Continued

As I may have mentioned, I went from a monogamous relationship that lasted more than half my life to living single. From that perspective, dating seems like a strange solution to a strange problem. And the problem is not just physical intimacy, but the natural craving for companionship and emotional intimacy. There's not a quick and easy way to find those things, to find someone who fits well enough to make those things with me. So I make more or less random connections, hoping that one (or more) becomes real, that there's someone on the other end who matches up with me in some meaningful way. Every time I swipe right or optimistically send a message to a stranger, sometimes funny, sometimes earnest, sometimes tired and half-assed, I think of "A Noiseless, Patient Spider" by Walt Whitman:

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

And most of those filament, filament, filaments that I launch forth out of myself catch nowhere at all. There's probably a thorough science made of how attraction works in the various online dating apps. Often my magical words and charm are met with silence. Often my profile photo does not inspire anyone to swipe right on me. It is fascinating to me how different we all are, how different our experiences and likes and fears are. I ain't for everybody, certainly. Sometimes, though, the gossamer thread does catch somewhere. Sometimes I am told that I am "easy on the eyes" or that I "sparkle." I sparkle! Me and Robert Pattinson, we're like twins separated at birth!

When, now and then, those threads do catch, I'm stupefied by how quickly all my free time disappears. I always thought I had tons of it until I started filling it up. I'm scheduling casual interactions weeks ahead on my Google Calendar. I'm way behind on my blood donations, and I wouldn't be surprised if I've dropped from a Level 5 to a Level 4 this quarter. My weeks with my son are for him and me, so they're off the table for my social explorations, but still, with half my time I thought I had great swaths of evenings to fill. But in reality I have no time to drive for Lyft, my brilliant solution for additional money to afford my social life. So far I've given exactly 8 rides for a grand total of $37. That's not going to pay for many dates. And it was inevitable, but somehow I thought I'd avoid the pitfall of mixing up which plans I had with which women. Happily, when it finally did happen, all parties were already aware of each other and able to express feelings of awkwardness and hurt without making it more awkward and hurtful. Still. Embarrassing. I need a secretary. I make it sound like I have a harem of women clamoring for my attention. That's not at all the case, but I'm still juggling. I don't know how they do it, the guys who maintain two separate families, each completely unaware of the other, for years. I'd need an entire staff to help me keep up with all that.

So I've had first dates. Not so many seconds. I've been brushed off, blown off, and stood up. Now I'm involved with a woman (she was my second first date, and my first second date) with whom I've gone from "going on dates" to "dating" (we stopped counting after 6). She is exactly the person I was looking for when I started this weirdness: someone who is on board for the open relationship, who values openness and honesty, who derives as much value from this experience as I do. She's learning about herself and pushing her own boundaries, too. It's odd and refreshing and liberating to discover from very early on that it's not just OK, not just acceptable, but downright safe and desirable to be as direct and genuine as possible. About everything. About feelings! Madness!

Madness because still, with most of the people I meet or interact with online, it's all a dance. All of it. It's a performance. It's a manipulation. It's a test to see if we can pretend to be what we're not in order to attract someone we wouldn't. I was told by one of my first dates that maybe in the future I shouldn't tell the woman sitting at a table at a restaurant with me that one of my goals in life is to pick up a woman at a bar. Nope. I absolutely should tell her that. Because if she's not a willing and informed participant in the adventure as I intend to pursue it, then she should know as soon as possible that this particular adventure is not for her. Fair play all around! I'm not hiding a damned thing, and that's incredibly refreshing.

It's all much simpler than I would have guessed when I was conceiving of what it might be, and it's all much more complicated than I thought it would be when I actually started doing it. The feelings are real, and not always under the immediate control of the people who are having them. Feelings in general are messy and riotous and rebellious, and they don't listen to the calm and reasoned logic of the brains that they agitate with their messiness. I've more than once been surprised by the emotions passing through me and the physical sensations in my body when they do. I don't think I've ever before in my life gleefully texted somebody to say, "Huh! I think I might throw up!" because I was stunned to feel something that I thought I had logically processed right out of my soul. Nope! Your heart doesn't give a shit what your head has decided, and your body is more than willing to go along with the example your heart is setting, even while your brain is yelling, "Guys! Come on! This isn't what we talked about at all!"

The beauty of emotions, a beauty I already knew but am now beginning to really understand on a deeper level, is that they are always temporary. Every single one of them, the ones I want to stay forever and the ones I wish would never come back again. They may come and go, and maybe even many times, but no matter what, they will pass through me like a hot or a cold wind, and I will still be here, and still be me, when they've blown on down the road. I'm still here. I'm still me.

Swimmingly

I suppose an update is an order, and really I should get that shameful obscenity out of the top spot on my little corner of the web here. So here ya go:

You may have heard: I'm dating. This is still a mind-boggling turn of events for me, but how many times exactly can I keep telling you that you met me at a very strange time in my life? I started with Tinder. I did communicate with a couple of women through it, but mostly it was silence. It was crickets chirping. It was the sound of one hand clapping. So I deleted my account. A friend told me, yeah, that's mostly for hook-ups. Even though all the women with profiles say they're not there for hook-ups. But notice that it wants your GPS location, and a whole lot of the women have no profile at all. So: current location + picture only = hook-ups. And I wasn't getting any of those. Not that I wanted those. At least, I don't think I did. A few more tests. (That's a reference to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Mom). (Yes, I just spoke parenthetically to my Mom while talking about hook-ups).

