Change = Monkey

Now all that's left to do is beat that old guy.

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Burning Lungs and Sweaty T-Shirts

Today is the first time since the fall that I ran a mile. Getting up early lately has provided me time to think about exercising. Being wrapped snuggly in my bed sheets has provided me with the excuse not to.

Tired of being fatty, I decided one hot summer day six years ago to start jogging. Having no running shoes, not even something that resembled gym shoes, I purchased a pair on the way home from work. It was hot. Hot even for July. That didn't stop me from running a mile that night.

I had no stride, no breathing technique, didn't know how to plant my feet or launch, and I didn't know how to pace myself. Stopping three times during that mile showed me just how out of shape I was. I ran the next day and the next.

December was cold for running outdoors. Running almost every day since I started had provided me with a weight loss induced svelte look, increased daily energy, and the ability to run five miles daily with only the clock preventing a further journey. Hurting my hamstring wasn't on the menu.

The hamstring isn't a single muscle or tendon. It's a mass of intertwining muscles and tendons that make up most of the upper leg, from the knee to your hip. Addressing torn, distressed, or other wise under the weather hamstring muscles is a difficult task, even for professionals. As is evidenced by the noticeably taught feeling I've sustained in my right leg for the last 6 years.

Physical therapy barely helped, but moving two friends did more harm than anything else. I can finally sleep comfortably, without waking from a hamstring induced pain referrals to other muscles. But the tension is still higher than my left leg. Still requires attention. Still worries me.

Stretching this morning while tired was the worst. Nothing feels right in the AM, muscles don't stretch as far as you'd like, and I was looking for things to do that weren't exercising. Getting past that hump this morning was tough.

I'm planning on jogging tomorrow as well. Wish fatty luck.

Not the Outdoor Type

I've let down my eight year old nephew. But not as much as his dead-beat dad, so I feel all right. A month ago my nephew sheepishly asked me if I would go on a father-son camping trip. The idea of being outside, with no computer was startling. I remembered camping; Sleeping in caves with bats, cooking bad scrambled eggs in a crappy little steel pan, while being wet and un-showered the entire weekend. I might have had fun at the time, being eight or nine at the oldest, but I've grown up now and detest the idea of camping.

To attend the Friday night camping trip, I had to sell tickets to see Willie Nelson at Ravinia, a wonderful outdoor park with surprisingly good sound, and no restrictions preventing patrons from bringing in food or alcohol. Willie hasn't graced Chicago with a visit in a while, but I sold those tickets (at a loss) without thinking twice. I felt honored by my nephew's request.

There is a pecking order of father figures for my recently divorce burdened nephew:
1) Grandpa
2) & 3) My brother and I
4) The husband of a close girlfriend to my sister
5) His dad

Sad as that is, my nephew is better off. No secret that hangin' out with dead-beat pops would lead to the development of less than desirable traits.

For the entire month I asked my sister for details about the outing. Would I have to take a day off? Where was it? Was anyone else I knew going? What do I need to bring? What do I need to buy? Finally, late last week, my sister secured the info and informed me the camping trip was scheduled for two nights, not one. While the thought of two nights made me miserable, I was mostly upset because, having been told the trip was only Friday, I had purchased tickets for another concert that conflicted with the second night.

Falling in and out of grace with me is my sister's favorite past-time. Luckily my level-headed mom, not wanting to be in the middle, suggested we talk on the phone, instead of duking it out on email. After apologizing and being apologized to, I asked to speak with my nephew. I told him I wasn't going make it on the camping trip, but that my tied in the rankings brother would. Unaware of the behind the scenes turmoil, he said "Oh, OK" and that was it. With a little guilt, I purchased another pair of tickets to see Willie.

Secret Sessions and No Promises

I've been lying to you through my silence. I heard back from Seattle. I'm sure you've expected to hear one of two things: 1) That interviews were proceeding or 2) They were taking a pass on me. You wouldn't be alone, since that is exactly what I expected.

Waiting in my mailbox last Thursday was a detailed, lengthy note from the Editor in Chief of the web site. He asked me to create some images as a sort of test. But not really a test. Lemme explain. The Editor in Chief has a hand in determining the responsibilities for the job I'm in the running for. On a daily basis, he needs a designer to produce photoshop enhanced / altered images of a humorous nature using artwork from the company's product line to accompany newly posted web articles. I was provided past articles from their website and challenged to create three such images. The images I create will be used to argue his case, for the inclusion of this responsibility to the job, at meetings in the following weeks. Wait a second ... what's that smell? Oh, it's the reek of dream job.

Receiving the note I was ... well, why look for that five dollar word. I was excited. I took my lunch break to create the first one and nailed it. I've heard from my inside source, that the image has been passed around this rather large company inducing giggles, loud laughter and humorous tears. Thursday night I made the second one. Not laugh out loud funny, but humorous and a fine example of my Photoshop prowess. Sunday I created the last one which is on par with the first, in the humor department.

