Saturday, August 19, 2006
Birthdays are great days not just because people fawn over you and let you get away with murder. They're great also because they allow you to take stock in your life and evaluate things. Like New Year's, but for you only. You can make your resolutions and decide what you want to keep about your life and what you want to change. Whether or not you stick firmly to those resolutions is not important. The fact that you decide, even for just a second, that you have power is enough to be invigorating.
"Happy Birthday" can mean "we're glad you were born" as well as "we're glad you made it another year and you haven't died yet."
They’re all having babies
But I just want to have some fun..."
"And now as I stand
And stare into your eyes
I see safety there--
I want surprises..."
"We're glad you're still alive" is key.
I used to think that fear of my children would be a deterrant from being a jackass and having too much fun in my 20s. I didn't want to do anything I wouldn't want my future kids to know about, thinking that if I led a boring existence I would not have any explaining to do when my kids were, well, ya know, being kids. It seemed easy at first, because I got through high school avoiding the things I knew I wouldn't want to tell my parents, so I thought it would be easy.
Yeah, that might have to be one of my birthday resolutions. Again.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
My ass hurts in a way it never has before.
I attempted to master an art that confused me in middle school: roller skating. Birthday parties at the roller rink were the most tense and nerve-racking for me. My balance was non-existent, my posture that of a man with a pole up his ass.
More than 10 years later, nothing has changed.
My friend Susan turned 25 yesterday and wanted to go either roller skating or ice skating. Thank God she chose the former. I think I'd have cuts if we did anything with blades involved.
The problem is that I move my legs too much and I end up looking like Godzilla or Voltron or some other creature hell-bent on destroying the populace. The whole point of wearing skates on the feet is that you don't have to lift them, but that feels unnatural to me. I try to push one foot of the other but my balance is off and I end up scooting forward two feet, back one foot. Forward two feet, back one foot. Madonna's "Ray of Light" started playing because I requested it (everyone besides us had been in pre-school when that song came out) and yet I couldn't move in the way my body wanted to move. Start dancing the way I normally do when I hear Madonna and I'd fall on my ass.
Which brings me to the sentence I used to start this post: My ass hurts in a way it never has before. Early on in the process, my friend Ali held my hand as we made our way around the rink. Kids zipped by us and I was worried that we'd get hit, but they apparently knew that my status as a senior citizen made me slow and so they skated around us. After a few laps where I was clutching to Ali's hand, Susan decided she'd take my other hand. I now had no wall to grasp, no arm to hold up awkwardly to gain my balance. Nothing.
They took off and I fell right on my ass. More than 12 hours after the fact, my ass still hurts. I took a hot bath (twice) and even took some Advil. It's starting to feel better, but it's not at 100 percent. For a while, I was worried I'd broken my coccyx. My dad's friend did that, slipping on the ice the day before his birthday. Which scares me, because my birthday is not too far from now.
And my friend Susan pointed out that a broken coxis is not like a broken arm or a broken leg. There are no butt casts they can give you for a broken ass bone. Are there? If they did, I wouldn't want anyone signing my ass cast, if for no other reason than that I'd have to get two mirrors and reflect them in each other if I wanted to read the cast. And that would be too much trouble.
They had some parts of the evening where you could race, but I opted to sit out and make bets on the kids doing the racing. Susan and Nolan were usually right on with their predictions on the winner. "Stripe shirt kid." "Blue kid." "Dropkick Murphys kid." I, of course, wanted to encourage these young athletes by shouting out words of support: "Go blue-y!" "Go stripe-y!" "Go Dropkick-y!" Thank God I never shouted for a kid in a black shirt. I was not completely ready for the riots that could have ensued after such a gaffe.
And then my ass would have REALLY hurt.
I attempted to master an art that confused me in middle school: roller skating. Birthday parties at the roller rink were the most tense and nerve-racking for me. My balance was non-existent, my posture that of a man with a pole up his ass.
More than 10 years later, nothing has changed.
My friend Susan turned 25 yesterday and wanted to go either roller skating or ice skating. Thank God she chose the former. I think I'd have cuts if we did anything with blades involved.
The problem is that I move my legs too much and I end up looking like Godzilla or Voltron or some other creature hell-bent on destroying the populace. The whole point of wearing skates on the feet is that you don't have to lift them, but that feels unnatural to me. I try to push one foot of the other but my balance is off and I end up scooting forward two feet, back one foot. Forward two feet, back one foot. Madonna's "Ray of Light" started playing because I requested it (everyone besides us had been in pre-school when that song came out) and yet I couldn't move in the way my body wanted to move. Start dancing the way I normally do when I hear Madonna and I'd fall on my ass.
