Ouch

I am injured.

Usually when I hurt myself, the cause is embarrassing. Once, I hurt my knee getting out of bed. Getting out of bed? The reason was as lame as I was. Of course, when I was asked at work, my explanation was more like "Uh, I guess I just twisted it somehow." Technically, I probably had just twisted it as I sprang from bed, eager to face a new day. I know my vague response was a let-down. When people see an injury they want a good story to go with it. When there isn't a story, I think most folks know the real reason must be pretty dumb.

But this time, this time I have an injury, and more importantly a cause, of which I can be proud. I hurt myself playing football, just like a real athlete. Well, we  were just playing catch, but still, a football was involved. And I'm not just a little injured either. Oh no, we're talking a fracture, folks. That's right, I broke a bone playing football. I can't wait to get to work and tell the guys.

I suffered for a few days before finally going into Urgent Care today for an x-ray. It was a little satisfying to tell the receptionist that I was there because I'd injured my hand playing football. Of course, I had to be a bit more specific with the nurse. I had to explain that I was playing catch and that, in trying to catch the ball, I had basically poked it with my index finger. When I explained to her that we often play football on Thanksgiving, she laughed and said, "Gee, just like some sort of TV family." Given the diverse families depicted on television these days I wasn't sure if I should be offended or flattered. I decided to go with flattered but only because I don't recall ever seeing Honey Boo Boo and her clan tossing the old pigskin in the yard.

So here I sit with a bum finger. It's my primary typing finger and the one I use for most of my mouse clicking. It's going to make it hard for me to work. Even worse, it's going to cramp my Cyber-Monday plans. It's the price I pay for being such a jock.

Story Snack

When our boys were young, part of our bedtime ritual was for A and I to read them a story or two in bed. It started with simple books like "Goodnight Moon" and "The Hungry Caterpillar". As the boys grew, so did the books, colorful pictures were replaced by wordy paragraphs. Eventually, the boys began reading on their own and parental participation fell to the wayside. They enjoy reading and I like to think that we had something to do with that. We value books in our house, as our shelves can attest. I think the boys learned early on that, when perusing a gift shop on vacation, look for a book. Mom and Dad rarely say no to a book.

There are some books both B and N have read and enjoyed but they've also each chosen their own path. Fantasy and science fiction are popular genres but they do occasionally stray into other areas. N went through a phase where he curled up each night with "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" and B's reading list lately is dictated by English class. He's reading "To Kill A Mockingbird" now and recently finished "The Catcher In The Rye".

Back in those wonderful early days, we had another bedtime routine. Each night, before stories, the boys would have a small snack - usually a bowl of cereal or ice cream. I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point, it was decided to start the story portion during the snack. This probably happened about the time the books started getting more involved and time consuming. I recall there was a brief time when the boys would be read to during the snack and then retreat to their beds to read on their own. Today, the boys do all their reading on their own.

They do, however, still like a snack before bed and, in our house, it is still referred to as a "story snack".

Haunted

I know it's unlikely but on the off chance that Barry Manilow reads this blog, I'd like to send him a message: "Barry, if you're feeling a little off your game, if you feel like you're just going through the motions, if life has lost its meaning, I think I know why. You see, Barry, you've lost your soul. I know this because it's currently residing in my 2002 Honda Accord."

I don't know how it happened. I bought the car used and I suppose there is a very remote chance that you once rode it in. I doubt it, but I can't confirm for a fact that you've never been in my car. More likely, the haunting is due to an unfortunate incident involving the CD player and one of your Greatest Hits collections.

I know your soul is in the car because it tries to possess me while I drive. It's always the same - I can't even back out of the driveway before that song starts running through my head. I never think about that song except when I'm in the car - and then it is ever present, insisting on my participation. Before I know it, I'm humming or singing out loud. I write the songs that..Stop! Please!..make the young girls cry...Oh Lord, no!..music makes you dance... Luckily, I'm usually alone - even so, I feel embarrassed. When I'm not alone, I've learned to be extra vigilant in my vocal suppression. I'll admit there have been a couple of times when I've let a few bars slip out in the presence of others. Fortunately, I was able to cover it up with a feigned coughing fit. Sad that my singing sounds so similar to a coughing fit but handy in this one instance.