So I started using OKCupid. Because I'd heard of it. And because it also was free. But then I lost my mind and started paying for it anyway? Because I'm easily lead? Because I was in an internet-fueled feverish haze? Anyway, what was I saying again? Oh yeah. Dating. OKCupid. Right.

I was stunned to discover it worked. I made my profile. I answered my questions. I added my pictures. I browsed my "Matches." I sent messages. I got responses. If the banter went well, I asked women out. Some said yes. A couple even asked me out! It was madness. Pure madness.

So now I've gone on two first dates, with a third scheduled for tomorrow. I have my first second date on Saturday. I have no idea what's going on here. And that's OK!

I have to say, my favorite exchanges have been with women who've been on dating apps for a long time and feel qualified and justified in critiquing my approach. It probably has a name, talking about courtin' while courtin'. Meta courtin'? Meta dating? I don't know. It's hilarious. Experienced women love to take me under their wing. I'm a newb. I'm a rook. Ha ha!

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Here's the most amazing part of all of this: I did something that terrified me. And it was fun. And shows every sign of continuing to be fun. And (I notice this is a recurring theme in this blog) the thing that I feared most didn't come to pass. I was afraid that I would be unappealing to women, that I would attract no interest myself and all of my interest in others would be rejected. Looking back over the last week, I see now how silly that is. In the world of online dating apps, where a person is defined almost entirely by his words, I am a man who can use words well. That has appeal. I have appeal. Also, my fellow men have largely set the bar pretty low, as evidenced by the jaded comments women sometimes feel compelled to include in their profiles, like, "Don't message me if your profile pic is your chest or your crotch."

In the last year, I've had a dear friend with relevant life experience tell me that I would be happy again, when I was sure I would not. I've had an amazing, beautiful woman that I thought of as out of my league demand, "Are you going to kiss me or not?" And now I've asked several women out, and they said yes. I've asked one woman for a second date, and she said yes. My self-esteem has gone from completely bottomed out a little over a year ago to bobbing along at a pretty damned healthy level right now thank you very much, and I couldn't be happier about it.

If I keep dating, though, I'm going to have to get a second job to boost my disposable income. This social life business is expensive! But if I get another job, how will I have time for dating? Such a conundrum.

Fuck It, I Ain't Skeered

As long as I'm handing out advice about being unafraid, I've decided I'm going to do a few things that I wasn't doing for fear of what might happen. First among these is dating. I kind of stumbled into a new relationship almost as soon as I was available, which I didn't see coming at all. I was suddenly available after being faithfully committed to a monogamous relationship for over half my life, then true story: I was asked, after a few weeks of escalating flirtation, "Are you going to kiss me or not?" So I did. And she did. And the upshot is: I've done some flirting, but I've never really done the whole dating thing.  I met my ex-wife in my first year away from home at college. I have never in my life tried, successfully or unsuccessfully, to pick up a woman in a bar. Never. I've never been on any dating websites or used any apps. Never. Never! When I got involved with the woman who was getting tired of waiting for me to work up the nerve to kiss her, I was relieved in part because she's awesome and way more than I thought I deserved at the time, but also in part because the idea of putting myself out there and risking rejection was more than a little terrifying.

So I'm going to do it. Because it's terrifying.

I made a Tinder account two days ago, and it's already a weird mixture of hilarious and depressing. The profile of every fortyish woman in the Greater Austin Metropolitan Area contains the phrases "outdoors, hiking, and wine" as well as "looking for a partner in crime!" And for some reason, height is really important for a woman's Tinder profile. Should my height appear on my profile? Does it matter for men as much as it seems to for women? I'm 6'2". Does it matter that I'm 6'2"? I used to be 6'3", so I'm shrinking. Maybe that should be on my profile: 6'2" and shrinking. Fuck it, I'm going to go add that right now.

So I've done a lot of swiping. Which is getting pretty dull. I feel like a heel making straight up yes/no judgements on so little information, but I suppose that's the point. At first I kept screwing it up, left swiping when I meant to browse pictures. Right swiping when I meant to say, "Nope!" I mostly say no when there's no profile text at all. Saying absolutely nothing about yourself is an attraction strategy I don't really understand. I'm mis-swiping less now, but I think I did accidentally Super Like someone. I don't know what that means. I almost dropped my phone when I got my first match notification, then proceeded to immediately make an ass of myself when I messaged her. I think I did pretty well on my two other matches, but I still haven't heard from anyone.

So there's that. I'm dating. Or will be, if I can get a date. Even though I already have a woman in my life that's very high on the list of Best Things to Ever Happen to Me. Brave? Or stupid? Don't answer that.

Another thing I did because I'm pretty sure I was afraid of it was to invite that amazing woman to date other people, too, if she were so inclined. When we first got together, I told her that monogamy was important to me. On reflection, I thought I may have said that out of fear of competition, that if she put herself out there again, she'd find someone she likes better than she likes me. But fuck it, I ain't skeered. Who's better than me? I'm awesome! And if she finds someone who makes her happier, then more power to her. I want her to be happy. She's awesome, too!