No promises have been made. Actually, there have been paragraphs exchanged making extra sure I know no promises have been made. Through participating in this project I have gained a leg up on others who may be interested in the job, a handful of people who credit me with making them laugh now know my name, and the Editor in Chief is in my corner. Not too bad for three and a half hours of work.

The Editor-in-Chief-Web-Guy has warned that it might take a while. To that I say it's already taken a while. But I can wait some more. I've had lots of practice being patient lately.

Childhood Dreams of Androgyny

Babysitting is fun. Especially when the baby likes me. If I ever run into a baby that doesn't, I just leave. Luckily for her, the baby I watched this week was fond of me.

Rosalyne is a one year old, fair skinned, four toothed sweet heart. She enjoys long walks around the couch, penguins, and playing with baked potatoes that her mom plans to eat. She doesn't however, enjoy being put down to bed.

Similar to a lot of my baby blessed friends, there is little fuss over night-time rituals with Rosalyne's parents. Her diaper is checked and she is put into her crib completely sans fuss. Apparently we are more fun than mommy and daddy because, when the lady and I put her down for the night, she cried for over a half an hour.

Even the first time I babysat a child, I knew not respond to their crocodile tears with a visit. That said, there is almost nothing worse than listening to a baby cry. Thirty minutes is a long time. Maybe a varmint had crawled into her bed.

No varmint could be found and a check of the diaper did not curl my nose hairs. After the poop check, I placed her back in her crib and decided to nonchalantly sit next to the crib, with intentions of sneaking away a moment later. Her little eyes poured through the bars of the crib, watching me as I pretended not to notice her.

My singing voice is .... well, it's OK. You won't find me auditioning for American Idol or indulging in karaoke, but I enjoy struggling with a tune in the car. When I decided to sing Rosalyne to sleep, the words to all the worlds nursery rhymes simultaneously escaped me. So I sang her Bowie.

While "Jamming good with weird and gilly" might seemingly take cues from any number of Dr. Seuss classics, the rest of the tune dredged up images of ego, deceit, and revenge perpetrated by and towards the greatest rocker in the world: Ziggy. In other words, a lovely, well rounded bed-time fairytale.

Having run through the song a few times, I decided to put a cork in it. The path to the door was clear and the book I remembered to bring wasn't going to read itself. Standing, I saw those eyes poking at me again. Her anger was apparent before I left the room, and continued as I watched her on the baby monitor downstairs.

Lesson learned; Not even Bowie is perfect.

It Moved

I'm positive she didn't intend to, but when my massage therapist Jordan was relieving tension in my shoulder using her elbow, her fingertips brushed delicately across the tips of my hairline, and it moved.

My lady has been a massage therapist for a decade. Occasionally I walk in the door, after a long day at work, to find her massage table set up in the living room. This is about the only time I don't feel guilty asking her for therapeutic attention. I know how tiresome work days can sometimes be and I'm usually sitting at a computer. My lady however is on her feet, exerting her muscles in a strenuous manner daily. The last thing I want is for her to reach a threshold over my minor aches and pains.

When I received the text yesterday that she was treating me to a massage, from her favorite massage therapist at X-Sports this weekend, I had mixed feelings. Was she treating me because she hadn't worked on me for a while? Or was it just because she was nice? Going with the later, I joyfully accepted and insisted on paying the tips.

Luckily I was positioned on my stomach, when the incident occurred, but that didn't prevent a panicked feeling from taking hold. Imagined scenarios of her getting an eye full and leaving the session in a huff perpetuated my most certainly flushed face. Men have little control in a situation such as this. For no reason at all, on a daily basis, I find myself happy. Unlike all those times, I was in my birthday suit, and had no means of concealment.

Left to control the situation using my mental faculties, I set my mind to think of something that would surely deflate the situation. The first thing that came to mind was "Dead Grandma." Slightly shocked by the idea, I was elated that I could not conjure imagery to match. I was still in panic mode and without another idea, so I went with it.

Are There Interns in Seattle?

Work was extremely busy this week. So busy I had little time to post. It may seem ridiculous to complain, having recently posted about slacking for a week while working on wedding stuffs, but I wasn't a total slack. Even if I wasn't operating on all cylinders, I had loyal interns working diligently to keep the output level high. Interns that I no longer have, now that the semester has come to an end.

If it wasn't for interns, my professional world would collapse. My job would not be possible, slacking or no. It turns out interns are also good friend material; I see four former interns socially on a regular basis, and have invited six to my wedding. That's what happens when you're cooped up with me, two times a week for eight hours a day. You start to like me.

I interviewed five interns for the summer session, but three of them turned it down. So I'm left with my number two pick, and my number five pick. With some hesitation, the need for two able bodies compelled me to hire pick number five.