So, Barry, I hope that one day soon your soul will leave my automobile and return to its proper place. If not, I may need to damage another CD with the player and see if I can invite a different soul to come and push you out. I'm thinking John Denver could do it.

Spark

The start of another school year has me pining for my old workplace. A couple of years ago, we moved from the Dinkytown area of Minneapolis to a suburb. The old place was, well, old and quirky. The University of Minnesota was right next door and the neighborhood was filled with students. This time of year was always interesting - fresh young faces pretending to be older than their years (me, wandering among them, pretending just the opposite). After a summer of quiet, the sudden influx of young people brought an electricity to the place. I found myself vicariously energized.

There is very little electricity in the air around our new location. We are in an office park, which sits next to another office park, which sits to another office park, etc.. Lunch usually involves driving although there is a Jimmy Johns within about a quarter of a mile. If you decide to walk to it, your scenery will be mostly buildings much like the one you just left. Glancing into the windows you will notice that the color schemes and cubicle layout is also quite similar. Somewhere, there must be a study that states that workers are most efficient when smothered in mauve and taupe. That's the only explanation I can think of for the carpet and cubicle colors of virtually every office I have ever worked in.

So, as I sit here staring at the subdued colors surrounding me, I try to imagine the scene just a few miles away at our old location. Maybe if I can recall the electricity, I can still feel a small spark.

Growing Up

I've been thinking a bit about age lately. This summer, I turned fifty. I didn't think it would affect me - It is just a number after all, not that different than forty-nine, really. And yet, there are times when I can't help but notice that I am getting older. Most of these times occur when I am exercising, or more precisely, just after I have exercised. My muscles and joints ache more and for longer than they used to. This didn't happen overnight but I guess I'm just more aware that age is the culprit now. A couple of years ago, I would have blamed my sore knees on bad shoes. Today, I accept that my shoes are innocent. My body just aches sometimes. This hasn't stopped me from exercising. If anything, I realize I must exercise more regularly to limit my pains.

It's weird. My body feels older, but I don't feel older. I mean, I feel like I'm still the same young person inside. I'd still rather ride my bike than drive the car. I've worn essentially the same clothes (jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes) for my adult life. I do not feel driven to suddenly don a sport coat and tie. I've gotten older but I haven't grown up. I still like to play. Maybe it's just my perception of middle age that's messed up.

My father was just a few years older than I am now when he died. I always thought that he was very grown up. He was a farmer. He and Mom grew crops, raised pigs and milked cows. Making a living as a small farmer is no easy task. It takes serious thought and careful planning. He did it for many years - starting as a young man. It was grown-up work and he did it well.

Our farm was a quarter section in southwestern Minnesota. I think most farms are bigger than that these days. To me, it was just the right size. Our equipment was old but fairly reliable. Unlike many farmers who have an allegiance to a particular brand of tractor, we had a nice mix. A small orange Case, a green John Deere, and a red Farmall. My favorite was the Farmall - probably because it was bigger than the Case and easier to start than the John Deere. Starting the John Deere required spinning a fly-wheel - a task requiring strength and I think a little magic. Dad was the only person I ever saw start that tractor.

The fall before Dad died, we added another tractor to our farm - an Oliver. It was green, but a different shade than the John Deere. It was bigger than the other tractors and had the distinction of starting by turning a key. When I think of the tractors on the farm, I tend to forget about the Oliver because I never really saw it in action.

I remember one evening, soon after we'd gotten the Oliver. I was wandering around the yard, looking for Dad. When I was bored, finding Dad was often the perfect antidote. Since the crops were in, I figured I'd find him in the yard or one of the buildings. But then I heard the roar of our new tractor. I followed the sound through the grove to edge of the fields. There, I saw Dad driving the tractor away from me down our field road, throttle wide open, kicking up a cloud of dust. When he reached the point where the road turned right, toward the meadow, he stopped and turned the tractor around. As he started back he opened up the throttle to full speed once again. I still remember how he looked: the wind blowing his hair, a subdued, satisfied smile on his face.