Which brings me to the sentence I used to start this post: My ass hurts in a way it never has before. Early on in the process, my friend Ali held my hand as we made our way around the rink. Kids zipped by us and I was worried that we'd get hit, but they apparently knew that my status as a senior citizen made me slow and so they skated around us. After a few laps where I was clutching to Ali's hand, Susan decided she'd take my other hand. I now had no wall to grasp, no arm to hold up awkwardly to gain my balance. Nothing.
They took off and I fell right on my ass. More than 12 hours after the fact, my ass still hurts. I took a hot bath (twice) and even took some Advil. It's starting to feel better, but it's not at 100 percent. For a while, I was worried I'd broken my coccyx. My dad's friend did that, slipping on the ice the day before his birthday. Which scares me, because my birthday is not too far from now.
And my friend Susan pointed out that a broken coxis is not like a broken arm or a broken leg. There are no butt casts they can give you for a broken ass bone. Are there? If they did, I wouldn't want anyone signing my ass cast, if for no other reason than that I'd have to get two mirrors and reflect them in each other if I wanted to read the cast. And that would be too much trouble.
They had some parts of the evening where you could race, but I opted to sit out and make bets on the kids doing the racing. Susan and Nolan were usually right on with their predictions on the winner. "Stripe shirt kid." "Blue kid." "Dropkick Murphys kid." I, of course, wanted to encourage these young athletes by shouting out words of support: "Go blue-y!" "Go stripe-y!" "Go Dropkick-y!" Thank God I never shouted for a kid in a black shirt. I was not completely ready for the riots that could have ensued after such a gaffe.
And then my ass would have REALLY hurt.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
WBBP post #312
I've forgotten how difficult this can be
As one settles into adulthood and the novelty of "my first car" and "my first apartment" wear off, it becomes difficult to have anything that counts as news. "How was your week?" can be answered in two, maybe three sentences.
My nephew has a knack for seizing on every detail in a story and thus a two-hour trip to the pool can take two hours to explain. You can see him reliving each moment and hear the change in his voice depending on how excited he is. These stories are not packed with story or suspense, but I enjoy them because hearing a seven-year-old get excited about mundane details reminds me that I, too, get excited about mundane details.
I flip out when I hear two of my favorite songs in a row on the radio station. I love getting off the highway and having the pleasure of sharing the intersection with that rare driver who does not lurch forward when I get a green light and he still has a red light. I giggle at words on "Morning Edition" and that silly ad about dog poop being considered as an energy source. It's an ad for NPR, not for dog poop. I love Pandora playing the Burnside Project three songs in a row.
But somehow, those don't come up when people ask about my week. It's not that those didn't help make my week. They totally, all-encompassingly made my week go by easier, but it's not the type of stuff you mention when answering "How was your day?"
Some of my favorite conversations are the ones where you discuss the geeky minutia of your day-to-day processes: training one intern who's a little slower than the other, somebody who left a weird comment on your Facebook, or some band who sings that one song where the guy talks about the girl and she talks about the guy.
This is not to say I don't enjoy talking about life-and-death issues. I think those above topics ARE life-and-death issues. It's not frivolous or silly. Those things can give you more insight into a person than a questionnaire that says "Liberal or Conservative" or "Have you ever been in love?"
Then again, it could just be shooting the shit.
As one settles into adulthood and the novelty of "my first car" and "my first apartment" wear off, it becomes difficult to have anything that counts as news. "How was your week?" can be answered in two, maybe three sentences.
My nephew has a knack for seizing on every detail in a story and thus a two-hour trip to the pool can take two hours to explain. You can see him reliving each moment and hear the change in his voice depending on how excited he is. These stories are not packed with story or suspense, but I enjoy them because hearing a seven-year-old get excited about mundane details reminds me that I, too, get excited about mundane details.
I flip out when I hear two of my favorite songs in a row on the radio station. I love getting off the highway and having the pleasure of sharing the intersection with that rare driver who does not lurch forward when I get a green light and he still has a red light. I giggle at words on "Morning Edition" and that silly ad about dog poop being considered as an energy source. It's an ad for NPR, not for dog poop. I love Pandora playing the Burnside Project three songs in a row.
But somehow, those don't come up when people ask about my week. It's not that those didn't help make my week. They totally, all-encompassingly made my week go by easier, but it's not the type of stuff you mention when answering "How was your day?"
Some of my favorite conversations are the ones where you discuss the geeky minutia of your day-to-day processes: training one intern who's a little slower than the other, somebody who left a weird comment on your Facebook, or some band who sings that one song where the guy talks about the girl and she talks about the guy.
This is not to say I don't enjoy talking about life-and-death issues. I think those above topics ARE life-and-death issues. It's not frivolous or silly. Those things can give you more insight into a person than a questionnaire that says "Liberal or Conservative" or "Have you ever been in love?"
Then again, it could just be shooting the shit.
