It’s not winning the Super Bowl and saying, “I’m going to Disney World!”
It’s not winning the World Series and celebrating with Champaign.
It’s not taking a victory lap around the ice, while hoisting the Stanley Cup.
It’s not any of those, but it sure does feel good to watch your son’s Quiz Bowl team take Third Place. Winning every now and then sure does feel nice.
Okay, it’s technically “Academic Triathlon,” but I’m sticking with Quiz Bowl, because I’m an old man.
Yeah, yeah, I know already. I should have all of our Christmas decorations in the storage room by now.
This belief was confirmed, when even our Tinsel Tree has begun losing its needles.
Actually, it has begun losing entire branches. A lot of them. Guess, I should’ve watered the tree more often. Memo to self, next year, an extra quart of motor oil.
My son was relaying a dating strategy that he had heard, “You give the ‘Shush’ and then go in for the kiss.” The party he heard it from indicated that it works almost all the time.
With a shake of my head, my response was swift and firm, “Women don’t like to be ‘Shushed.'”
Without skipping a beat, my observant son replied, “That’s what Mom said.”
See, I’m listening.
Driving home, I pulled up to a four-way stop sign. An intersection that I have pulled up to a thousand times.
I looked right. Car approaching. I looked ahead. Car approaching. I glanced to the left. Nothing.
Fine, my turn. Then from nowhere, I saw a car slowly entering the intersection from the left. What? Honest, nothing was there. Honest.
Shame swept across me, as I backed up. I avoided eye contact with the others. I hoped that the “appearing” car would not look at me. Would not give me a sharp look. Would not place blame with a glance.
Having the car to the left complete its journey across the intersection, I took my turn. I ventured across. Ventured across within the dark cloud of self loathing that I had placed upon myself.
No need to assign blame. I knew my guilt. I traveled forth in a realm of self conviction.
Emptying a grocery sack to fill my snack drawer at work, my co-workers saw me unload the following items.
Yep, enough protein per serving to…
1) Get 90% of your daily protein in a single serving.
2) Power a small protein fueled vehicle.
3) Get super buff over lunchtime.
4) Cause your co-workers to stage an intervention.
Well, long story short they saved me from myself and also prevented my biceps from reducing all of my cardigans to sweater vests.
I guess “all things in moderation,” even buffness.
I appreciate teen humor, I really do. I was once a teen and in thirty years some (everyone) would say that I have not matured too much. Ugh.
Well, I do think I have matured in one aspect of humor. Now, I know when to stop (everyone shakes their heads “no”). Well, at least I know when me wife is getting aggravated (sort of). That’s a start and that’s something (Is it time to stop, yet?).
Prepping for a Friday work meeting, I was asked why I was not dressed in “Casual Day” attire. I was puzzled. I was wearing jeans. I had purchased them in the jeans section. They were Levi’s. Sure they were brown, but they were jeans. Brown jeans. I know! Mind blown.
My co-workers persisted. Jeans are made of denim, they argued. Those were not jeans. Certainly, they were nice pants, but not jeans. Perhaps, chinos, but not jeans.
What? Chinos? First, what are Chinos? Second, why were they being sold on the jeans shelves? Third (and most upsetting), had I wasted a perfectly good “Casual Friday?”
Upset and crestfallen, I only knew two things for certain. Life is not easy and pants are complicated.
Normalcy – the state or fact of being normal.
Normalcy – a word used by President Harding to describe the calm political and social order to which he wished to return the United States, after the idealism and commotion of President Wilson.
Normalcy – a word that I used to believe was pronounced “normalacy,” until I ignorantly defended my mispronunciation for the better part of ten minutes at work, before I conceding my mistake.
Dumb-ass – a word commonly associated with me.
The realization that it’s only gonna get worse, much worse…
How I keep going to bed earlier and my kids keep staying up later.
In about three years, it’ll be, “Papa, it’s almost six o’clock, now off to bed with you.”