Maybe we never outgrow that need to play once in awhile.

At the license bureau

I renewed my driver's license today. It's a task I really dislike but I haven't figured out a way to pawn it off on anyone else. My wife manages almost everything related to keeping our household running smoothly - she pays the bills, schedules the dentist and doctor, keeps track of school and summer activities for the boys. Without her efforts I would likely be toothless, bankrupt, malnourished and homeless. I'm sure, if it were possible, she would have taken care of the license for me as well. Unfortunately, it is not possible. This is something I must do myself.

Around mid-morning, I told my co-workers where I was headed and slipped out, hoping to get ahead of the rush I expected would happen at lunch. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that many other people had the same idea. I was going to be waiting awhile. I took a number - 19. The "now serving" sign read 96. I hoped it wrapped at 100. The elderly lady who had entered ahead of me was holding numbers 16, 17 and 18, having had difficulty pulling quickly enough to tear the first couple off. I grabbed a clipboard and an application form and sat down.

I tend to get nervous when I go to renew my license. I think this stems back to an experience eight years ago when I was renewing and I had trouble with the eye test. On that occasion, I had leaned into the eye tester and dutifully read off the eight or so crystal-clear letters from the row requested. As I awaited further instruction, the clerk prompted, "Please read the rest of the letters in the row." As I didn't see any more letters, I just stood there, dumb-founded. I was just starting to explain that I didn't see anything more when the clerk suggested I shut one eye. I complied and instantly additional characters appeared on the row. I read off the letters, assuming I'd failed the test anyway. Instead, the clerk seemed satisfied and directed me over to have a new photo taken. I refrained from making any jokes about promising to drive with one eye closed. A part of me wondered if she had forgotten what had just taken place and I wasn't about to remind her. That was when I first realized just how bad the alignment issues with my eyes had become. Since then I've had surgery on my eyes so I can see all the letters now (I still sneak a one-eyed peek just to be sure). Now my worry is that the letters won't be so crystal-clear anymore. After all, I've come to rely pretty heavily on reading glasses these days.

The waiting area doesn't do much to relieve nerves either. The chairs are all a little too close together - I could barely fill out my application without elbowing the woman next to me. Plus, I had the added anxiety of making sure granny didn't give out numbers 17 and 18 to someone who arrived after me. I watched her until I was satisfied that she was going to keep all three. Next, I turned my attention to the women next to me. She was number ten but she'd filled out her form wrong - another delay, I thought. Rather than leave my comfort zone and actually speak to her, I made a minor production of checking all the data on my form - I practically shoved it in her face. Eventually, she noticed her error and went for a new form. I looked around the room. Everyone here with a number greater than ten should thank me. It only takes a few minutes to renew a license if everything is filled out properly but if anything is out of order it throws the whole system into minor chaos. There were five clerks working non-stop and less than twenty people ahead of me. Still, I waited more than an hour.

Of course, some people were doing things other than renewing their license. I occupied my time eavsdropping on the conversations between the clerks and the customers. One woman was trying unsuccessfully to have one of the Ls in her first name removed from her driver's license. Apparently, it had been mistakenly put there some time ago, soon after she became a citizen. She didn't have the necessary paperwork and, after fifteen minutes, was forwarded to another office. There were a few title transfers - those mostly went smoothly, other than some language issues.