Which all makes me solo poly? I guess? I'm Googlin' all sorts of acronyms, abbreviations, and other mysterious shorthand that appears in Tinder profiles. I'd never heard of solo poly until I saw it on my first night of swiping. I get that the poly part is polyamorous, having multiple relationships. I'm not clear on the solo part, though. I guess. Maybe that makes me fuzzy poly? Maybe I should wait until somebody actually responds to a message before I start wondering what all this makes me. Or maybe I shouldn't give a shit what it makes me. The acronyms are fun, though. There are a lot of personality types, like INFP and ENFJ, on Tinder profiles, which are apparently related to Jungian Functional Preference Ordering. I dozed off before I could slog through what exactly Jungian Functional Preference Ordering means, but it does give me a giggle to use phrases including the word "Jungian" in the same sentence as the word "Tinder."

Another was "6+4+3=2." The woman suggested in her profile that if I knew what that meant, I might have one up on the competition. So I Googled it. She and I were clearly not made for each other.

My favorite so far, though, was TDTF. I assumed it was another personality type. One profile said, among other things, "Please don't be TDTF." I tend to text in full sentences, so I didn't recognize it as texting shorthand. I Googled it, thinking it would be another of the personality types. Am I TDTF? I wondered. Turns out it stands for "Too Drunk to Fuck." Ah. Well! No problem there then. I have not, in fact, been TDTF in quite some time.

Next, I'm going to try hitting on a stranger in a public setting. Maybe a bar. Is it weird for a dude who doesn't drink to hang out in a bar trying to pick up women? If I have a Topo Chico in a glass with lime, who's to say it doesn't have a shot of something in there, right? Do fortyish women go to bars to be picked up? Ah, fuck it. I'm doing it. I ain't skeered.

I'm thinking of trying karaoke, too. And dancing in public. Why not? What's the worst that could happen?

Perspective

"Tonight, we not only speak to the members of the Greater Jerusalem Baptist Church. We not only speak to Baptist people tonight. We not only speak to the Methodist people tonight. Church of God in Christ, Catholics, or no particular denomination. No particular city. But tonight we speak to the whole nation. Tonight, our message: Drop the hate! Forgive each other!"

I've been thinking about my problems lately, and sometimes feeling sorry for myself for the hurts done to me, and sometimes feeling guilty for the hurts I've done to others.

And then I think, really, things are pretty fuckin' good.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no one actively working to end my existence because of who I am or what I believe.

I'm surrounded by people that I love, who make me smile and laugh out loud almost every single day.

I have such an abundance of clean drinking water, that I expel my bodily wastes into it all the time.

I have such an abundance of food, that I track my consumption with a handheld computer that sends data to and receives data from space just so I don't eat too ridiculously much.

My greatest health concern is trying not to get sick from too much pleasure.

I have a job with health benefits and a salary that allows me not only a nice home and all that food and water, but also the ability to do almost anything I want, almost any time I want.

And virtually everyone I know has all of these things, too.

Clearly, some of these ideas I owe to the incomparable Louis CK:



"You're in a chair in the sky!"

"But, it doesn't lean back very much..."

Ha. Anyway. What was I saying? Oh, yeah.

When I look around, I'm baffled to see so many people so determined to be angry and unhappy. At work and in my private life, there are several people that seem to work very hard at being mad. They look closely for new injustices that have been heaped upon them by cruel circumstance and cruel people.

I hate being mad. I want it to end as soon as possible. I hate lying awake at night going over and over in my mind how angry I am. I'd rather sleep peacefully and wake up rested and refreshed. So I wonder: are there physical differences in our brains such that some people experience anger as a pleasurable sensation? I've always said of some people, "They're not happy unless they're mad," and now I'm wondering if it's literally true. Is anger akin to joy in the brains of some people? Are there studies on this, complete with colorful images of parts of the brain "lighting up" at the opportunity to tell someone else that they said or did the wrong thing, or said or did it the wrong way, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons? And to tell them over and over again, with white-hot rage?

The phrase "righteousness orgasm" popped into my brain the other day to describe the apparently climactic joy in expressing outrage at perceived victimization of a just or innocent person, and we all tend to think of ourselves as at least mostly just and innocent. It can be seen in comments sections all over the internet, and I think it's what Lenore Skenazy noticed in this post on Free-Range Kids. It's an outrage that seems easiest to express in writing, because face-to-face communication allows too much humanization of the offending party, too much explanation of extenuation, too much give and take, to really allow a good orgasmic buildup of righteous indignation.

I know I've indulged in the righteousness orgasm now and again, and even recently. I'm trying though, Lord. I'm trying.

Anyway, now I'm going to go turn my Pandora from Rage Against the Machine back to Lyle Lovett. And tomorrow, I'm told, is Aloha Friday. I've never been to Hawaii, but I have no doubt I can only benefit from more ukulele in my life.

Aloha, fuckers! Namaste, bitches!

Songs About the New World

Aerie and I arranged to get together last night and talk details for our divorce decree. We're doing our best to make this transition as amicable as possible. I've been saying and thinking that word a lot lately. Amicable. Amicable.

