The 101 Goals Challenge rolls on as do the final days of summer. Several have been started, a few completed. Let us take stock of what has been, what is, and what will and might be.
In the far-less-satisfying-than-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be category, we have Goal #85: Reach 100 followers on Twitter. In all honestly I'm not sure what achieving this goal represents. It certainly does not make me feel more interesting or more popular. I don't feel as if I've actually gained anything by completing this.
What was satisfying was completing Goal #16: Score in the double digits in the company basketball league. What follows is a telling of this fabled event.
On the eve of our final game of the regular (summer) season I had all but lost hope of achieving the aforementioned goal. Surely I've been gaining more and more confidence on the offense side of things, but still did not think that this milestone, which I had set for myself was within grasp. What made it seem even more unattainable was the fact that the team we were scheduled to play against was one that we lost to previously by the widest margin in all of our games played. These guys were no slouches. The one thing that was in my favor was that we would not have our complete 10 to 12 person roster for this game. Indeed, only 6 Fidessans came to play on that glorious night. None but one will remember it forever.
Given that we only had one other player available for substitutions, I knew that I would get plenty of playing time. I knew that setting a good pace and not wearing out early was key. As it turned out, I ended up playing the entire game, which was no easy task given the absence of air conditioning inside the sweaty and humid upper west side junior high school gymnasium.
My first basket came from a quick, pull-up jumper just below and to the left of the free-throw line. The next score came after receiving a laser pass down in the paint, right in front of the basket. A quick turn around sky hook added two more points to my total, which now stood at 4. Points 5 and 6 were came from of a bad pass made by the opposing team that was deflected toward me, sending me down the floor on a fast break. In my sprint up-court, I was being closely guarded, and even though I had an outlet pass to a trailing teammate, I knew if I took it strong to the hole, I would stand a very good chance of drawing a foul. As I stopped dribbling and prepared for my 1-2-jump-shoot, the defender peeled off and gave me an uncontested layup. Thus ended the first half, with my total points scored at 6.
The beginning of the second half brought a handful missed opportunities. After coming off the first half high of having scored 6, I was starting to get nervous about my chances as we approached the mid-point of the second, and final period of play. With approximately 5 minutes left in the game, I was fouled and got sent to the line for 2 free-throws. Alas, I made but one. Clearly, I thought, 7 was not my lucky number. I would require 2 more baskets to complete my goal, and given how my offensive effort was turning out in the second half, it looked like my chips were definitely down.
At this point, the more astute of my readers would have surely noticed that in order to consider the stated goal complete, I would be required to amass a minimum of 10 points in the game. Having already scored 7, a three-point shot would put me into the black. Therefore, my previous statement that I would need two baskets to complete the goal was wrong. One long-range field goal from beyond the arc would suffice. To this, I would have answered, "But I'm playing forward, and I haven't attempted or made a three-pointer all season long." The bellyaching of one with no vision nor cunning.
I continued to play on with regulation time running down along with my spirits. But who says miracles don't happen? Who says wishes can't come true?
In the final minutes of play and Fidessa Corp in possession of the ball and the lead, we decided to take it to our opponents, and not to sit back on our lead. Our veteran point guard pushed the ball up-court. I scrambled around underneath the basket trying to shake free of the down-low defenders and get open. The ball was swung to the left side of the court and back to the right. As I weaved up through the opposition's zone defense, I ended up up-top in the land of the PG and SG who have since rotated elsewhere.
I was open.
The PG saw the breakdown in defense and looked for the open man, who happened to be yours truly. He fed me the rock, and without an extra dribble or an extra thought I let fly. As the ball left my fingers, I felt it leave true.
Swoosh.
As I made the casual turn to get back on defense, I glanced over to my right at the referee, who was jogging up the sideline. The referee had both arms in the air making the sign of the touchdown.
There are some referee signals that are common between American football and basketball; the sign of the touchdown is one such signal. However, in the game of basketball, this gesture does not represent the scoring of 6 points by gaining the opponent's end-zone, nay, in basketball, this pantomime indicated a successfully-made three-point field-goal.
You see, in my haste to get off the open shot before a defender had a chance to come to me and make the opportunity flee, I failed to look down at my feet. Had I done so, I would have seen that they were planted just outside the designated arc that is the three-point line.
I made my 10.
Oh and some time ago, I read the Nikon manual.
8.29.2009
8.06.2009
Catching Up
I have to admit that while I was in the midst of composing my 101 goals I had already scratched a couple off the list. Some may call this cheating, but given the difficulty I had with finishing the list in the first place, I say bugger off, I'm keeping my completed goals!
The first goal to fall was #26 "Fix the name on my driver's license." I mentally prepared myself for what I thought would be a long, hard slog through the bureaucratic seventh circle of hell ruled by its overlord, the terrible Commissioner David J. Swarts (DMV for short). Imagine my surprise when the whole process of changing my name and address took all of 20 minutes! Sure I had to wait on two different lines, and sure I had to fake smile at the second teller's sour puss as she sucked her teeth (my favorite) and complained (as if I had anything to do with it) that the gentleman whom I dealt with prior to intruding on her workspace didn't take care of both my name and address changes, but if that was going to be the worst of it, then it was a small price to pay. A small price to pay, indeed.
As a side note, it seems to me that government employees often take on the attitude that they are doing you an enormous favor, which they will do, although begrudgingly, by performing their job (poorly, usually). You can't help but feel like you've ruined their day by simply asking them to provide the service or perform the task for which they were provided employment. But I digress.
