Rarely do we document those moments that are neither journey nor destination, but this one sticks out in my memory.
The bundled-up young woman who usually arrived at winter league games with only the space between her upper lip and her eyebrows exposed was looking up at me warmly. Her smile was big and bright like the snowflakes that would fall on the following day. "I'm so happy," she told me in words that matched her expression. "I was starting to wonder if I'd ever win the close ones." My smile and my thoughts echoed hers. If facial expressions could hug, I think ours did.
Then answering some unspoken call the team came together to form a circle as we tried to hold onto what we'd just nabbed. Arms draped over shoulders in an unbroken chain. These were the same faces that had endured mini strategy sessions and soothing pep talks. Faces splattered with mud and freeze-dried perspiration looked on in appreciation. Now was the moment to take it in and enjoy the company of teammates. Now was the time to take stock in what it meant to be a team.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Blurring the lines between truth, TV, and the Internets
I have a new favorite reality Internet show mockumentary thingy. It's called Intramural Glory. It's a show about an average basketball team trying to defend their championship title. It has a tendency to go over the top at times, but for anybody competing in sports at less than the highest level it has some truly geniune moments. The constant struggle for "glory" balanced by the struggle to keep things in perspective is a relevant theme for me. Even in some of the silly moments it captures a very real sense of motivation. One man keeps playing because he wants to prove to his professional-athlete sister that he too can have success in sports. Another is just trying to impress his wife.
It's The Office on a basketball court, without the budget or the talent.
I have a new favorite reality Internet show mockumentary thingy. It's called Intramural Glory. It's a show about an average basketball team trying to defend their championship title. It has a tendency to go over the top at times, but for anybody competing in sports at less than the highest level it has some truly geniune moments. The constant struggle for "glory" balanced by the struggle to keep things in perspective is a relevant theme for me. Even in some of the silly moments it captures a very real sense of motivation. One man keeps playing because he wants to prove to his professional-athlete sister that he too can have success in sports. Another is just trying to impress his wife.
It's The Office on a basketball court, without the budget or the talent.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The people that change things
I've run into some very interesting people lately. I met a red-headed bundle of energy. I met a couple planning to live off-the-grid. I met a house full of people that truly lived together- sharing food, a car, and ideals. I met a woman that works three jobs while applying to college. Many of these people flit in and out of my thoughts, but it's the person I didn't meet that I can't get out of my head. According to the neighborly scouting reports, this person I didn't meet wakes up early every morning and runs 8 miles. She's not training for anything in particular, she just wakes up and runs. They tell me this with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Every morning, when I don't get up, I think about this woman. I think about the dedication that it takes to get up and do something like this. She gets up everyday and faces the world. She doesn't stumble into it. She takes off, catapults; she puts the best part of her day first. I have to take the first two hours of my day to convince myself that living is still a worthwhile pursuit.
I have to imagine she goes to bed early enough to run the next morning. I spend my evenings desperately searching for one last thing that will give my day some meaning which often results in bed times that stretch ever closer to her runs. I wonder how she manages. I wonder about the recent darkness and the snow. Surely she wakes up some days with dread, but by now this must be routine. I don't know if I can copy her or even tear a little scrap of paper out of her notebook, but I get the feeling that I should.
I've run into some very interesting people lately. I met a red-headed bundle of energy. I met a couple planning to live off-the-grid. I met a house full of people that truly lived together- sharing food, a car, and ideals. I met a woman that works three jobs while applying to college. Many of these people flit in and out of my thoughts, but it's the person I didn't meet that I can't get out of my head. According to the neighborly scouting reports, this person I didn't meet wakes up early every morning and runs 8 miles. She's not training for anything in particular, she just wakes up and runs. They tell me this with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Every morning, when I don't get up, I think about this woman. I think about the dedication that it takes to get up and do something like this. She gets up everyday and faces the world. She doesn't stumble into it. She takes off, catapults; she puts the best part of her day first. I have to take the first two hours of my day to convince myself that living is still a worthwhile pursuit.
I have to imagine she goes to bed early enough to run the next morning. I spend my evenings desperately searching for one last thing that will give my day some meaning which often results in bed times that stretch ever closer to her runs. I wonder how she manages. I wonder about the recent darkness and the snow. Surely she wakes up some days with dread, but by now this must be routine. I don't know if I can copy her or even tear a little scrap of paper out of her notebook, but I get the feeling that I should.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Phew. I'm not completely dead inside
It snowed. It wasn't New York snow where they have 12 feet; it was more like this sleet that stuck and covered the ground in two inches of grainy icy whiteness. There was a time when any amount of snow or snow-like substance was enough to send me bounding off of chairs and dancing with licorice whips. That time has apparently passed. I could not even muster the energy to go sledding yesterday. I was concerned that this indicated that the darkness inside of me had fully consumed my soul, but today I found out it had not. Then you knew that because I kind of killed the suspense in bold up above, didn't I?
The snow has been covered in a layer of ice. It's preserved snow. It's slippery. Tonight, I found myself skating around on a preserved section. I didn't fall through. I smiled. Maybe even let out a small "woo-hoo." I believe this indicates that the darkness inside of me has not fully consumed my soul.
It snowed. It wasn't New York snow where they have 12 feet; it was more like this sleet that stuck and covered the ground in two inches of grainy icy whiteness. There was a time when any amount of snow or snow-like substance was enough to send me bounding off of chairs and dancing with licorice whips. That time has apparently passed. I could not even muster the energy to go sledding yesterday. I was concerned that this indicated that the darkness inside of me had fully consumed my soul, but today I found out it had not. Then you knew that because I kind of killed the suspense in bold up above, didn't I?
The snow has been covered in a layer of ice. It's preserved snow. It's slippery. Tonight, I found myself skating around on a preserved section. I didn't fall through. I smiled. Maybe even let out a small "woo-hoo." I believe this indicates that the darkness inside of me has not fully consumed my soul.
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