Shallow Thinker

My wife has informed me that I’m not doing it right.  No, not that…although, now that you mention it…  Sorry, I digress.  At any rate, my wife is a reader.  She reads for work, she reads for pleasure.  She reads books, magazines, blogs, articles, road signs, nutrition labels.  When we buy a new CD, I pop it in to jam with the music.  She pulls out the cover to read the lyrics.

In a recent discussion about my wavering commitment to fitness, Kelley informed me that she had done some research into the P90X program.  Apparently, there is a lot of stuff that you’re supposed to be doing that I’m not.  (Perhaps I would have known this if I read the instructions.)  One of the biggest complaints on blogs about this program comes from the wives of the men participants.  There is apparently a very strict nutritional regimen that participants are supposed to adhere to.  There are discussions about how particular the meals have to be, the calorie counting, how the stuff is so specialized that the women are preparing separate meals for their husbands and the rest of the family.

Perhaps this explains why I an not yet chiseled from stone.  However, I have spent a long time thinking on this issue (at least 30-45 seconds) and have concluded that I’m not the one doing it wrong.  It’s all these other people.  I don’t exercise because I want to be massive (although, that side effect would be welcome).  I exercise so that I can continue to eat all of the junk that I do.

And let’s be logical here.  If I do the regimen the way it’s intended, I’ll become an excellent specimen of human conditioning.  I’ll have to fend off ladies from all directions.  Husbands will be jealous.  There’s no end to the madness.  So, it is my love for you guys that leads me to only give a marginal effort to this health thing.  You’re welcome.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted my health update, so today seems like a good enough time to check-in.  When I last reported (here) my strength was improving and my weight was under control.  The reason for all of this was to meet my New Year’s Resolution to be down to my target weight of 172 by mid-July.  The problem for most people is that once they hit their target weight (if they’ve made it that far), they relax their routine, the discipline slips and the weight returns.

I must admit that once I hit 172, I relaxed a bit.  The pace I was on was intense and I knew that I couldn’t keep it up.  However, I continued the workout program and have even been running more consistently.  The results?  I’m almost back up to my starting weight.  So, when my 30th birthday rolls around in 2 weeks, what assessment should I make of my resolution?  Let’s look at the facts:

1. I am not at my target weight of 172.
2. I do not have washboard abs.
3. I can do more pull-ups and push-ups than when I started.
4. My running pace has dropped slightly. (meaning I’m a bit faster…if the temperature isn’t above 90 degrees)
5. I have reduced my consumption of red meat. (I’m still trying to decide if this is a positive or a negative, Alana.)
6. I have not been asked to be on the cover of any magazines.
7. I have not ripped any shirts because of my bulging biceps.

In my mind, I feel like its OK not staying down at 172, but perhaps I’m just justifying it because I want to feel like I’ve gotten something out of all this effort.  I think I’ll keep up the workout routine for the remainder of the year just to see what the results are.  And besides, you never know when terrorists might take over a building and the only way to escape is to do 10 pull-ups and 50 push-ups.  I won’t let the terrorists win.

I haven’t posted in a while, have I?  Naughty me.  How were you able to survive without my daily updates or my witty insight?  Well, congratulations, you somehow managed to make it through.  Now, like a torrential downpour on the thirsty desert, I will blog unto you.

I started to write a long description of everything that happened from Thursday through last night, but that is a lot of stuff and chances are that you don’t really care about it.  So, I’ve decided to do a compressed version for you.  If you have any questions, feel free to ask.  Ready?

Thursday - took the day off, took the girls to school, my school work (got a 90), lunch with Stan (good guy), swimming lesson for Butterfly (doing well - still a long way to go), rest time, supper, a good run in the cool air (after a rain shower), class, bed.

Friday - very busy at work with continual headaches, quick supper, VBS with the girls (I made a mosaic and a bracelet), movie or school work - can’t remember which, bed

Saturday - moved chairs while the girls played, a Father’s day craft (birdhouses!), firetrucks with Ladybug (but not for long), a lunch on the living room floor (don’t tell mom), nap (woo-hoo!), grilled some awesome pork chops, school work, bed

Sunday - harried rush, cute photos, strummed for the youth (we should practice), read some verses, played with little ones (toddlers are a lot of fun), lunch, school work, pool with Rickie and Sheri (thanks guys!), proud of Butterfly’s progress in the water, quick supper, Marble Slab (yum!), school work, bed.