The next goal to be scratched off was "#25 Get that noise that the car tire makes taken care of." This unnerving noise was the bane of my driving existence. It only made itself apparent as I cruised at low speed or made slow, right-hand turns. The sound was reminiscent of a piece of machinery that is slowly coming to the end of its life with a sad, metallic whimper.
Lucky for me I banged my car into an iffy spot on the road (that's as much as I will divulge) and damaged a good portion of my right, front-end thereby incurring over $1000 worth of damage. All the work that was done on my car had miraculously "fixed" the noise. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky me.
Finally (I left the most exciting for last) goal "#70 Get a famous person to reply to my on Twitter" got a big fat check mark next to it on 12:49 PM on July 30th. The super-famous, and super-Canadian Pat Kiernan (@patkiernan) of NY1 replied to me. He thanked me for suggesting he check out the very insightful blog TechDirt for its great coverage of the collapse of print news.
The trojan virus that this site has installed on your computer, unbeknownst to you, with its novel algorithm for determining skepticism by detecting changes in your typing speed and mouse acceleration, will no doubt transmit to my host system your virtual eye rolling as you scoff: "Pat Kiernan is not a celebrity!" Well to you, sir or madam, I submit the following: Pat Kiernan has appeared in no less that 5 TV shows and/or movies. That's only 2 less than Mariah Carey. Nuff said. Check. Done. Next please.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some crunches to do.
The first goal to fall was #26 "Fix the name on my driver's license." I mentally prepared myself for what I thought would be a long, hard slog through the bureaucratic seventh circle of hell ruled by its overlord, the terrible Commissioner David J. Swarts (DMV for short). Imagine my surprise when the whole process of changing my name and address took all of 20 minutes! Sure I had to wait on two different lines, and sure I had to fake smile at the second teller's sour puss as she sucked her teeth (my favorite) and complained (as if I had anything to do with it) that the gentleman whom I dealt with prior to intruding on her workspace didn't take care of both my name and address changes, but if that was going to be the worst of it, then it was a small price to pay. A small price to pay, indeed.
As a side note, it seems to me that government employees often take on the attitude that they are doing you an enormous favor, which they will do, although begrudgingly, by performing their job (poorly, usually). You can't help but feel like you've ruined their day by simply asking them to provide the service or perform the task for which they were provided employment. But I digress.
The next goal to be scratched off was "#25 Get that noise that the car tire makes taken care of." This unnerving noise was the bane of my driving existence. It only made itself apparent as I cruised at low speed or made slow, right-hand turns. The sound was reminiscent of a piece of machinery that is slowly coming to the end of its life with a sad, metallic whimper.
Lucky for me I banged my car into an iffy spot on the road (that's as much as I will divulge) and damaged a good portion of my right, front-end thereby incurring over $1000 worth of damage. All the work that was done on my car had miraculously "fixed" the noise. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky me.
Finally (I left the most exciting for last) goal "#70 Get a famous person to reply to my on Twitter" got a big fat check mark next to it on 12:49 PM on July 30th. The super-famous, and super-Canadian Pat Kiernan (@patkiernan) of NY1 replied to me. He thanked me for suggesting he check out the very insightful blog TechDirt for its great coverage of the collapse of print news.
The trojan virus that this site has installed on your computer, unbeknownst to you, with its novel algorithm for determining skepticism by detecting changes in your typing speed and mouse acceleration, will no doubt transmit to my host system your virtual eye rolling as you scoff: "Pat Kiernan is not a celebrity!" Well to you, sir or madam, I submit the following: Pat Kiernan has appeared in no less that 5 TV shows and/or movies. That's only 2 less than Mariah Carey. Nuff said. Check. Done. Next please.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some crunches to do.
6.18.2009
101 Goals in 1001 Days
I painstakingly crafted the following list of 101 goals to be completed in 1001 days. Hopefully some of these will lead to situations involving incredible folly, danger, perhaps even intrigue, subterfuge, and ... mudeeerrrr?