Then there was number eight. Number eight was a little, cleancut fellow probably in his mid-50s. Number eight wasn't paying attention when they called his number. At some point he must have looked up and seen the "Now Serving" had advanced to ten (who, thanks to me, had all her forms in order). Number eight went to the counter and explained his dillemma. The clerk assured him that he would be next. He took a step back, muttered something about people not shouting loudly enough, and then stood there, ready for the next opening. He was standing very near me and I noticed that he would occasionally mutter something just barely audible. He was angry or maybe just bitter. Of course, by the time a slot opened, the clerks had forgotten about number eight and called for eleven instead. But number eight had anticipated this oversight and strode to the open clerk before eleven could even rise from her chair. Sadly, the "Now Serving" had already advanced to eleven which caused further confusion when the next window opened. This "one-off" confusion continued until granny showed up with 16-17-18 and finally gave the clerks enough of a buffer to straighten things out.

I watched the mutterer as he interacted with the clerk. Their exchange seemed pleasant enough. I began to change my opinion of him - to write off his earlier behavior to unpleasant circumstances. He seemed friendly enough now. But then he finished his business and as he stepped just out of her earshot, he muttered something sarcastic before slipping away. A weird little angry man, I concluded.

Anyway, the letters weren't perfectly crystal-clear but they were good enough for now.

Neighborhood Watch

If you ever decide to commit a crime, don't worry if I happen to be watching at the time. I have come to realize that I am quite possibly the lamest witness on the planet. A couple of mornings ago, I witnessed an attempted crime. I think it would even be accurate to say I interrupted and stopped the act. I am quite pleased with this. However, I am less happy with my ability to recall many specifics about the criminal.

It was early morning, just before 6am. I was just starting my first cup of coffee for the day and waiting for the newspaper. Some days, the paper is there when I first check at 5:45. Other days, it doesn't arrive until later. The paper wasn't there when I checked at 5:45 so I opened the blinds a little ways and settled down in an easy chair with a clear view of the driveway. I use a chair that's back in the corner of the room so the paper guy won't see me. I don't want to freak him out.

I waited and sipped my coffee. I used my ipod to check email and delete the daily deluge of semi-junk ones I get. Suddenly, a car pulled up quickly and parked in front of our house. My first thought was, "Hmm, the paper boy must have someone filling in for him. I don't recognize the car."

I watched as a guy got out of the car and headed around the rear of the vehicle. This was out of my line of sight and more in the direction of my neighbor's house. I began to wonder if maybe this was the paper boy (man really) for the other metro paper, which I believe my neighbor might prefer.

As I watched, the man came back into view. This time, he walked across the street to where I'd left our van parked. He began trying the doors. I realized that my neighbor had also left her car in the street and the guy had probably just been trying her doors.

I sprang into action and opened my front door with a flurry. To be honest, I'm not a big fan of confrontation and I was hoping he'd hear me and take off. He did. Startled, he looked up and gave me a quick little "Hi there" wave as he jumped in his car and sped off.

What kind of car was he driving? Not sure, I think it was brown or copper colored. It might have been a Pontiac. License plate? Yep, there was one on the car. I think it was in-state but I didn't catch much else. What was he wearing? I think he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

I spent the day wrestling with the should haves. I should have crept out the front door and gotten a better look at the car and license plates. I should have grabbed the camera and shot a quick video of the perp in the act. I should have hopped in the car and followed the guy, possibly relaying information to the police along the way. Instead, I went back to my chair and continued waiting for the paper.

Stress

I went through a bit of a panic attack about a week ago. I have some impending deadlines at work and I started stressing because I couldn't see how I could possibly make them. Part of the problem was that the goal was still not fully defined. I found myself in a situation where I needed to have something completed by the end of the month but the something was still largely unknown. Since I couldn't actually work on the problem itself, I put all my energy into the one thing I could do: worry. I worried both day and night but the nights were definitely worse. I averaged a couple of hours of fitful sleep before waking and wondering how the upcoming days would play out. I developed a knot in the middle of my back that slowly crept up my neck, bringing a dull, throbbing headache. I was preoccupied and irritable. To their credit, my family understood my predicament and did not complain.

Last Friday, the fog thinned a little and the unknown became just a little more known. I was grateful for this glimpse for it gave me something worthwhile to focus my energy on. I worked late on Friday, processing every bit of the information I'd been given. Over the weekend, the knot loosened and the headache subsided.