Monday - work (blah), midterm exam in Probability and Statistics (I feel like I did pretty well on it), supper, school work, movie with Kelley, bed

Tuesday - the day is limitless.  Perhaps I’ll do something noteworthy by the time I leave work…probably not.

Come to Macon and drink the finest water in the nation.  In the words of Ray Romano - “Boo-Yah!”
http://www.macon.com/198/story/751002.html
http://www.13wmaz.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=65419&catid=7

image from flickr.com

From time to time, I might fall into the trap of using this blog to complain about certain things that I don’t like.  (I could take the opportunity to find all of the links where I complain, but who has that kind of time?) It’s a convenient outlet, I admit, but I also have to keep in mind that I have it pretty good.  Recently, I posted about the rigors of this summer’s schedule.  Two graduate-level classes jammed into the summer semester is tough, but when I look at it, I have to admit that I’m very thankful for the opportunity to take these courses and to be working on another degree.  I shouldn’t whine and cry so much…but don’t expect that to stop me anytime soon.

I noticed this weekend that I’ve only been in class for 2-3 weeks and my mid-term is this upcoming Monday.  Most classes drag on so much that I’m begging for the final just so that I can end the misery.  Heck, some classes start so bad that I’d rather take the final on the first week just to be done with it.  But, with the summer’s accelerated pace, I’ve been so far behind that I haven’t had a chance to be miserable.  How awesome is that?

Some people may think that this is proof that there are good things in every bad situation.  Not me.  I take it to mean that if I’m going to crash and burn, I’d rather do it full speed.

Ladybug has a bad habit of picking at her sores.  She does it rather mindlessly or when she’s in the bed with nothing better to do.  She picks a scab until the blood is flowing freely.  As much as we fuss about it, she continues the practice.

In the car this afternoon, we noticed her starting in on a familiar spot.  We told her to stop and tried to reason with her.  “Don’t pick at your sores, honey.  They’ll never get better.“  Her two-year-old head bobbed up and down as if to say “I have no idea what you’re saying, but I’ll agree with you!”  Finally, the older and wiser sister stepped in to break things down:”We don’t pick at scabs.  They are doors for our blood.  We have to keep the doors shut so the blood doesn’t get out.”

After a second or two of silence, Ladybug verbalized the information she had just heard and processed.  “Day like doors.  We keep the doors shut!”

We’re going to have to hire Butterfly as a full-time interpreter.

I have a gift/curse that has been with me for a while.  My parents would probably indicate that it was absent during my childhood years, but it was definitely present during college.  When it comes to doing things, I tend to go over-board.  Projects for class?  Overboard.  My boss tasked me with tracking a couple of programs.  My response?  I went way overboard.  (I set-up an automated spreadsheet with correlations between budgets and task completions and planet alignments and ants crossing the parking lot.  It’s got detail.)  Another example is my attendance to classes in college.  I could not stand to miss a class, even if I knew that my presence wasn’t vital.  I don’t think that I intentionally missed a class until my junior or senior year.  When I take on a task, I go all-out.  That’s a good thing…right?

The problem with my approach is that I tend to burn out much faster than most people.  I set-up a killer spreadsheet, now I don’t want to see it anymore.  By the time college was winding down, I was down to a dull roar and barely made it across the stage to get my diploma.  In like a lion, out like a lamb.

This semester is testing the limits of how much I’m willing to give.  I’ll be the first to admit that signing-up for two graduate-level courses wasn’t a smart thing to do for the summer session.  The classes as separate entities wouldn’t be that bad during the summer.  Both courses together during a normal-length semester wouldn’t be unbearable.  In my efforts to get my degree and get out, I’ve hit a speed bump.  There’s a lot of effort required for this summer.  My nature says to give it 100%.  But that’s taking too much of my time with family and work.