001 Get an LCD TV no smaller than 40"
002 Make my lower abdominal muscles more chiseled
003 Stop cutting myself while shaving
004 Buy a house without going broke
005 Buy an engagement ring
006 Propose
007 Get married
008 Have a kid (considered complete at conception)
009 Learn conversational Spanish
010 Break 6 figures
011 Make my website idea usable just for the hell of it
012 Go to Europe again
013 Avoid the hospital
014 [redacted]
015 Help improve Alejandra's credit score
016 Score in the double-digits in the company basketball league
017 Update my blog (more often)
018 Bring the average grocery bill down to $150 or less
019 Use my power drill for some kind of home project
020 Go on a trip with my brother
021 Put up the ceiling fan
022 Get back to benching 250 lbs at the gym
023 Have lunch with DC every now and again
024 Try to hang out with Eric and Alvin more
025 Get that noise that the car tire makes taken care of
026 Fix the name on my driver's license
027 Run a 10k
028 Run a half marathon
029 Read the Nikon manual and understand the features
030 Learn how to make 'holodets' from my grandfather
031 Get myself a decent pair of eyeglasses
032 Get my summer suit altered
033 Stick to drinking mainly water
034 Become better at picking wines
035 Complete the 100 push up challenge
036 Visit the Guggenheim for the first time
037 Visit MoMA for the first time
038 Go see an interesting exhibit at the MET
039 Take Alejandra to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden
040 Take Alejandra to the Coney Island Aquarium
041 Go to the dentist for regular cleanings every 6 months
042 Be done with Invisalign
043 Sketch Alejandra
044 Do a DIY project from Lifehacker
045 Play my guitar at least once every 2 weeks
046 Go see a taping of the Colbert Report
047 Read the Dark Tower series by Stephen King
048 Snowboard at least 5 days every winter
049 Donate my blood at a blood drive
050 Take part in a volunteer opportunity
051 Visit Washington D.C. with Alejandra
052 Go to Napa/Sonoma Valleys
053 Learn how to bake my mother's apple pie
054 Do the summer dancing thing at Lincoln Center
055 Call my grandparents once every 2 weeks
056 Use that "The Art of Shaving" coupon that's lying around
057 See a Broadway musical and attempt to enjoy it
058 See the movie "Up"
059 No more FCRF blunders
060 Buy more better-fitting boxers
061 Watch Labyrinth and The Princess Bride back-to-back
062 Take Alejandra row-boating in Central Park
063 Start a college fund for progeny
064 Go on a Caribbean cruise
065 Practice singing while playing guitar (in key)
066 Take Alejandra to Brighton Beach, have her try my favorite Russian treats
067 Participate in an Improv Everywhere event
068 Read a book in a day
069 Go ice skating at least once every winter
070 Get a famous person to reply to my on Twitter
071 Finally see Haresh's new apartment
072 Finally see Matt's new condo
073 Go apple picking
074 Go berry picking
075 Smoke a cigar
076 Get a manicure
077 Get a pedicure
078 Get a couples massage
079 Attend the 4th of July Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Championship
080 See a Yankees game at the new stadium
081 See my first Rangers game (bonus for playoffs)
082 Visit the Intrepid museum
083 Walk from our apartment to the West Village
084 Get a new hair style
085 Reach 100 followers on Twitter
086 Go to my high school reunion, make at least 3 people jealous
087 Do a cartwheel in public (again)
088 Brew my own beer
089 Contribute to an open source project
090 Submit something to Digg, break triple-digits
091 Change someone's political opinion
092 Vote
093 Cook a special dinner for mah behbeh once every 3 months
094 Rent something from Rent-A-Center
095 Become a charmer in social situations
096 Answer a newspaper ad for anything
097 Go fishing
098 Play cupid/matchmaker
099 Invest at least $1,000 in a stock tip
100 Go to a book signing or a book reading
101 Render someone speechless
001 Get an LCD TV no smaller than 40"
002 Make my lower abdominal muscles more chiseled
003 Stop cutting myself while shaving
004 Buy a house without going broke
005 Buy an engagement ring
006 Propose
007 Get married
008 Have a kid (considered complete at conception)
009 Learn conversational Spanish
010 Break 6 figures
011 Make my website idea usable just for the hell of it
012 Go to Europe again
013 Avoid the hospital
014 [redacted]
015 Help improve Alejandra's credit score
017 Update my blog (more often)
018 Bring the average grocery bill down to $150 or less
019 Use my power drill for some kind of home project
020 Go on a trip with my brother
021 Put up the ceiling fan
022 Get back to benching 250 lbs at the gym
023 Have lunch with DC every now and again
024 Try to hang out with Eric and Alvin more
027 Run a 10k
028 Run a half marathon
030 Learn how to make 'holodets' from my grandfather
031 Get myself a decent pair of eyeglasses
032 Get my summer suit altered
033 Stick to drinking mainly water
034 Become better at picking wines
035 Complete the 100 push up challenge
036 Visit the Guggenheim for the first time
037 Visit MoMA for the first time
038 Go see an interesting exhibit at the MET
039 Take Alejandra to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden
040 Take Alejandra to the Coney Island Aquarium
041 Go to the dentist for regular cleanings every 6 months
042 Be done with Invisalign
043 Sketch Alejandra
044 Do a DIY project from Lifehacker
045 Play my guitar at least once every 2 weeks
046 Go see a taping of the Colbert Report
047 Read the Dark Tower series by Stephen King
048 Snowboard at least 5 days every winter
049 Donate my blood at a blood drive
050 Take part in a volunteer opportunity
051 Visit Washington D.C. with Alejandra
052 Go to Napa/Sonoma Valleys
053 Learn how to bake my mother's apple pie
054 Do the summer dancing thing at Lincoln Center
055 Call my grandparents once every 2 weeks
056 Use that "The Art of Shaving" coupon that's lying around
057 See a Broadway musical and attempt to enjoy it
058 See the movie "Up"
059 No more FCRF blunders
060 Buy more better-fitting boxers
061 Watch Labyrinth and The Princess Bride back-to-back
062 Take Alejandra row-boating in Central Park
063 Start a college fund for progeny
064 Go on a Caribbean cruise
065 Practice singing while playing guitar (in key)
066 Take Alejandra to Brighton Beach, have her try my favorite Russian treats
067 Participate in an Improv Everywhere event
068 Read a book in a day
069 Go ice skating at least once every winter
071 Finally see Haresh's new apartment
072 Finally see Matt's new condo
073 Go apple picking
074 Go berry picking
075 Smoke a cigar
076 Get a manicure
077 Get a pedicure
078 Get a couples massage
079 Attend the 4th of July Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Championship
080 See a Yankees game at the new stadium
081 See my first Rangers game (bonus for playoffs)
082 Visit the Intrepid museum
083 Walk from our apartment to the West Village
084 Get a new hair style
086 Go to my high school reunion, make at least 3 people jealous
087 Do a cartwheel in public (again)
088 Brew my own beer
089 Contribute to an open source project
090 Submit something to Digg, break triple-digits
091 Change someone's political opinion
092 Vote
093 Cook a special dinner for mah behbeh once every 3 months
094 Rent something from Rent-A-Center
095 Become a charmer in social situations
096 Answer a newspaper ad for anything
097 Go fishing
098 Play cupid/matchmaker
099 Invest at least $1,000 in a stock tip
100 Go to a book signing or a book reading
101 Render someone speechless
5.04.2009
I Want To Pump Me Up
I go to the gym.