Yesterday, more plans were solidified. Today, I got what I think is enough information to finish the task. The amount of work is mind-boggling. It will take a heroic effort and a lot of luck to make my deadline. Still, I don't feel nearly as awful as I did last week because now I know what I am facing and what I need to do.

I've always felt that the best scary movies are the ones that hide the monster from you. Nothing is quite as frightening as the unknown. Our imaginations are incredibly skilled at conjuring up demons beyond anything Hollywood's created. Once the lights are turned on and the creature is revealed we can begin to formulate a way to beat it.

Coincidence

A few weeks ago I lost the combination lock I use when I go to the Y. I didn't so much lose it as forget to take it with me when I left the Y one day. I didn't realize it was gone until a couple of days later when I returned for another workout.

Now, this isn't the first time I've done this and I know there is a strong chance my lock is laying in box of forgotten locks behind the front desk at the Y. I also know from experience that most of the locks in the box will be black Master locks, just like mine. I suppose I could sift through the pile, trying my combination until I find my lock but it just doesn't seem worth the effort. The lock was old - I've had it for twenty-five years or more. Its insides had gotten spongy. I no longer had to be precise when entering the combination, just close. This was actually handy since I rarely have my reading glasses with me at the Y. The main benefit the lock offered was that the combination was burned into my memory. The numbers start circulating around my head even as I'm pulling into the Y parking lot.

Nostalgia almost drove me to retrieve the lock but I fought the urge. I decided that I would make a clean break. I was due for a new lock anyway. I'd certainly gotten my money's worth from the old one. A new one would only cost a few dollars, far cheaper than the time it would take to find the old one. There is a Target next door to the Y. I went lock shopping.

I found shopping for a lock at Target to be a mildly daunting task. The store is so big and locks are so small. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen them there before. This Target was undergoing some major remodeling which only complicated things. I went first to the Sporting Goods and found the gym bags. No locks. Next, I went to the bicycles. I found bike locks. I even found cables that you would use with a combination lock but no locks. Finally, as I was leaving the store, I happened through housewares and chanced upon an entire aisle with nothing but locks. This time I steered clear of the common black Master locks, deciding to go with something that would stand out a bit more. I had my choice of green, red, blue or purple. The purple ones were fifty cents cheaper than the others - a good enough reason for me. I left with my new purple lock.

As I pulled into the Y parking lot, I tried to focus on my new combination. I recited the numbers aloud, trying to drown out the chorus of my old combination singing in my head. After changing into my running clothes, I took the slip of paper with my combination and slipped it into the pocket of my running shorts. Then I slammed the locker door and locked it with my new purple lock. As I did this, I noticed that the locker next to mine also had a purple lock. I guess if the Target next door to the Y has purple locks on sale, it figures that there might be a few purple locks showing up at the Y.

As I ran around the track, I fretted about this new combination. I tried to memorize it but every time I thought about locks, my old combination flooded my brain. Determined, I ran, chanting the numbers in my head with each step. The combination is two single digit numbers followed by a two-digit number. All in all, four digits to remember. To make the chanting work more smoothly, I broke the two-digit number into each of its parts. Now, I could run and repeat the same four numbers over and over.

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that it took me a few laps before I realized that the four digits I was chanting was the address of my home, where I have lived for over twenty years. Hopefully, I won't forget that anytime soon.

Dude, you stink.

As I have mentioned before, the track at the Y is elevated and looks down on a large gymnasium and an activity room. I run during lunch and there are always a couple of basketball games happening in the gym. The games are loud and competitive. I would estimate the player's ages range from late teens to early eighties. While I occasionally see a new face, mostly it's the same crowd. It's popular enough that they can run two games of five-on-five and still have six to ten people waiting for a chance to take over when someone needs a rest.

There's one fellow in particular who sometimes comes up to the track when he's between games. He doesn't come up to exercise, I've never seen him complete a lap. Instead, he comes for the improved vantage point and stands along the track and watches the games. I know now, when I see him, to be ready to run around him. I also know to hold my breath.

