The YMCA located close to where I work was recently remodeled.  New basketball courts, exercise studios, and opening earlier this week, locker rooms.

The new locker rooms are spacious and functional.  Everything you would want in an area, where you rush to change clothes around strangers of the same sex.

Today, I went to the gym over lunch.  I ran on the treadmill and when I was finished, I went to shower up in the newly remodeled locker room.

All was normal.  I toweled off.  Got dressed.  Tried to look buff, but not like I was trying to look buff.  All the appropriate gym type activities.

Hoping to dry off my hair, I spotted a hand dryer mounted unusually high on the wall.  I would guess that it was about five feet off the ground.  There was another hand dryer mounted at “child height” right next to it.  Since my old gym had a “up high” hand dryer that was used for drying hair, I figured that was the case with this one, too.

Getting closer, there was something slightly wrong.  The five foot high hand dryer was set into the wall, instead of sticking out.  I shrugged my shoulders and figured that it was a design flaw.  I triggered the dryer with my hands and stuck my head into the wall.  It was a tight fit, but still functional.  Also, while I was in the dryer, I could not turn my head.  I needed to pull my head out of the wall and reinsert it to dry the other side.  Odd, but whatever.

Then two buff dad types, who I imagined just took their kids to the pool for a morning of fun (buff and good fathers at the same time, ugh, why must they torment me), walked by and gave me a “What the Hell is wrong with this guy?” look.  What?  Was something wrong?  With the hair dryer?  With me?

I looked around and was suddenly sad.  There by the sinks was an actual hair dryer.  Not a hand dryer located higher than usual on the wall, but an actual hair dryer, intended for actual hair and not hands.

Next up, I shall use the hair dryer to dry off my hands and then the buff dads will just think that I am “Opposite Guy.”  That or just a damn fool.  Either way, I went to the gym over lunch and that should count for something.

At work, we were comparing Christmas presents.  When my turn came around, I proudly declared that I received a really nice hoodie.  What makes it extra special is that Charlene dislikes it when I wear hoodies, so her purchasing me one really something.  She knows that I like wearing them, so she made a sacrifice and bought me one.  My heart melted.  I continued on to detail that it was blue, warm, and made of an exercise shirt type fabric…

That’s when my co-workers stopped me and with sad looks in their eyes informed me that the hoodie was actually Charlene’s attempt to get me to workout more.  Ugh.  Well played, my dear.

Although, come to think of it, I did get a hoodie out of the deal, so that qualifies as a win for Dave.  Plus, if I go to the gym.  Then if I go again.  If I keep going to the gym, this would mean the possibility for more hoodies in my future.  That would be worth it.  Again, well played my dear.  Well played.

Beware, as you read this.  Proceed, if you must.

This tale contains great drama.  You’re worthy, I trust.

In the light of the early morn, I tried to pull my socks high.

But, no matter the leverage, they would not raise with each try.

The elastic was dead.  The stretchiness given way.

There was no more yield.  The socks would be a trial today.

I gave a big yank and my foot finally fit.

The problem would come later, with my foot’s desired exit.

They were now stuck way up my leg.

Freeing my limbs, I did now beg.

The only way out, was with a patient roll.

There’s something to be said for this virtue I rarely extol.

So be warned, those who hear.

Beware of your socks, I do fear.

For in a blink, in a wash, in a fateful turn.

Socks may lose their elasticity, the one thing I yearn.

We had nearly perfect timing for the morning.  Managed to encourage the kids to sleep late.  Emptied the stockings.  Tore open a few presents.  Off to church at ten o’clock.

Christmas morning would have a first half of presents.  A church service halftime show.  A second half of presents and then lunch.  Perfection!

In order to get the extended family unit to church, we took two cars.  My wife headed out in the first car.  My Freestyle held the second crew, which was my boys and me.  With my 13-year-old riding shotgun, we engaged in an epic struggle over the car radio.  Christmas music versus pop songs.  Epic struggle, but a sign that all was right in the world.

Pulling into the church parking lot, I looked at a woman entering the building and remarked, “Wow!  She looks really good.  Merry Christmas, indeed!”

Stunned for a moment, my teenager soon realized that I was looking at his mom.  My wife.  A beautiful, talented, and fashionably bundled up for the weather woman (not to mention her amazing jeans that deserve their own exhibit in the “Saucy Wing” of the Smithsonian), who was walking into the church.