And now that we're not living together, and we're navigating our new lives apart and our new schedules as Joint Managing Conservators instead of, you know, whatever we were before, things really are fairly amicable. I look around me at the divorce stories that suddenly seem to be everywhere, and if divorcing well is a competition, I think we're winning. She's not taking out a Protective Order against me and fighting in court for full custody. We're not pitting our friends against each other or making them choose sides. She's not hiding money from joint accounts. I'm not stalking her, or playing mind games or threatening her with dastardly deeds. Neither of us is telling Thumper that the other parent is awful. He's not a pawn in some jacked up game between us. We're just... you know... amicable.

But with all this amicability flying around everywhere, and with the excitement of exploring my new life outside of all of the old roles and patterns I'd been living under for so many years, I thought that I was past the point of getting upset.  Yes, I really thought that after 23 years, I was emotionally over the hump, just six months after the word "divorce" was first uttered. I wasn't.

I've picked Thumper up and dropped him off at her house, that used to be our house. I've driven through the neighborhood before and been inside the house picking up clothes and furniture and piles of stuff. But last night, for some reason, it hit me harder. I saw neighbors walking and jogging through the neighborhood that used to be mine but isn't now, that I used to walk and jog through but won't anymore. The loop that I used to push a stroller around, past that playground we've been going to since Thumper was a brand new baby and I was a brand new stay-at-home dad. I stood on the porch and rang the bell. I didn't make myself at home and get a soda out of the fridge, or plates from the cabinet for the sandwiches I brought for us to eat while we worked. It's her house now, her stuff, her kitchen. I used the guest bathroom, not the master, and when I came out and sat down at the kitchen table to start working with her on details, I was a little shocked to find myself crying. The anger, the sorrow, the regret, the loss, they are all still real, no matter how much I want them to be memories now.

I hadn't been on the blog in quite some time. I saw I had an unpublished draft post from January, about the time the d-word first came up, that was entirely the lyrics to "Love's Recovery" by Indigo Girls. At the time, there still seemed a slim chance, but now our storm has passed and that slim chance is gone. A lot of the words fit, including the friends we thought were so together. So I'm sure I'm a cliché, 43 and divorcing, but the emotions don't feel so cliché now that I'm in them.



But now I'm just getting maudlin.

It's funny how things come to us sometimes all at once. I've never been much of a country music fan. I have a dear friend who's let me borrow her truck a few times through all of this moving of stuff, and a good many of her stereo's presets are country stations. Not wanting to jack with her settings, I listened to country music while I drove. I also worked a country music festival at my beloved arena not too long ago, and I thought some of those songs were downright toe-tappable. But still, I think of myself as too good to listen to country, really, and complained about having "Rock me, Mama, like a wagon wheel" stuck in my head. I think I'm too smart, I suppose. I have an ugly bias against it where words like "hillbilly" and "redneck" and "Deliverance" pop into my mind.

Then a friend posted a photo of what she saw as "a cool cat," and I was transported instantly back to 1979, when Hoyt Axton appeared on my favorite TV show, WKRP in Cincinnati. I still remember the hooks to "Jealous Man" and "Della and the Dealer" from that show, though honestly, I must've seen them over and over again in syndication throughout the '80s for me to have memorized them like that. But I instantly commented on my friend's picture, "If that cat could talk, what tales he'd tell about Della and the dealer and the dog as well. But that cat was cool, and he never said a mumblin' word." She probably wondered what in the hell any of that had to do with a cat she saw on a street in Italy.



Later, I read Film Crit Hulk's article about Disney's Robin Hood that mentioned Roger Miller's original songs, and I found myself again inexplicably contemplating a master of '60s tongue-in-cheek country storytelling. So today, while spending the rest of my lunch hour walking around and around the concourse of my beloved arena to burn off the brisket and sausage I ate, I plugged "Hoyt Axton" into Pandora on my phone and spent a little bit of a while with Hoyt, Roger, Willie, Waylon, Johnny, Hank Jr., Merle, Jerry Reed, and Jimmy Dean. I don't know why I'm on a first name basis with everybody but Jerry and Jimmy, but there you go. I didn't even know Jimmy Dean was a singer. I thought he just sold sausage. My mom met him in an Eckerd's drug store once. Or so my faulty memory tells me the story goes.

So I was smiling as I walked, 'round and 'round, both at the music and at my own folly. I've always known so many things that it turned out I didn't know at all. Like that my marriage would last forever, and that I hated country music. That the end of the marriage would be the end of the world. But nah. It's working out. I've always been crazy, but it's kept me from going insane.

People

Today, we went swimming with old Austin Stay-at-Home Dads group friends that we haven't seen as much since Thumper started school last year, then went to their home to hang out and make s'mores. We saw them at a playground play date yesterday, and as we stood on the bridge over the pond throwing expired baked goods down to the ducks, Thumper told his longtime friend, "I'm so happy to see you again." So we made arrangements to go swimming together today, and he loved seeing those kids again, and meeting their new dog, and I loved chatting with their mom and catching up again.

After that, we went to another ASAHDs family's house for a multi-family pizza party. My kid ran around and around and around their circular layout apartment (that, apparently, LBJ and Ladybird occupied in the '30's), and danced, and played, and I sat around talking, and drank a beer, and everybody ate round after round after round of incredible little pizzas with carmelized onions, rich cheeses, tomatoes, peppers, and a crispy homemade crust. We talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and shared experiences, and enjoyed the kids enjoying themselves.