So, here’s the brain-twister that I’m trying to work-out.  My mentality is to work with a hard-core pace and try to get 98.75% in both classes.  But, I’m looking at the mountain in front of me and wondering if this might be a good time to try out the cruise control on my brain and settle for a B-.

My mom always said “just do your best.”  Is it OK to do my “just good enough”?

Which is the better choice for an afternoon drink:

1. A soft drink (coke would have probably been chosen)
2. 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk (a gallon was on sale for $1.99!)

My wife refused to choose one and simply said “I worry about you, John.”

In my previous post, I detailed how I was able fend off the dragons from my daughter’s nightmares.  Recently, I was reminded that the story begins similarly for families all across the world.  Somewhere, a boy cries out for his mother, but she is unable to calm his fears.  A girl beckons for her father to rescue her, but her dragons cannot be tamed or dismissed with a silly story.  The nightmares will haunt these children well beyond bedtime.

Mercer University was (and still is) small enough that notable people were known across campus.  Jenny was one of those.  The year prior to my entrance to Mercer, Jenny served as a teaching assistant (TA) to a class of freshmen that included a brilliant young lady named Kelley.  When I stepped onto campus, I heard the name, knew who she was, but our paths rarely crossed.  Jenny graduated, moved on.  I did become friends with her sister, Nikki, though.  So on occasion, I heard the name.  In my world, she was nothing more than a face in the crowd, or a word in the conversation.

A few years ago, I found Kelley sitting at her computer with tears in her eyes.  She had been following a number of stories on-line and discovered that Jenny and her husband, Tre’, had just found out that their oldest daughter was diagnosed with cancer.  With passion and care, Kelley has followed their story from the sidelines.  One evening, Kelley read aloud to me one of the most heart-wrenching, poetic posts that I have ever encountered.  Jenny wrote that Catie was no longer able to fight the cancer that had ravished her young body.  We did not have words for each other, so we sat in silence.  Both of us shed tears for a little girl that we had never met.

I cannot pretend to wrestle with the questions that Jenny and Tre’ have had to handle.  My heart has never encountered the range of emotions that they have experienced.  What I do know is that they are two very brave and passionate individuals.  Their story is brutal yet beautiful.  Their experiences are unique yet there are thousands more experiencing the same thing each day.  When many would fall and surrender to the weight of the trials, they stood up and began to roar in the face of adversity.  As they have mourned the loss of their daughter, they have picked up the weapons that they’ve been given and are continuing the fight against childhood cancer.

On my blog, I write about a bunch of silliness and nonsense because that’s mostly what is inside of me.  But there is one thing that I am passionate about.  I think that each child should be able to experience their childhood with joy, innocence, and passion.  Unfortunately, this world brings them sorrows, it robs their innocence, and it offers them indifference.  But a young girl named Catie taught me that seeds of joy and laughter always remain.  Innocence can be cultivated on many fronts.  Passion runs deep in the veins of these little ones.

Whether it is through cancer research, adoption, or spending time with those in your community, please give to the children that so desperately need it.

http://catiescureclassic.com/

After bed time, our upstairs is illuminated only by the nightlight in our daughters’ bathroom.  The dull hum of an air purifier or a fan keeps us entranced in our dreams.  I’m reliving a video conference for the 16th time that night.  For some reason my dreams are on “repeat”  and I can’t shake them out of the rut.  Suddenly, the silence is broken by the sobs of Butterfly (four-and-a-half) at our door.  Kelley is the first to notice and immediately fears that Ladybug has passed a faint stomach virus on to her sister.  I awake to Kelley shouting orders about trashcans and toilets and other stuff that I can’t decipher.  (I’m not very coherent when I first wake up.) I sit-up at the edge of the bed as Butterfly walks into the room.

“What’s wrong, baby?”
“I had a bad dream.” She informs me through the tears that are rolling down her cheeks.  Kelley breathes a sigh of relief and I gather Butterfly in my arms.

We don’t have these often, but on occasion, Butterfly will encounter something scary in her dreams.  There are probably ways that you’re supposed to handle this type of thing.  Perhaps you’re supposed to explain to your child the difference between dreams and reality and expect them to move past it.  Perhaps you’re supposed to send them back to bed and hope they find a way around it.  When the scary monsters find their way into our house, I take a different approach.