I remember the first time I saw him on the track. Balding, with a bit of gray hair neatly trimmed around the ears. With his barrel chest and ample midsection I could imagine him in a three piece suit leading a small company. He had an executive air about him. Then I ran past him and found the air almost unbreathable.

Yes he had been playing basketball and yes he was sweaty. But there are sweaty people on the track all the time and they don't smell this strong. It took me a couple of laps to confirm that he was the source. (And, yes, I did do a quick self-sniff along the far side of the track.) After that, I began taking a deep breath upon approach, holding it and then slowly exhaling once past him. I don't know if this technique is beneficial to a workout or not but it was better than the alternative.

I'd like to say that this was a one time experience but that would be lying. I gave him the benefit of the doubt the second time he appeared and was once again treated to his malodorous stench. Now, when I see him, I automatically hold my breath.

I was in the locker room dressing one day and I overheard some of the basketball guys chatting about washing their gym clothes. Apparently, a number of them keep everything in a gym bag in their car and seldom launder them. I find this pretty gross. Once I take off my gym clothes, I can barely stand to touch them again, let alone wear them.

I don't know if my smelly friend was part of the conversation. I couldn't see the guys that were talking - that would have required peering around the lockers and I'm not a fan of peering in locker rooms.

Ocean

The boys had last week off from school and we spent some time in San Diego. For N, this was his first time seeing the ocean in person. B had last seen the ocean when he was two. He had no recollection of the event. My memory is that he was much more interested in the sandy beach than the vast blue expanse or the rhythmic waves.

I was excited to introduce the boys to the ocean. I didn't meet it until I was an adult and I immediately fell in love. It relaxes me. If I stop to think about it as I stand on the shore, I'll notice that my breathing has synchronized with the waves. It is one of those times when nature steps up and inserts itself into my life, forcing me to feel its presence. As the water surges and retreats along the beach, I hear its advice, "Breathe, just breathe." The ocean is old, ancient even, and vast. Surely, it must also be wise. As I stand there, I heed its advice and I just breathe and try to think of nothing else.

I think the boys liked the ocean although I think their perception was different from my own. Maybe kids are just less in need of relaxation. They did not see the gentle nurturing giant I did. To them, the ocean is more monster than mother. It is mystery and danger: rip tides and sharks, sunken pirate ships and deserted islands. Part of the thrill was wading out into the water and touching the beast. A different experience from mine but enjoyable, nonetheless. Maybe part of the ocean's magic is that it is vast and complex enough to satisfy a variety of needs.

Now, we're home again. Far from the coast. As we settle back into the routines of work and school, I remember the sound of the crashing waves and try to remain relaxed. Breathe, just breathe. A couple of nights ago, we had our first thunderstorm of the year. I stepped out on our back porch and watched and listened to the driving rain. I realized that even here at home nature can find a way to touch me.

Side Effects

The government sure has taken some of the fun out of drug commercials by mandating that the side effects be stated in the ads. I don't care how happy and carefree you try to make those actors, it's not going to distract me enough to miss the voice-over's mention of rashes, irregular heartbeat, bloating, death. You can sit in your bathtub happily looking at the sunset all you want, I am not joining you.

I heard an ad the other day and one of the possible side effects was "unusual dreams". What does that even mean? I mean, I had a dream the other night that was real unusual and I'm not taking anything. It was one of those dreams where, upon waking, you seriously question if your subconscious might be a tad deranged.

Maybe they mean a more literal sense of "unusual". Perhaps they just mean that you will dream of things you've never dreamt of before. I'm not certain that would be such a bad thing. Variety is the spice of life after all. In fact, they may want to state "unusual dreams" as a potential benefit.

Sitting in the house on a quiet Sunday morning

It's quiet this morning - only B and I are home at the moment and he's busy with homework. The cats are sleeping, the sun is shining. Knowing how cold it is outside makes the house feel all the more cozy. It's a good morning to sit and reflect.