And it occurred to me that this has been the summer of reaching out for us. We're doing much with many people, and it's been very satisfying for both of us.We've been reconnecting with dads' group friends that we lost contact with over the school year. We've been discovering new friends, for both him and for me, and for Aerie. We've been swimming, and going to birthday parties, and exploring new places. We've been camping, and climbing, and jumping off of high places, and as much as I thought I was fine with my own little world, I've deeply appreciated the degree to which it's expanded this summer. You people, you're all so special. I've loved how much you've made me push my own boundaries and reject my own shy, introverted social awkwardness. Thanks so much for this wonderful summer, and I hope it keeps on keeping on, right through the new school year. Smoochie smoochies!

Stories Too Long for Facebook

Yesterday, Thumper was running off to do something in another room when I told him, "Come here and let me comb your hair, then you can do whatever you want to do." His eyes lit up, and he immediately, without a pause, said, "I can do whatever I want to do?"

Realizing my semantic mistake, I said, "No, I mean you can go do whatever it is you were going to do in there." Aerie immediately pointed out how smart he was to see the loophole, so I asked him, "Who's the smartest: you, me, or Mama?"

"Mama."

"Who's the 2nd smartest?"

"I'm sorry to tell you, Dad, but it's me."

"Well, am I smarter than the kitties?"

"Yes. You're 3rd smartest. Then the kitties."

So, at least I outrank the kitties.

We spent the afternoon today trying to entertain ourselves without any TV or video games. While I did dishes and changed the bedding around the house, he ran on the treadmill, jumped on the trampoline, and beat up the standup punching bag. Then we worked on learning chess. When he couldn't figure out how to beat me in less than 30 minutes, he wanted to move on, plus it was about time to start cooking dinner.

I went into the kitchen, hooked up my iPod to the portable speakers, and kind of bopped along while I cooked. I turned around and saw him in the kitchen rocking out. He works his hips, his shoulders, his head, his arms. He has rhythm. He's gone to Zumba classes with Aerie a couple of times, and people there commented on his rhythm. He jumps, bounces, throws in lots of variety. I can't begin to move like he does. But he inspires me to dance less self-consciously, at least when it's just the two of us. Maybe in time I'll dance in public like I don't care what you think.

I started this summer with difficulty, trying to remember what it was like to spend all day every day with him since he just finished his first year of school. I'm beginning to remember how to talk to him like a person instead of snapping instructions at him and yelling at him when he doesn't listen. I'm remembering how to appreciate him, his sense of humor, his charm, his perspective on the world.

We spent two nights and three days camping with four other families (an entire post of its own, if I ever get around to writing it). It was his first camping trip. I told him that for the entire course of camping, he could make his own decisions about what he wanted to do and what he wanted to eat as long as he told me when he was going into the lake and when he was leaving the campsite. With the removal of all expectations for him to behave in a certain way and all expectations for me to limit his choices, we both were completely relaxed. For the most part, he made good choices, was kind to the other kids and polite to the adults. It was so fun and so calming that I found myself wondering why I was stressed and angry and snapped at him so much. I suppose we all do better when we're treated like people and aren't yelled at.

Stealth Racing

I've been in a diet and exercise slump lately. I've seriously slacked off on the workouts, doing one or two per week instead of three or four, and I leave out the weights as often as I include them after running. I've been walking more, and rarely even shooting for a full 10K. At the same time, I've been pouring an excessive number of calories into my belly and not even tracking exactly how many it is.

I'm grateful that I've found running, though. Having events like that list of 5Ks, 10Ks, Warrior Dashes, etc. to the right over there has helped keep me going. Where in the past, this down cycle would have seen me gaining back all of the 30 or 40 pounds that I've lost, this time I've only gained 6. I hadn't been on the scale in a while, because I didn't want to know how bad it was, but when I weighed this morning, it wasn't a disaster. That gave me a boost. I don't know how I'm going to re-focus and get back to two 5Ks and one 10K each week, improving times and increasing inclines as I was when I had the half marathon looming over me, but it made me glad that I haven't completely torpedoed everything.

And here's another boost: I was running on the treadmill at the gym this morning, watching Mission: Impossible III on my Kindle Fire. What with all the explosions and gunfire in my headphones, I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I did notice when a lady stopped in front of the treadmill next to mine and chatted for a minute with the fit-looking woman who was running on it. The runner jerked her head toward me, and I heard her say, "...this guy..."

I thought, "I wonder what I did? Did I splatter sweat on her?" And I kept running.

I kept watching my movie. When she finished her workout, the runner who called me "that guy" tapped me on the shoulder. I paused the movie just as Ethan Hunt was about to get electrocuted by his wife. She said, "No, don't stop. I just wanted to tell you that you really challenged me for a great run. Thanks!" It felt wonderful hearing her say that because she looked like a runner. I look nothing like one.

I didn't even know we were racing!