With any luck, I'll be moving in the next month or two, and I'll no longer need to worry about hiring interns as cheap help. But then who will I make friends with?

Reluctantly Yours, Tubby

Not surprising, but my belly hurts from all the pizza I ate this weekend. Getting the large seems like a good idea fiscally, but if I cared about myself, the small would have sufficed. The single pizza, I purchased for lunch on Saturday, fed me for five meals. Yes I had pizza for breakfast and yes I ate it all. Partly because leftover pizza is almost always better than freshly delivered, and partly because I wanted to erase the existence of this pie from the fridge.

There were two goals this weekend. One I accomplished by downing a lot of pizza. The other conflicted with the eating, so my goal to exercise didn't gain lift-off. The lady and I started a Ju-Jutsu class a few weeks back. Meeting once a week, it's not the type of exercise that will induce weight loss. I'm filled with a surge of energy after a class, reminding me how I used to feel when in shape. So the idea to shape up is rolling 'round my tubby noggin', waiting for the perfect moment to be realized. Trouble is, there is no perfect moment.

I had a fat dream last night. My ex and I were shopping at the mall. Not only could I not find anything that fit, but I had three pairs of jeans with me and continually changed from pair to pair, trying to decide which fit best. Upon making a decision, I'd toss the other two, only to retrieve them moments later from the trash and start the whole cycle over. There was no end to the dream, unless you count me waking up feeling fat an ending.

My tubby twenties were a result of getting married and being lazy. Sadly, it took the drive and pain of a divorce to start exercising. I hurt my hamstring jogging about a year after starting, stopped exercising, met the lady, and proceeded to pack on the pizza pounds. Last year I got back into a routine, lost some weight, but ultimately lost the battle when our treadmill started to malfunction. It was the electrical that would sputter out, giving less than ample juice to the machine, resulting in sudden drops in speed. Not very conducive to a safe, stationary work-out. Those are just excuses, not the reasons.

I eat late night snacks all the time. If snacks aren't available, I improvise by nibbling on whatever resembles food, sans preparation. I wake up in the early morning after a late night binge, and sleep pleasantly when I refrain. Strangely, this knowledge doesn't stop me from snacking. Plus, I've always been part of the clean plate club. Growing up, we were made to finish everything before we could leave the table. Sometimes hours would pass as I struggled with frigid green beans and rubbery steak. I also eat fast, which is why I don't feel full until it's too late. Actually, sometimes that bloated feeling doesn't stop me from cleaning my plate.

Not for the wedding, but by the wedding, I should try and get a grip on it. Maybe if all of you referred to me as fatty, I'd get off my ass and do something about it.

Not Required Reading

Often a tale I'm weaving is met with knowing glances. That's what happens when you write the most popular blog this side of the Mississippi. Or at least this side of Route 53, in Rolling Meadows, zip code 60008, Kirchoff Rd., Brookwood Condos.

I edit my posts heavily. There are so many facts and digressions trimmed from the the first draft that I am capable of telling a story you've read seem fresh. But I still feel odd when I knowingly cover familiar ground. My memory is so poor that I constantly write myself notes. Little yellow reminders, crowding my desk, have been replaced by notes crowding my in-box. My electro calendar automatically emails me important dates and social plans. Otherwise I would have forgotten about my haircut tonight. Considering this, it's not hard to imagine I may spin a tale twice.

It's like encountering someone with breath that stinks of death, with a poppyseed in their teeth, or Charmin stuck to their sneaker. You can either tell them, saving them hours of reflective embarrassment, or confess your secret keeping delight at the end of the day accented with a giggle. I'll stop a story if I realize you've already heard it, but please don't hesitate to tell me if you're experiencing deja vu.

Writing here keeps me honest. Sometimes honest about not being honest. While I'm making no excuses for my sometimes sketchy morals, I still regard this as a social barometer of sorts and a moral check system. That and I enjoy knowing some people look forward to new posts and getting a comment or two makes my day. That said, some friends apologize for not reading my blog. It's not required reading.

Let's make a deal: Stop reading this blog. Or continue to read this blog and don't talk to me in person ever again. In return, I'll tell you about that piece of cilantro stuck in your teeth since April.

Somebody Needs to Take Basic Math Again

"Twenty-four hours," "check your email," and "Remember the time change from Seattle" made me hopeful I'd have heard something by now. But a week has passed with no communication. Am I surprised? No, not at all.

My hopes were intentionally subdued and faded in the last two months waiting expectantly for news. Now, a week after the "twenty-four hour" message, I find myself preparing not only for another long wait, but also a summer of being overworked at my current job.

The trick is remaining polite with a general air of happy casualness when I communicate with Seattle HR. My first instinct is to whine. Being a whiner would not look good on my resume, I refrain.

Don't hold your breath. I'm not holding mine. You'll know when I do.