“A dragon ate me.  There was a whole family of big, mean dragons and they were scary.”
“Oh my, that does sound scary.  But you know what you do with dragons, don’t you?”
“No….”
“You yell at them, ‘Hey, stop for a second.  You can eat me, but I want to take a picture first.’ And then the mommy dragon will have to go put on her makeup and she’ll make the little dragons swim in the river to get clean.  Daddy dragon will polish his horns and when they’re all ready, you take their picture.”
“Why do I take their picture?”
“Because when you’re done, you tell those dragons ‘OK, you can eat me now.’  But they’ll want to see the picture first, so you’ll have to take the camera and put the pictures on your computer and then print them a really big picture, and take it back to the dragons.  They’ll like it so much that they’ll invite you over to the dragon feast the next weekend to take pictures of all their friends.  And that’s something special because no one has ever been to a dragon feast!”

My tale weaves on for a few minutes and ends with Butterfly having a new dragon friend that can fly her anywhere she wants to go.  As I close my tale, I end with “And remember, when those dragons try to eat you, you tell them that you want to take their picture.  And the next thing you know, you’ll have a new friend.”

She is pleased with this outcome and flashes a small, tired smile as she lays her head upon the pillow.  “Daddy, you’re silly.” And she closes her eyes in hopes of trying her new tactic to make a mythical friend.

Work was tough, classes are occupying time, bills need to be paid, and my dreams offer no rest.  But tonight, while the rest of the city slept, I tamed the dragons that haunted my daughter.

We never were a loud family.  On the other hand, there wasn’t a lot of silence in the house, either.  I was the last of three siblings, so there was always some type of commotion or discussion carrying through the house.  But, no matter what was going on, my brother, sister and I honored one hour of silence under the penalty of death.  It was the news hour.  Whether it was at 5:00 on the television, of 5 before the hour in the car, we soon learned that noises should cease when the headlines began to roll.  I remember thinking, “Wow…this is horribly boring.  Why is it so important?”

On the way home yesterday, I was flipping channels and trying to find some decent music.  On the last part of the cycle through my pre-programmed channels I caught the last 15 seconds of the news.  I looked at the clock and with slight disappointment, I noticed that I had missed the headlines.  For some reason, the disappointment became evident to me.  Had I actually wanted to hear the news?  And, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I like to tune-in to the newscasts and hear the highlights of the day.  Wow.  When did I start turning into my dad?  Well, at least I don’t back into parking spaces like my dad does…wait…yeah, I do.  I know, I don’t get all excited about buying pants with the hidden elastic in the waist…wait…yeah, I do.  See, it’s not that being my dad is a bad thing, but I didn’t expect to wake-up and just realize that I was him.  I thought the transition would be more noticeable.

Perhaps the one area that I don’t follow in my dad’s footsteps (yet) is with eating habits.  Although, I am appreciative of the love for food that he instilled in me.  As a matter of fact, he took me to my first Mexican Buffet.  It was the same day that he introduced me to Northern Tools. (Let’s pause for a moment of silent reflection…)  At any rate, while we were at my parents’ house a few weekends ago, I marveled as my dad fixed his breakfast.  Cereal with milk.  And blueberries, strawberries, and bananas.  And then some type of yogurt-like stuff on top.  This doesn’t rival the time I saw him top his Fiber One with salsa.  Now that is the breakfast of champions.  The man’s motto when it comes to eating is “It all goes down the same hatch, anyhow.”  I appreciate the man’s ability to eat, but I lack the cast-iron coating in my stomach to follow in his footsteps.

It is interesting to look at where I am and discover which traits I’ve intentionally picked-up (the ability to keep a yard green) and which ones have snuck in over time (see: newscasts).  Similarly, there are some traits that I’ve intentionally culled out.  (Such as the desire/ability to drive long distances with the family in the car.  That one was the first to go.)  I recognize the formation of who I am both because of how I was raised and in spite of how I was raised.  This applies to my relationship with my children, political views, religious views, musical tastes and all across the spectrum.  I am me.

A wise person would be able to take these thoughts and bring them to a really cool, coherent point.  I think that’s one of the traits that I let pass me by.