Professional Finder

I'm not sure where this one came from, but this morning, Thumper announced that he wanted to make a commercial. We said we'd do it after lunch, but then we got distracted and forgot. Then he said again that he wanted to make a commercial. We said we'd do it after dinner, but then we got distracted and forgot. Then after dinner, he said it again. He also said he wanted to look like a sharp-dressed man, which here in Austin, the land of t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, meant a long-sleeved button shirt and jeans. He was very proud to show his outfit to his Mama. So anyway. We made a commercial. If you need a professional finder, give Thumper a call. I asked him how much he'd charge, and he said, while rolling his eyes, "It's just silly. It's not a real commercial." Fair enough.

Dogs

Ever since he was a year old, Thumper has loved dogs. He makes a beeline for every dog he sees, yelling, "Can I pet that dog?" at the owners. At the playground on Sunday, he convinced the owners of an ancient, wheezy pug named Maya to let him hold the leash. She agreeably limped around the playground with him. He had a conversation with a mom on the other side in which he gave her the impression it was his dog, telling her what the dog's name was, how old she was, and that she pants like that because she's old. I have known for a long time the inevitability of the question, "Can I have a dog?"

This morning, we had the following conversation:

"What kind of bug is that?"

"Some people call them roly-polies. Some people call them doodle bugs. I think some people call them potato bugs, too, but I could be wrong about that one. When I was a kid, we called them roly-polies. They're called that because they roll up into a ball when you touch them."

"What's a poly?"

"Nothing. I think it's just because it rhymes with roly."

"Yeah, it does rhyme. I hope it's not slimy."

"It's not."

"I don't want to have a snail for a pet."

"Yeah, I think a snail would be a boring pet."

"I would like to have a dog for a pet. I like my two cats a lot, but I like dogs, too."

"I know you do. Dogs are lot of work, though."

"Why?"

"Because they don't use a litter box inside like cats do. They go to the bathroom outside, but you still have to clean it up."

"I am definitely not cleaning it up."

"They poop on the ground, and you don't want someone to step in it, so you have to pick it up."

"Well, maybe I'll just have two cats, then."

I am amazed that the question was resolved so easily. I bet it comes back up again some day, though.

Pride, Hopefully Without the Fall

Thumper has grown so much this year, that the bike that was a perfect fit for him a little over a year ago:



is now too tiny for him. The other bike that he spent so much time on last summer:



is also too tiny for him. We worked a deal with the neighbors across the street, who have 3 boys, 2 of whom are younger than Thumper, trading our 12" bike that's too small for Thumper for their 16" bike that's too big for their 2 youngest. Perfect! Except that the front inner tube keeps exploding. At first, I thought it was the unbelievable heat that builds up in the garage when it's 108 degrees outside, but why would it apply only to that one tire on that one bike? Then I thought maybe it was a rough edge inside the rim, but I ran my fingers all the way around inside the rim and inside the tire and felt nothing. About a week and a half ago, we shortened the lives of a handful of moms at the sand pit when the front tire of the bike he rode from the parking lot suddenly, dramatically, exploded. Two of them hit the deck like battle-weary veterans, scanning the horizon for the sniper in the grass. After carrying a huge, exhausted 4-year-old, a flat-tired bike, and a bag full of sand toys back to the car, I was absolutely done with that bike, returning it to the owners the same day and heading to the local Goodwill to find Thumper a 16" bike of his own.

So after replacing dramatically blown tubes on that bike 4 times, plus one of his tricycle's tubes, plus one of his balance bike's tubes so that we can pass it down to a friend, plus both the front tire and inner tube on his new bike, I'm done with bicycle tire repair. I've spent more on tires and inner tubes in the last 6 weeks than I have on all of his bikes combined.

But it was all worth it today.

Yesterday, I replaced 2 inner tubes and one tire on his various wheeled conveyances, leaving just 15 or 20 minutes to ride bikes before dinner. He loved his new bike so much that he declared he wanted to ride bikes every day, a desire he hasn't expressed since last summer. This afternoon, we left a little more time for bike riding in the afternoon, enjoying the fact that it's only 95 at the day's peak instead of 108. After riding around for a bit in the dead-end, I asked him if he wanted to ride to the local park, about a mile-and-a-half away. He thought it was a fabulous idea. I warned him it was kind of a long way; he had no doubts. So off we pedaled.

And instead of the inner tube, it was me that burst. With pride. Repeatedly. He pedaled and pedaled. He talked and talked. He reminded me so much of that kid in the triathlon right before Thumper was born that I almost teared up. He looked for cars at each of the street crossings and checked with me to make sure it was OK to cross. He kept right on going all the way, without getting bored or tired. He lit up with pride each time I told him how impressed I was that he was riding so far.

"You didn't know I could ride so far, did you Dad?"

No, my son, I didn't.

By the time we got there, he'd ridden 2.16 miles. Under his own power, without stopping or complaining. After we played for almost an hour, he was even willing to pedal home again, but (of course!) my front tire was flat, so Aerie picked us up on our walk home.

I am stunned by the power of my love and pride for this boy, and how it contrasts daily with my annoyance and guilt.

In My Head

The deep breathing while running is definitely helping my performance. I ran a 10K on the treadmill today, the first time since the Cap 10K on 3/27 that I've run a full 6.2 miles. I finished it just 27 seconds short of my all-time best treadmill 10K time, completely turning my attitude around. I'm considering signing up for a half marathon around the time of my 40th birthday to help give me motivation for working out and to give myself a birthday present of accomplishing something I've never done before. Yesterday, I thought that I wouldn't do it because it seems so far beyond my reach since I haven't run further than 5K in over 3 months. Today, I think I will do it because I'm pretty sure I can if I work hard in the intervening months.