As I look around the living room, I wonder about the other people who have lived in this house. We've lived here twenty years but the house had another sixty before us. I try to imagine families walking through our rooms, staring at the same walls. Did anyone else have a piano in the living room? I'm guessing someone probably did. I'll bet the house was happy when we brought ours in. Every house deserves a piano - it's a big enough instrument to really fill the space. Music vibrating against walls and rafters, it's got to make a house feel good.

When we have a birthday party I often wonder how many other such parties our house has hosted. Birthdays, anniversaries, good news, sad news - our home has likely witnessed countless occassions. Each one adds another layer like the paint we brush over the walls. Ours is the most recent but the others are there as well, hidden underneath. The death of our first son filled our home with incredible anguish. I wonder if some of the grief that hung in every room permeated plaster and wood, absorbed by the house.

Imagining a home with a memory makes it difficult to see an older empty house. It saddens me to think of the house, full of old memories, sitting there, waiting, wondering where the people have gone and if they will return. It would be an empty feeling - silently aching for the opportunity to return to the purpose for which you were created.

Spirit Week

It was spirit week at my youngest son's school this week. There was no school on Monday and N was a little disappointed that the school picked a short week for spirit week. N embraces spirit week - more than B did at that age and more than I could ever imagine myself doing.

The week started on Tuesday with something called Crazy Head Day. As N explained it, anything silly or crazy and head-related was fair game. Hats, wigs, hair gel, whatever. I think this was the day he was most excited about. He wore his bald cap and mustache - two items he had been looking for a proper occasion to don. The bald cap was part of last Halloween's costume. His mask only covered 3/4 of his head so the bald cap was worn under it to cover the back of his head. He has a number of fake mustaches. He chose the one he got out of a vending machine while attending a birthday party at a skating rink this summer. The mustache is eerily similar in color to his hair and looks reasonably realistic. Monday night, he put on his crazy head get-up and checked that it was ready for the next day. I was sitting on the couch when he wandered in, hands in his pockets and said "Hi, Sonny" in his best old man voice. He then sat down next to me and said "It might be hard for people to believe that I'm your son, since we appear to be the same age." I wasn't quite sure how to take that.

Spirit week continued with Twins Wednesday. N and his friend J dressed alike and each wore Minnesota Twins hats. I think it was pretty standard for kids to either dress like a friend or dress like a Twins ball player (or a little of both).

Thursday was Funky Footwear Day. N wore monster snowshoes for his walk to school. He knew he would have gym, so he wrapped up one of his tennis shoes and made it a "mummy foot". I think he also may have worn bright mismatched socks. He often does that anyway so I'm not sure it counts.

Friday, finally, was School Spirit Day. The school colors are blue and gold. N wore blue pants with a gold stripe up the outside of each leg. He wore a long-sleeve blue shirt with gold stripes under blue t-shirt with the school mascot (falcon) in gold emblazoned on it. He had a lot of blue and gold going on and I think he represented himself well. He was a little bummed when I mentioned that it was too bad we didn't have a falcon costume for him to wear. "That would be so cool!"

Obsolescence

I don't leave jobs. Jobs leave me. The introvert in me would rather put up with less than ideal working conditions and compensation than face the prospect of meeting new people. The first job I got out of school was great and I stayed there five years. I would have stayed longer but the company left for the west coast. None of my friends were making the move so I opted to do the same. Either way I was going to be working with new people anyway. I stayed at my next job almost twenty years. In that time the company grew and shrank. Products and strategies shifted. People came and went but a small core group of us remained steady. Finally, a last attempt at reinvention failed and bankruptcy soon followed. Even then, we stayed as management desperately tried to peddle the technology. At the very last hour, a large corporation stepped in, bought the company and hired us on. We survived a few more years before it was decided our branch did not fit with the new corporate vision and we were finally truly closed. I don't leave jobs. Jobs leave me.