That is to say, I make every effort to go to the gym.
To be clear, I make my best effort to go to the gym.
Just so there's no confusion, I sometimes go to the gym,
but most of the time, I don't.
In my sophomore year of college I needed some type of activity to fill the enormous, gaping, Earth-destroying asteroid-sized hole in my schedule. The problem was that I was taking undergraduate and graduate courses at the same time; the latter did not start until the evening and the former promptly ended just past lunch. While I knew about the existence of a gym on our poor excuse for a "campus," I was never had never felt a desire to be within the confines of its man-sweat soaked walls, breathing in its man-sweat-vapored air.
Prologue.
I was not single at the time and—and I assure you, most guys in steady relationships do—thought that any attempt to improve my outward appearance was a complete waste of my valuable time; time that could have otherwise been spent watching pirated movies on my laptop in the library—and I assure you, many hours were spent doing just that. I was a skinny pole-of-a-human-being and did not care. Could you have blamed me? Why sweat at the gym when you can get the milk for free?
Nevertheless I had time to kill and was running out of movies to watch. With a faded-pink-faced Master combination lock and a change of shorts and shirt in tote, I took the two flights of stairs down to the basement of Rogers Hall and thus began my foray into the process of forging and sculpting muscle tissue. It was slow-going at first, but after a few weeks I started to like the "pain" although I had yet to see any "gain." Like a child who just did his first push-ups, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing my puny biceps in desperate search for any hints of a muscle bulge rising up just under the skin's surface.
Surprisingly, I kept at it and actually saw results. This fueled my vanity and helped me fight the constant, internal battle against complacency and sloth. In the off moths I was able to maintain my new-found regimen by using a Bally Total Fitness membership that I had gotten with my family at the Jew-ripe age of 13 and then had promptly abandoned at the age of 13-and-a-half. Going back to that gym I felt like General MacArthur reclaiming Manila, except instead of overjoyed, newly-liberated aborigines, I was surrounded by juiced-up, spray-tanned, Axe-bathed walking stereotypes. I felt sound as a pound.
Near the tail-end of my illustrious college career I had picked up a workout buddy in form of my BFF Eric after convincing him to sign up for a Bally's membership. I quickly brought him up to speed and in no time we were pumping out the same weight and reps. We helped push each other in those difficult times when we felt like we were stuck and not improving ("plateaued"). I looked forward to our time at the gym, because that was our time to catch up on the television that we've watched or chances with females that we've ruined.
As a side-note, he has never thanked me for transforming his scrawny physique into its current form. I will be expecting a gift of some sort from his future wife of greater or equal value to a year's-worth of personal training sessions.
Thanks to Eric and our silent, never-spoken-of competition to see who will become bigger and stronger, I was able to keep a, for the most part, steady gym schedule: a diligent three days per week. Not the most intensive of workout schedules, but still pretty good by 1-out-of-every-3-American-kids-is-overweight-or-obese standards.
The schedule started to break down once I moved in with my girlfriend. Having someone tell you they love you just the way you are can really take its toll. Losing my gym buddy in the process—through distance, not death—did not help matters. I keep looking for and finding excuses. The irony is that I know how much harder it is to start back up once one has been out for too long. I dread that first day back after a too-long a hiatus. I've been there many times before: muscles too reluctant to stretch, give up too easily, recover slowly.
I hope that it is the winter and now spring months that are making me lethargic. Once the summer comes and I drop the five-or-so hibernation pounds I've put on I will be back to my old routine. However, I know I will not be pushing myself with the same intensity as before. I will likely settle into a less-strenuous maintenance routine, which is probably healthier anyway as I will be reducing the amount of stress I put on my body.
The above-mentioned intentions are written here as a statement for the record and for no one else's benefit but my own.
I GO TO THE GYM!
That is to say, I make every effort to go to the gym.
To be clear, I make my best effort to go to the gym.
Just so there's no confusion, I sometimes go to the gym,
but most of the time, I don't.
In my sophomore year of college I needed some type of activity to fill the enormous, gaping, Earth-destroying asteroid-sized hole in my schedule. The problem was that I was taking undergraduate and graduate courses at the same time; the latter did not start until the evening and the former promptly ended just past lunch. While I knew about the existence of a gym on our poor excuse for a "campus," I was never had never felt a desire to be within the confines of its man-sweat soaked walls, breathing in its man-sweat-vapored air.
Prologue.
I was not single at the time and—and I assure you, most guys in steady relationships do—thought that any attempt to improve my outward appearance was a complete waste of my valuable time; time that could have otherwise been spent watching pirated movies on my laptop in the library—and I assure you, many hours were spent doing just that. I was a skinny pole-of-a-human-being and did not care. Could you have blamed me? Why sweat at the gym when you can get the milk for free?
Nevertheless I had time to kill and was running out of movies to watch. With a faded-pink-faced Master combination lock and a change of shorts and shirt in tote, I took the two flights of stairs down to the basement of Rogers Hall and thus began my foray into the process of forging and sculpting muscle tissue. It was slow-going at first, but after a few weeks I started to like the "pain" although I had yet to see any "gain." Like a child who just did his first push-ups, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing my puny biceps in desperate search for any hints of a muscle bulge rising up just under the skin's surface.
