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Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts

Flexing My Way to Athletic Prowess

Thursday, March 17, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

Only once, in an educational career that has spanned three decades, has my physical fitness ever been formally measured.  And, because the Devil, capital D, run's all middle schools, that time was during my 7th grade gym class. Smack in the middle of my pubescent transformation, the Board of Education had me go through a series of physical challenges a la Double Dare.

For one class period all the guys lined up next to the pull-up bar and took turns seeing which of us spaghetti-armed 80 pound towels could haul our newly smelly bodies up and over the literal and metaphoric bar. I still remember that I almost did one.  That was how horrific this experience was -- the accomplishment of barely failing to meet the lowest possible standard was memorable.  "Almost" would be the title of my one-man play, which focuses solely on middle school gym class.  The predicted run time is 3 hours. Inevitably, the pull-up exercise would devolve into watching the severely overweight students get put through this same farce. The difference now, of course was that we, their peers, had just fully embarrassed ourselves, and we took that aggression out on the most vulnerable as we mocked from the sideline. Brutal. 

I'm rooting for you Tiger.
This week of scoliosis tests and measuring arm strength always culminated in a mile run around the unofficial track that was our soccer field. While our school system lacked the funds for a pool, insecurities ran at "swimming without a shirt on" levels during the weighing and measuring period that was our middle school Combine.

Power Padding Through LIfe: Little League Edition

Wednesday, October 22, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)

After elementary school on Tuesdays, my friend Nicole and I walked together the quarter mile to her family's house.  Just a pair of Jewish 9-year-olds cruising down the middle of a rarely travelled side street, on our way to our weekly play date.

Nine times out of ten, the Nintendo was involved when celebrating those parent-free moments before Nicole's mom took us to Hebrew school.  I still have vivid memories of tapping at the floor like maniacs, stretching for the finish line of Power Pad's maiden release: Track and Field.  When we got too sweaty, we would switch over to Ice Hockey or Double Dribble.  Those 16-bit competitions soon led to an adolescence playing sports together. 

In little league, Nicole and I were on the same team: The Italian American Club.  All the teams were sponsored and named after local businesses (no MLB Trademark infringements here). Perhaps they mistook us for Italian.  We were just thankful we weren't on Burger King, which was an actual team name, even though they were the perennial champs.  Must have been the special sauce.



The Invisibles: The Supervillians Behind Interior Design

Wednesday, October 15, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)

When I was growing up, I did not use the downstairs bathroom. Ever. That was the guest bathroom, and it was only for guests.

On any given day, this no poop zone was no big deal.  Our bathroom, that is to say, my brother and my bathroom, was just at the top of the carpeted stairs. And for all 17 years I lived there (post pooping in my pants), I managed that cushy climb to the toilet.  

I never fully grasped why the downstair hall bathroom held such a place of esteem in my parents' eyes.  It isn't a special bathroom.  Don't get me wrong, I love the geometric wallpaper and the late 80's decoration sensibility, but it undeniably cramped and doesn't even have a tub.  

To be clear, it wasn't only that you didn't go to the bathroom in the guest toilet.  You didn't go in the room.  You didn't wash your hands in the sink.  You didn't dry your hands on the towels that were forever hung to rest on two metal rungs.  And you sure and shit didn't throw anything in the trash can provided under the sink. Blow your nose elsewhere son. 

It was a long time before I started to realize the dynamic behind our vacuum-sealed bathroom.  The guest bathroom was a show room.  A room you provided off-handedly for visitors to use that was secretly the most well-coifed, curated spot in the joint.  The main utility of the guest bathroom was to give off the impression that this little area was a microcosm of the entire house.  That is to say, the entire estate was immaculate and neat -- as if no one had set foot in there either.  The guest bathroom was a lie that said, "We've got our shit together . . ." and possibly the, ". . .way more together than you!" addendum.

It's Happening!!! I'm Changing!!!

Monday, June 9, 2014 | 1 Comment(s)

Eh . . . Eh . . .

Transformation: A process that pertains only to butterflies and losing a large amount of weight
Pretty sweet new digs huh?  It's ok to be impressed.  But seriously y'all, we're only 75% done -- It's gonna get even better.  If you encounter error messages or happen to being using Internet Explorer 6.0 (the universal donor of coding problems), please do drop me a line so I can get that mess cleaned up post-haste.

But until then, let's talk about life and shit.  Nah, screw it, let's just talk about my life. 

The life of a writer is defined primarily by its lack of routine.  My office, it turns out, is wherever I happen to be when the anti-venomous writing bug smuggles its inspiration through my carpel-tunnel and into my brain.  Talk about transient.  In order to best prepare, and in fact nurture, these inspirational bugs to bite as often as possible, I have mapped out particular establishments all across the Pioneer Valley where I know I can drop down and get my writing on at a moments notice.

How Babies are Destroying America

Sunday, February 21, 2010 | 5 Comment(s)

It's not entirely my fault that this is such a confusing time.  As a man in his 30's (albeit early thirties!) it seems as if my peers are dropping kids like quarters at an arcade.  I mean, people who I didn't even know had significant others are popping up on Facebook sporting el baby belly.  

And while there is nothing at all WRONG with this of course, it kinda makes my head spin.  Here's why.

In high school I was brought up, like many children of the 80's and early 90's (pre-Juno), that teen pregnancy was the worse possible fate.  I mean, at least the way it was presented to me, it would have be preferable to stick a hepatitis infected needle in my arm than knock up one of my 16-year-old classmates.  It's not difficult to see how I didn't lose my virginity in high school considering that I connected baby making with at least 1 of the 4 horsemen (horse-people?) of the apocalypse.  Something about a teenaged girl's belly growing seemed to make god cry, and I didn't want any part of that.  (Thankfully, even god liked playing with boobies.)

This mindset didn't stop in college.  While I finally moved past the 'sex = baby' barrier, I still got the feeling that if I came home and told my parents that i had gotten one of my classmates pregnant, my rents would have begun some sort of religious fasting process involving wearing black, ripping their clothes, and shouting to our Jewish ancestors, "our son is dead!"  (this is an exaggeration--they would never disown me--but you get the idea).   

So now, well post-college, i realize that this mentality is still ingrained in the nooks and crannies of my life approach.  When someone tells me they're pregnant, my first half-second reaction (before my common sense kicks in) is, "man are your parents going to be pissed."   But that's just the thing.  The exact opposite is true!  Parents are DYING for grandkids.  What initially was a parent's fear of their child's lifelong scarlet letter has turned into the search for the holy grail (excuse my mixing my metaphors/literature/media).  

Someone pulled the ol switch-a-roo on me, and frankly I'm kinda pissed about it. After a lifetime of successfully NOT knocking anyone up, NOW i'm expected to turn all of that repression around and aim for insemination.  Not cool parents.  Not cool social expectations.  Fuck you onions!  Just when I thought I'd gotten the hang of this whole 'growing up' thing, babies have to come along with their squishy cuteness and change all the rules.  

Screw this.   I'm getting a dog.