So in 24 hours, I went from thinking that I probably couldn't even finish a 10K right now to turning in one of my best times, with a time on the second half that beats my best 5K time by 10 seconds. I can do this. Of course I can do this!

My biggest hurdle in running isn't my knee. It isn't my lungs. It's my head.

Youth Sports

Thumper started 3-year-old soccer at the YMCA, with one practice last week, one practice this week, and his team's first game this morning. It was mostly a hot, sweaty, comical chunk of chaos, starting with some basic instructions, like, "Your team stands on this side:"



Then they were all told to put their right hands over their hearts. Then they were all told which one was their right hand. Then they were all told where their hearts are. Then they were all told to put their right hands over the "Y" on their shirts. Then they took some sort of oath:



I couldn't quite hear, but it didn't sound like the Pledge of Allegiance. Perhaps they were swearing eternal devotion to the referee? I'm not sure.

There was much waiting for the kids to get back into position, and many adults running around like Australian sheep dogs getting the kids back into position.



#9 in orange was the real superstar. He was one of maybe 2 kids who was able to dribble and knew exactly where the ball was supposed to go. He didn't always care which goal he was dribbling toward, but he scored probably 90% of the goals made today.



That's my boy kneeling down as the action begins, watching #9 dribble right past him, and then sitting down in the grass. He also liked to throw himself on the ground far from the action and make angry faces because "somebody pushed me down!" All in all, it was a lot of laughs, with only one hardcore pushy dad yelling at his kid. And his kid reeeeaalllyy didn't want play.

Shortly thereafter, Thumper began to get into it a little more, yelling, "Go Cardinals!" throwing a high five or two, and actually making some attempt to slow down that scoring juggernaut, #9.



And thus Thumper begins his youth sports career, following precisely in the footsteps of his old man by getting completely blown out by the competition. Yay!

I Only Hope We Get Free Tickets

A professional entertainer attempted some audience participation with Thumper and may have regretted the decision. His exact words to me were, "He's going to have his own show before long!"

We've gone to live children's music shows before, most notably the live summer shows at Symphony Square which I have mentioned here and here, and we've also gone to a couple of Sunday morning free kids' shows at Ruta Maya, including one by a very nice stay-at-home mom named Sarah Dinan who invited me to join her play group once upon a time, though that play group eventually turned me down. Thumper has enjoyed all of these shows except for the last one at Ruta Maya, known as Mr. Leebot, billed as Devo for kids. We walked in the door and Thumper declared it "too loud," saying that it "made his belly hurt." So we haven't been back to Ruta Maya since. Though he's enjoyed most of the shows, he's been suspicious of attempts to get him to dance, or to sing along, or clap in time.

But today we checked out ScottyRoo and Christini at the Cherrywood Coffeehouse. It was a very small, informal, intimate performance that seemed heavily ad-libbed. There were perhaps half a dozen families with kids from one to four years old. What I really enjoyed about the show, despite the really bad pre-schooler-targeted stand-up comedy and puppet bits between songs, was that it was the first time Thumper actually participated in audience-participation moments. When they asked if anyone were afraid of bees or bugs that bite or sting before "Baby Bumble Bee," he raised his hand. He sang along in a couple of places, he jumped in front of his chair during "Pet Kangaroo." The more he warmed to ScottyRoo, the chattier and more outgoing he got until he finally was standing in front of ScottyRoo's keyboard holding a full conversation, oblivious to the audience behind him. He told ScottyRoo his full name and age, he asked if ScottyRoo were afraid of dragons or triceratops and advised him he need not be afraid of baby triceratops because they come from eggs and are tiny. Some of the time, ScottyRoo had no idea what he was talking about, as when he asked if ScottyRoo liked Despicable Me, the movie we were going to see after the show. ScottyRoo said, "Spooky what? Is that a TV show? I probably wouldn't like it if it's spooky. I get scared easily."

ScottyRoo had been playing an extended musical interlude on his keyboard throughout this exchange then looked at me and said, "He's going to have his own show before long!" I took this as a cry for help. I wondered if maybe I should've intervened sooner, but I figured if ScottyRoo didn't want his show hijacked by a three-year-old, maybe he shouldn't engage them in conversation like that. It was time for us to leave to make it to our movie on time, so we exited stage right while ScottyRoo sang about his friend Thumper who likes dragons and triceratops.

Blog

One post in nearly three months, and I'm wondering if I'm still a blogger. When I think about blogging, I don't have much more to say than what I've already said, except for anecdotes about Thumper that I've already put on Facebook in abbreviated form. When I think I might have something to say, I put it off because I have copy writing deadlines, or database deadlines, or I'm just tired and would rather stare at ridiculous episodes of Black Adder on Netflix for Wii.