Surprisingly, I kept at it and actually saw results. This fueled my vanity and helped me fight the constant, internal battle against complacency and sloth. In the off moths I was able to maintain my new-found regimen by using a Bally Total Fitness membership that I had gotten with my family at the Jew-ripe age of 13 and then had promptly abandoned at the age of 13-and-a-half. Going back to that gym I felt like General MacArthur reclaiming Manila, except instead of overjoyed, newly-liberated aborigines, I was surrounded by juiced-up, spray-tanned, Axe-bathed walking stereotypes. I felt sound as a pound.
Near the tail-end of my illustrious college career I had picked up a workout buddy in form of my BFF Eric after convincing him to sign up for a Bally's membership. I quickly brought him up to speed and in no time we were pumping out the same weight and reps. We helped push each other in those difficult times when we felt like we were stuck and not improving ("plateaued"). I looked forward to our time at the gym, because that was our time to catch up on the television that we've watched or chances with females that we've ruined.
As a side-note, he has never thanked me for transforming his scrawny physique into its current form. I will be expecting a gift of some sort from his future wife of greater or equal value to a year's-worth of personal training sessions.
Thanks to Eric and our silent, never-spoken-of competition to see who will become bigger and stronger, I was able to keep a, for the most part, steady gym schedule: a diligent three days per week. Not the most intensive of workout schedules, but still pretty good by 1-out-of-every-3-American-kids-is-overweight-or-obese standards.
The schedule started to break down once I moved in with my girlfriend. Having someone tell you they love you just the way you are can really take its toll. Losing my gym buddy in the process—through distance, not death—did not help matters. I keep looking for and finding excuses. The irony is that I know how much harder it is to start back up once one has been out for too long. I dread that first day back after a too-long a hiatus. I've been there many times before: muscles too reluctant to stretch, give up too easily, recover slowly.
I hope that it is the winter and now spring months that are making me lethargic. Once the summer comes and I drop the five-or-so hibernation pounds I've put on I will be back to my old routine. However, I know I will not be pushing myself with the same intensity as before. I will likely settle into a less-strenuous maintenance routine, which is probably healthier anyway as I will be reducing the amount of stress I put on my body.
The above-mentioned intentions are written here as a statement for the record and for no one else's benefit but my own.
I GO TO THE GYM!
4.22.2009
Revelation Through Selfishness
I think at this point it's safe to say this blog is clearly no longer "tech-centric."
I am not entirely proud of it, but I have been called selfish at various points in my life. However, I think I am in the upper class of selfish people, because unlike the runts below me I recognize this quality in myself whereas everyone else is completely blind to this glaring shortcoming of their personality. Given this last sentence, I must also admit that I have been called arrogant at times as well.
When it does so, my brand of selfishness manifests itself in my dealings with those that are not all that important to me, and is otherwise held in check—to the best of my abilities—vis-à-vis those I truly love and care for. However, despite being called arrogant, I am not delusional enough think myself perfect and therefore will slip on occasion and expose my selfish nature even to those that are near and dear to me. I usually do not mean to be that way, but at times it can be a bit of a reflex action; something I do not realize until after the act has already occurred, the offense made, and the damage done.
This post is about one such recent act of selfishness that I had perpetrated against the one I love most, and my emotionally-draining, -exhausting, -difficult attempt to make amends. By performing the nominal act of repentance, which I describe below, I exposed my rawest of nerves, explored aspects of my character whose nature, when encountered, felt completely foreign and counter to what I knew about myself (or at least thought I knew), but after which my love for this wonderful person that is now the premier source of my happiness and whose happiness is premier, will have become more complete, more deep, and more plentiful. With this act I lifted the self-imposed blindfold I was donning prior to my going through with this experience and was able to accept and gain a deeper understanding of my one, my everything, completely, and without reservation.
With so much preamble (near the point of filibuster) one would think that I must have had to perform some Herculean task as penance for some unforgivable transgression. In reality, the truth—to some—may seem laughable, but to me was anything but.
The crime: Failing to read my girlfriend's blog archives.
The punishment: Reading said archives.
My girl is an incredibly talented writer. Although my opinion may be biased, I know it is shared by hundreds of readers who frequent her blog and leave glowing comments and reviews after every post. I knew of its existence before we started dating. Its archives date back to a pre-us era. A period of time that, for her, consisted of constant highs and lows (but don't take my word for it, go read the archives!). The writing is vivid, clever, imaginative, and just plain spectacular.
In the not-too-distant past my girlfriend, rightly, pointed out the odd fact that I never went back to read all her old blog posts. She—once again rightly—said that had I had a body of work out there somewhere, she would stay up all day and night until she had absorbed every word of it.
I must admit I was rather shocked at myself, because this clearly was a terrible omission on my part. Why wasn't I interested enough to go and read all those posts that had been born out of my love's past experiences, and crafted by her superior literary skill? I really had no answer. All I could offer was a mea culpa and a promise to read them all in the near future. It was just after this promise was made that she warned me that I might run into mentions of previous men in her life as, again, these writings were from a time before we were dating. The comment was innocent enough but it certainly had an effect, and it lodged itself in my brain as I—with zero hesitation—navigated to her blog (this was happening while I was at work) and began randomly clicking on archive links seeking out these mentions that she had warned me about. I cannot say what led me to do this. Some base curiosity, I suppose. Even as a rush of anxiety and panic swept through me, I continued to click. I came up nearly empty-handed, finding only a fleeting mention here and there, but my search was definitely not exhaustive.