Being there at the end of a company is a surreal thing. In those last days after it was announced that our branch was closing, we worked mostly on documenting what we had been doing and cleaning out the place. The back closets still housed ghosts from earlier decades - computers, once fought over for their processor power, now abandoned because of their inability to run the latest operating systems. As we surveyed the place, a general rule of thumb emerged: If it plugged in, it was probably obsolete and worthless. The simpler the item, the more likely it could be reused. Waste baskets, tables, scissors all had value. Computers, monitors and televisions, not so much. The main exception to the "plug-in" rule was in the break room where the toaster, coffee maker and refrigerator still served a purpose.

Obsolescence is such a cruel thing. How quickly do our shiny new toys become tomorrow's afterthought, replaced by something even shinier? We are living in a time of rapid change. Technology is hurtling forward at a pace not seen before. Still, for all the new gadgets, how often do we see something truly unique that can actually stand the test of time? Most inventions, it seems, just replace their most recent predecessor, as if we are still just trying to get it right. And in the meantime, our stacks of records, cassettes, CDs, etc. grow and gather dust in a corner.

I started thinking about all this obsolescence as I watched my oldest son registering for high school. When I think back about the classes I took in high school and college, I realize that many of the technical ones, the ones tied to my major, were the like the records I was listening to at the time - useful but quickly replaced by something different. Mathematics, English, writing, these were the tables and scissors - still as useful today as they were then.

The Nerd's Revenge

I imagine him, sitting in his non-descript cube, chuckling to himself. He's a programmer and, while he works on fitness software, he shuns any physical activity himself. In high school, he was the smart, fat nerd - the natural prey of the jock set. They teased him mercilessly. Those early encounters etched a dislike and disgust of exercise on his soul. Still, these are lean times and sometimes one must agree to even the most distasteful of occupations. So, here he sits, working on a workout application. He must realize that not all the people who use his application are like the jocks that once tormented him. He must know that some of them were nerds in high school too, just like him. Yes, he knows these things but he doesn't care. If you use his app, you are an exerciser and he has only disdain for you.

Yes, I imagine him chuckling as he licks the donut frosting from his fingers and imagines me running. I run and my iPod sifts through my music, ignoring anything with a driving beat and instead selecting the slowest, most quiet options. I thought I'd removed all these songs but I was mistaken. I'd forgotten about Van Morrison's Avalon Sunset album. Yesterday, I was about two miles into my run when his algorithms zeroed in on the track, "Coney Island", which is basically a spoken poem. Yes, I'm sure that's just the sort of thing he was hoping to find. Chuckle, chuckle.

Post Holidays Adjustment

I typically take some time off between Christmas and the end of the year. Time off from work should mean more time to exercise and cook healthy meals. Instead, the disruption in my regular schedule results in less of these things. For example, I get most of my exercise by running a couple of days a week over my lunch hour. When I'm not working, there is no reason to sacrifice lunch for running. Theoretically, I could do both. Instead, the unstructured days start late and involve much lounging and munching. Meals fall victim to group laziness, occurring at irregular intervals with ease of preparation given more weight than healthfulness when selecting dishes.

Speaking of more weight, this sloth-like lifestyle combined with an abundance of holiday treats resulted in me adding a few pounds to my already ample midsection. Oh, I tried to be good, telling myself that I would focus on the veggie tray instead of the cookies. But I can get veggies any time of the year. Christmas cookies are only available at, well, Christmas. How bad can it be, really? It's not a long term relationship. The Christmas cookies are just a fling. I'll return, hat in hand, to the carrots and celery after the holidays.

And so, here we are, after the holidays. The extra weight and the week off have left me feeling out of shape. I go to the Y and it's busier than normal, folks trying to keep new resolutions, no doubt. They look at me and I'm sure they think I'm also a newcomer. I feel like a newcomer as I huff and puff around the track, belly jiggling with each heavy footfall. I want to tell these new faces that I'm not like them, that I'm a regular, in it for the long haul.

Yes, I could tell them all that I regularly work out. I could show them the fine physique that they too could have by dedicating themselves to a consistent exercise schedule. That should clear them out by February.