My son gave me a roll of the eyes and knowing grin.  An acceptance of his father’s humor and affection.

A grin.  So appropriate.  A grin to savor.  I was surrounded by blessings.  My kids and wife, not only tolerate me, but often find me genuinely somewhat almost amusing.  I could not ask for anything more for Christmas.  I already have everything I need.

Every year as I wrap gifts, I scrawl a little code on the back of each package.  It serves as my own little reminder of what is wrapped inside and helps refresh my aged mind regarding what I have already purchased.

Last night as I placed packages under the tree, my wife glanced at a package with her name on it.  Flipping it over, she read the code aloud, “WMEY NYLRQ.”  Giving it a moment’s thought, she said, “Great, I needed some new yoga pants.”

Ugh.  Back to the drawing board to create a new code for next year’s gifts.  Also, goodbye to my promising second career as a super top secret code developer.  I guess it’s best that I found out early.

This morning, I was bantering with my kids.  Every few minutes, I would get excited, tell the kids to stop talking, and listen intently.  Then after a few seconds of silence, I would say, “It’s the sound of reindeer!”  Like a lot of my home material, it was funny the first time.  Mildly amusing the second time.  By the third time, I was entertained just by the repetitiveness (an old Letterman trick, but the problem is that I am not Letterman, not even close), but my kids were just getting annoyed.

Any who, rather than appealing for me to stop the annoying behavior, my 13-year-old son went right to the top.  Yelling into the other room, my child asked, “Mom, please tell Dad to stop.  When you tell him, it works.”

Rats!  My kids have figured out my Kryptonite.  Ask Mom and she’ll put an end to my antics.  Kids, just remember that with great power comes great responsibility.  Use your powers wisely or else I’ll make you listen for reindeer.

Getting ready for work, I was sitting on the side of my bed in my boxer briefs putting on my socks.

My son walked in to report a problem with the toilet that would require immediate attention.

Sad that I had not even completed putting on my socks before the morning toilet crisis, I realized something promising.  I was close to a realistic fitness goal.  A level of fit that would suit me and my station in life.  A body that could be attainable by summer.  Yes, I could be “Dad Sexy.”

Not “Movie Star Sexy.”  Not “Young Guy Sexy.”  Not “Super Fit Guy Sexy.”  “Dad Sexy,” the kind of look when springing from the bed in underwear and a single sock, people say, “Oh, he looks okay, maybe even kind of cute.  Plus, he is dependable and a good family man.  Yes, he is all sorts of ‘Dad Sexy.'”

Some 2017 exercise.  Some 2017 diet.  Watch out, world.  This man’s about to have a bod that’s all sorts of “Dad Sexy.”

Little Cheerio left upon the stairs

Little Cheerio, pick you up, who dares?

Wait another Cheerio, they come in pairs?

What another Cheerio, who’s eating upstairs?

Children pass it.  No one even cares.

Dog passes it.  Sorry, state of affairs.

Must clean it up.  We shall not live like bears.

Two lonely Cheerios, in your pain I shares.

Today, I saw a sign in the coffee shop that read, “Make Time for Silly.”  Hum, I’ve never had a problem with that.  I wonder if the trait has been passed down to my kids.  Let’s look for proof.

Exhibit A – We went to Mall of America for lunch.  Stopping by LEGO Land, I saw an opportunity for a photo.  Ugh.  Smudged camera lens, courtesy of children with sticky hands playing Pokemon Go on their father’s phone.

Exhibit B – After cleaning off the lens, I wonder to myself why in the world they cannot look at the camera even when I say repeatedly before a photo, “Look at me!  Look at me!  Look at me!”  Ugh, a split second later, they looked somewhere else.

Exhibit C – Hearing me complain over and over again about their troubles in looking at the camera.  The next photo actually proved that they were listening to me.  Ugh, thanks guys.

Exhibit D – Returning home, it was perfect snowman snow.  An opportunity not to be missed.  After repeated attempts, I finally got all of the smiles that I wanted and eyes looking at the camera.  Everything in its place, except poor Kirby the Beagle photo bombing from the window.  Nice move, little dog.

Yep, I think it’s safe to say that I did a pretty good job teaching my kids to “Make Time for Silly.”

You know that when a man who has a blog entitled “Cookies by Dave” receives the following item in the office White Elephant Gift Exchange, the gods must be smiling.