Following that day I let sleeping dogs lie and avoided that blog like the plague. I never thought myself so weak and pathetic and yet there I was, cowering, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Days went by and I had forgotten all about it.
As a side note, I am not as completely naïve as I sound. I am fully aware that I was not the first man in my love's life. I have heard her recount—with a fair amount of detail—past almost-relationships and not-almost-heartaches. It was tough to hear, but I dealt with it in a rational and mature manner. Of course there is something inherently different between hearing her tell these stories now that we are together, and reading about them in these flowing, poetic, and tragic descriptions, which were written at a time not-far-removed from the events that they describe, without the aid of filters or omissions to blunt the blow.
No, just the raw...honest...brutal...and emotional truth.
This was my act of selfishness. I was a total coward. Nothing more than an insecure boy unable and unwilling to face the truth. Unable and unwilling to frame it in its proper context, which would have been the rational and mature response. I refused to drown myself in my love's gift, her talent, her ultimate passion. I stayed away, tail securely between knees.
Two days ago, she brought it up again. It was just a passing comment, but it stung my now guilty conscience. After some labored though I finally made the decision to refuse to let myself be ruled by this despicable cowardice, this wretched selfishness.
That same night I began to read. Going all the way back to the beginning—two years before our beginning—and continuing to read post after post. A body of work that spanned weeks, months, and years. It took nearly 2 days for me to consume it all, but consume it all I did.
It was difficult. Throughout, my pulse raced, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest. The ever-present lump in my throat, the gut-wrenching anxiety. I had wished I was a nail-biter. Even while reading the "happy" and "silly" posts I felt these extreme emotions in anticipation of what I might learn in the next story. There was a general feeling of melancholy that draped itself over me as I continued to read. It took me some time to analyze it and find its source. It had to do with the fact that I was reading about this girl who was not quite the girl I know now. The girl back then was different. Not better, not worse, just slightly different. I did not know that girl. She did not know me. We were not in each others' lives. This inherent nature of time and cause and effect made my heart ache as I read on. I do not know that it is entirely normal for me to have felt melancholy as I read about and imagined my love's life without me in it. However, in a way, it is a testament to how completely I haven given myself over to her, and for that I am not ashamed.
For obvious reasons the most difficult passages to read were ones that described her own heart aches. Throughout the entries she wrote there is an underlying longing, a desire to have someone special in her life. Her constant having to say good bye to those that are so special and important to her only add to this running theme. The cavalier ways in which people handled her heart were tough to get over, but my sorrow was infinitesimally smaller to what she must have felt.
It felt like one of those nightmares where the one you love is trapped inside some white room, completely unaware that you are on the outside, screaming and banging away at the sound-proof glass that separates the two of you. You can do nothing but watch as some terrible fate befalls your love. That is how it felt reading those passages.
The writing is so vivid, so lucid, it lifted me up and dropped me inside that room, onto that street. It left me there to stand and shout at the top of my lungs, "It's okay! I'm here! I'm here!" Being just a ghost, a disembodied observer, I had not the means to interfere or intervene. I was a helpless spectator as my love was there feeling the worst of pain.
Many times I had to stop to catch my breath and slow down my heart. I would wander into the kitchen or the living room to seek her out. I just wanted to hold her and to thank whatever force (God, Luck, Entropy) that brought her into my life and me into hers. I did just that, trying not to let her see my eyes well up or show how deeply touched I was by what I had just read. Of course she saw it anyway. She saw it on my face, in my eyes, felt it in my embrace.
With her help I got through it.
Reading those incredibly-written pieces I came away feeling immense pride (not pity). I felt so proud of my love, her incredible talent and her unwavering resilience. I saw that she never let her vulnerabilities become weaknesses. Her incredible wit, her inexhaustible enthusiasm, and her boundless ability shine through in every turn of phrase, and in every sentence crafted to perfection.
As for myself, the experience has taught me that I'm far more insecure than I let myself—or others—believe. I hope that this will teach me not to fear tests of emotional muster. I benefited greatly not only from the insights I have gained into her nature, but also it served as an invaluable introspective.
As I draw this to a close, I realize I do not want to end on a paragraph talking about myself. I really want to make this an homage to the only (last?) sexy lady in my life.
Here's to you.
I love you baby.
I am not entirely proud of it, but I have been called selfish at various points in my life. However, I think I am in the upper class of selfish people, because unlike the runts below me I recognize this quality in myself whereas everyone else is completely blind to this glaring shortcoming of their personality. Given this last sentence, I must also admit that I have been called arrogant at times as well.
When it does so, my brand of selfishness manifests itself in my dealings with those that are not all that important to me, and is otherwise held in check—to the best of my abilities—vis-à-vis those I truly love and care for. However, despite being called arrogant, I am not delusional enough think myself perfect and therefore will slip on occasion and expose my selfish nature even to those that are near and dear to me. I usually do not mean to be that way, but at times it can be a bit of a reflex action; something I do not realize until after the act has already occurred, the offense made, and the damage done.
This post is about one such recent act of selfishness that I had perpetrated against the one I love most, and my emotionally-draining, -exhausting, -difficult attempt to make amends. By performing the nominal act of repentance, which I describe below, I exposed my rawest of nerves, explored aspects of my character whose nature, when encountered, felt completely foreign and counter to what I knew about myself (or at least thought I knew), but after which my love for this wonderful person that is now the premier source of my happiness and whose happiness is premier, will have become more complete, more deep, and more plentiful. With this act I lifted the self-imposed blindfold I was donning prior to my going through with this experience and was able to accept and gain a deeper understanding of my one, my everything, completely, and without reservation.
With so much preamble (near the point of filibuster) one would think that I must have had to perform some Herculean task as penance for some unforgivable transgression. In reality, the truth—to some—may seem laughable, but to me was anything but.
The crime: Failing to read my girlfriend's blog archives.
The punishment: Reading said archives.
My girl is an incredibly talented writer. Although my opinion may be biased, I know it is shared by hundreds of readers who frequent her blog and leave glowing comments and reviews after every post. I knew of its existence before we started dating. Its archives date back to a pre-us era. A period of time that, for her, consisted of constant highs and lows (but don't take my word for it, go read the archives!). The writing is vivid, clever, imaginative, and just plain spectacular.
In the not-too-distant past my girlfriend, rightly, pointed out the odd fact that I never went back to read all her old blog posts. She—once again rightly—said that had I had a body of work out there somewhere, she would stay up all day and night until she had absorbed every word of it.
I must admit I was rather shocked at myself, because this clearly was a terrible omission on my part. Why wasn't I interested enough to go and read all those posts that had been born out of my love's past experiences, and crafted by her superior literary skill? I really had no answer. All I could offer was a mea culpa and a promise to read them all in the near future. It was just after this promise was made that she warned me that I might run into mentions of previous men in her life as, again, these writings were from a time before we were dating. The comment was innocent enough but it certainly had an effect, and it lodged itself in my brain as I—with zero hesitation—navigated to her blog (this was happening while I was at work) and began randomly clicking on archive links seeking out these mentions that she had warned me about. I cannot say what led me to do this. Some base curiosity, I suppose. Even as a rush of anxiety and panic swept through me, I continued to click. I came up nearly empty-handed, finding only a fleeting mention here and there, but my search was definitely not exhaustive.
Following that day I let sleeping dogs lie and avoided that blog like the plague. I never thought myself so weak and pathetic and yet there I was, cowering, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Days went by and I had forgotten all about it.
As a side note, I am not as completely naïve as I sound. I am fully aware that I was not the first man in my love's life. I have heard her recount—with a fair amount of detail—past almost-relationships and not-almost-heartaches. It was tough to hear, but I dealt with it in a rational and mature manner. Of course there is something inherently different between hearing her tell these stories now that we are together, and reading about them in these flowing, poetic, and tragic descriptions, which were written at a time not-far-removed from the events that they describe, without the aid of filters or omissions to blunt the blow.
No, just the raw...honest...brutal...and emotional truth.
This was my act of selfishness. I was a total coward. Nothing more than an insecure boy unable and unwilling to face the truth. Unable and unwilling to frame it in its proper context, which would have been the rational and mature response. I refused to drown myself in my love's gift, her talent, her ultimate passion. I stayed away, tail securely between knees.
Two days ago, she brought it up again. It was just a passing comment, but it stung my now guilty conscience. After some labored though I finally made the decision to refuse to let myself be ruled by this despicable cowardice, this wretched selfishness.
That same night I began to read. Going all the way back to the beginning—two years before our beginning—and continuing to read post after post. A body of work that spanned weeks, months, and years. It took nearly 2 days for me to consume it all, but consume it all I did.
It was difficult. Throughout, my pulse raced, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest. The ever-present lump in my throat, the gut-wrenching anxiety. I had wished I was a nail-biter. Even while reading the "happy" and "silly" posts I felt these extreme emotions in anticipation of what I might learn in the next story. There was a general feeling of melancholy that draped itself over me as I continued to read. It took me some time to analyze it and find its source. It had to do with the fact that I was reading about this girl who was not quite the girl I know now. The girl back then was different. Not better, not worse, just slightly different. I did not know that girl. She did not know me. We were not in each others' lives. This inherent nature of time and cause and effect made my heart ache as I read on. I do not know that it is entirely normal for me to have felt melancholy as I read about and imagined my love's life without me in it. However, in a way, it is a testament to how completely I haven given myself over to her, and for that I am not ashamed.
For obvious reasons the most difficult passages to read were ones that described her own heart aches. Throughout the entries she wrote there is an underlying longing, a desire to have someone special in her life. Her constant having to say good bye to those that are so special and important to her only add to this running theme. The cavalier ways in which people handled her heart were tough to get over, but my sorrow was infinitesimally smaller to what she must have felt.
It felt like one of those nightmares where the one you love is trapped inside some white room, completely unaware that you are on the outside, screaming and banging away at the sound-proof glass that separates the two of you. You can do nothing but watch as some terrible fate befalls your love. That is how it felt reading those passages.
The writing is so vivid, so lucid, it lifted me up and dropped me inside that room, onto that street. It left me there to stand and shout at the top of my lungs, "It's okay! I'm here! I'm here!" Being just a ghost, a disembodied observer, I had not the means to interfere or intervene. I was a helpless spectator as my love was there feeling the worst of pain.
Many times I had to stop to catch my breath and slow down my heart. I would wander into the kitchen or the living room to seek her out. I just wanted to hold her and to thank whatever force (God, Luck, Entropy) that brought her into my life and me into hers. I did just that, trying not to let her see my eyes well up or show how deeply touched I was by what I had just read. Of course she saw it anyway. She saw it on my face, in my eyes, felt it in my embrace.
With her help I got through it.
Reading those incredibly-written pieces I came away feeling immense pride (not pity). I felt so proud of my love, her incredible talent and her unwavering resilience. I saw that she never let her vulnerabilities become weaknesses. Her incredible wit, her inexhaustible enthusiasm, and her boundless ability shine through in every turn of phrase, and in every sentence crafted to perfection.
As for myself, the experience has taught me that I'm far more insecure than I let myself—or others—believe. I hope that this will teach me not to fear tests of emotional muster. I benefited greatly not only from the insights I have gained into her nature, but also it served as an invaluable introspective.
As I draw this to a close, I realize I do not want to end on a paragraph talking about myself. I really want to make this an homage to the only (last?) sexy lady in my life.
Here's to you.
I love you baby.
11.22.2008
Holidaze
We've all heard that cliché a million-and-a-half times: "It's that time of year again." For me, in winters past, this time of year usually meant nothing more than the start of the new snowboarding season, and was excitement enough. I paid zero to no attention to the bare trees adorned with twinkling Christmas lights or the emerald wreaths hanging on front doors. After all, what was in it for me? In my family we barely celebrate Hanukkah. When I was younger it came and went without much fanfare. Today, it barely gets an honorable mention. Back then, Chanukah (alternate spelling used here in the interest of equality) just meant another $20 from the grandparents to last me until New Year's Eve, which is when I would maybe score a couple of more gifts.
I guess growing up in communist and therefore atheist Russia did not easily lend itself to partaking in and maintaining religious holiday traditions. Hanukkah was not a big deal—never mind the actual high (real) holidays—and I did not even know that Christmas existed until I moved to this country. For us Godless Ukrainians, the biggest celebrations took place New Year's Eve, which is when "Grandfather Frost" would bring presents to all the young boys and girls. We even had a "New Year's" tree that my parents would still put up for several years after we had immigrated. I would constantly have to explain to my friends who saw it that it definitely was not a Christmas tree. They eventually took to calling it my family's Hanukkah bush.
"Are you putting up the Hanukkah bush this year?"
As I got older, my parents got more lax and the New Years' gifts dried up along with my feelings about the season. Since then I haven't really been able to—nor did I really feel a need to—"get into spirit" as they say. I would just be excited about and looking forward to hitting the fresh powder on my freshly-waxed snowboard; dreidels and baby Jesus be damned.
This year, however, the holiday season has a different feel to it. I'm in a much happier place emotionally and as a result I think I'm able to soak up the excitement that others are feeling about this time of year. None more so than my girlfriend, whose Christmas spirit is absolutely intoxicating and highly infectious. I really think some of her excitement is beginning to rub off on me and I don't mind one bit, because I really want to feel that anticipation that I remember feeling as a little boy, the one who waited for Дед Мороз to come and leave him presents under the New Year's tree.
I feel like a backwards bear coming out of a long summer's hibernation. Hopefully I'll be able to come out of my holi-daze.
I guess growing up in communist and therefore atheist Russia did not easily lend itself to partaking in and maintaining religious holiday traditions. Hanukkah was not a big deal—never mind the actual high (real) holidays—and I did not even know that Christmas existed until I moved to this country. For us Godless Ukrainians, the biggest celebrations took place New Year's Eve, which is when "Grandfather Frost" would bring presents to all the young boys and girls. We even had a "New Year's" tree that my parents would still put up for several years after we had immigrated. I would constantly have to explain to my friends who saw it that it definitely was not a Christmas tree. They eventually took to calling it my family's Hanukkah bush.
"Are you putting up the Hanukkah bush this year?"
As I got older, my parents got more lax and the New Years' gifts dried up along with my feelings about the season. Since then I haven't really been able to—nor did I really feel a need to—"get into spirit" as they say. I would just be excited about and looking forward to hitting the fresh powder on my freshly-waxed snowboard; dreidels and baby Jesus be damned.
This year, however, the holiday season has a different feel to it. I'm in a much happier place emotionally and as a result I think I'm able to soak up the excitement that others are feeling about this time of year. None more so than my girlfriend, whose Christmas spirit is absolutely intoxicating and highly infectious. I really think some of her excitement is beginning to rub off on me and I don't mind one bit, because I really want to feel that anticipation that I remember feeling as a little boy, the one who waited for Дед Мороз to come and leave him presents under the New Year's tree.
I feel like a backwards bear coming out of a long summer's hibernation. Hopefully I'll be able to come out of my holi-daze.
11.10.2008
Idling
I spy my girlfriend through a narrow crack between the living room and kitchen doors. It's only a crack because my line of sight, while reclining on the couch, allows me only about a six inch wide portal. I see about quarter of the red Kitchenaid mixer (currently set to medium speed), a bit of counter top, and the rest is all umbrellas and chairs. The Wedding Singer is on the television, but I'm not really interested as I've seen it way too many times. Oh, Jon Lovitz! ... Ok back.
What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.
Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).
That is all. Carry on.
What made me want to write about this? Because every 40 seconds or so I am treated to the delightful sight of my lovely girlfriend hard at work mixing up some wonderful concoction that I can't wait to try. Today it happens to be a pomegranite and poached quince sponge cake.
Although I can only see about 2/3 of her back through my little porthole, every so often I catch a glimpse of her beautiful profile (she looks so cute in her glasses). Every time she makes an appearance, like the marquee star of a Broadway play making her first, long-awaited entrance from stage right, I'm filled with a warmness that is only matched by the heat radiating from the pre-heated oven (350 degrees Fahrenheit) and by writing about I hope to capture this feeling and linger in it a while longer as I try to find the words with which to describe it (and doing a poor job of it (a wordsmith I am not)).
That is all. Carry on.
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