Part of it is that I think the novelty and excitement I felt at becoming a parent and at being a stay-at-home dad has worn off. It's not that novel anymore. I have a routine; I feel more confident than I used to. I have friends; Thumper has friends; things are progressing, and there's not that much new. I'm used to being a SAHD; I'm used to being an usher; I'm used to being a copywriter. Telling stories about each of those things seems a little redundant now. The biggest challenge I have now, the one that occupies my mind most and is most ripe for exploration via blog post is my struggle dealing with the aggravation that comes from living with a three-year-old who constantly pushes the boundaries, constantly tests my patience, constantly challenges me not to yell. But writing about my regular failures to meet those challenges isn't exactly inspiring.

But one of the moms from one of my playgroups invited me to follow her blog, one of the moms that I admire because of her energy and positive attitude, despite the fact that she has 3X the kids (plus 2 dogs, a cat, and a snake) and a much fuller schedule than I do. It's one of the things I appreciate about my 3 different play groups: they surround me with parents who seem to be better at it than I am, inspiring me to try to be better at it myself. They're involved; they do crafts; and they don't yell (at least when I'm around). And reading her blog, I remembered that part of blogging is reminding myself of the good things, articulating the things that I love in fuller detail than a picture and a few words on Facebook allows.

Halloween and the 3 days preceding it were a blast, by the way. And did I mention, we ran into Kat Nash at Which Wich?

So, I don't know. I guess I'm still a blogger. But, gah, who has the time? I'm going to go play Bejeweled Blitz now...

Three

Friends and family gathered today to celebrate Thumper's third birthday. It's wonderful to have so many people who will come to our home and participate in these moments with us, and to see conversations bloom and mutate and migrate from room to room. To watch kids and cousins playing together. To see how things have changed and how things have stayed the same.

While he's not quite up to J-H's level, here's Thumper thoroughly enjoying his new guitar and improvising a couple of songs for your listening pleasure:

Toddler Punk

I Almost Said Yahtzee

That's More Than I Won on the Nickel Slots in Marksville

A week or two ago, I asked Thumper what we should get Mama for Mothers' Day. He said, "A toy."

"What kind of toy?"

"A duck."

So we went to the mall to look for a duck. We didn't find any, but we did stop by Dollar Tree to pick up some soap. Aerie likes this soap, and the only place we can find it without paying shipping is, for some reason, Dollar Tree at the mall.

All of that is just to explain how Thumper came to associate Dollar Tree with buying gifts for his Mama, which becomes pertinent right about here:

This morning, when we were driving our Meals on Wheels route, I asked him if we should go look for a present for Mama again. He enthusiastically told the next client on our route, "We're going to the dollar store to buy a present for Mama!" I asked him what we should get her, and he said, "Something breakable."

So we went to the mall today to look for something breakable. This time we found something. It is indeed breakable, but it didn't come from the dollar store. Perhaps it's a sign of insecurity, but it seems important to me to make that clear: I did not buy my wife a Mothers' Day present at the dollar store.

Anyway, after we shopped, we proceeded with our usual routine for the mall: lunch at Chick-fil-A, a quarter or two into the candy machines, and then some "playing with the kids" at Kidgitville, or whatever it is they call that playscape outside Dillard's.

There's a skylight overhead, and it was warm, and I started to doze off. So before we left, I decided to buy an energy drink out of the nearby vending machine so I wouldn't wreck the car on the way home. I put in three $1 bills and selected a $2.50 Monster. The coin return started dropping coins one after the other. I thought, "Oh great, it's giving me nickels." I looked inside and they were gold, so I thought, "Oh great, it's giving me Chuck E. Cheese tokens." When it finally stopped clinking, I pulled out the stack. Thumper said, "What are those?" and I could only answer, "I don't know." I'd never heard of them before, but they looked like legitimate U.S. $1 coins. There were twelve of them, plus three quarters. Turns out they actually are legitimate U.S. money! So near as I can tell, I'm up $9.75, plus a Monster. Today's my lucky day!

And I Ran; I Ran So Far Away

I ran my first official 10K today! I ran the whole way, without stopping or walking! As a wheezy, gray-bearded man overweight by a good fifty pounds, this fact is still a little stunning to me.

It was the Longhorn Run, and it was a beautiful day for it, overcast and cool with no rain. It was a beautiful course, too, running all through campus and finishing in Darrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium.

It was a thrilling feeling standing at the start with 2,500 other orange-clad runners (me, a runner! weird...) and hearing the University president fire the cannon to start us on our way. I tried to run at a pace that felt familiar from the few practice 10Ks I've run working my way up to today and not worry too much about what other runners were doing. My biggest worry was that my practice route was fairly flat, and I didn't know how much up and down I'd have to do on this course.

I loved being part of an event that was big enough to shut down traffic. We meandered through tree-lined West Campus, where a volunteer stood next to sign that told us we had just passed 1,589 yards, the total rushing yards Colt McCoy ran for during his career at UT. There were also signs marking the 3-mile and 6-mile points, but I was glad that there weren't more regular landmarks; it freed me from worrying about how much distance was left and made it easier to just run and forget about comparing my performance with previous runs. I just ran at a pace that felt good.

And I was passing people! And I kept running when other people stopped to walk!

I had pretty much zoned out by the time we made the turn from San Jacinto onto 24th, but I heard the runner next to me say, "Oh, shit." I looked up the hill toward Speedway and remembered getting out of breath carrying Thumper up that same hill on the way to an ill-fated business meeting a few months ago. But I told myself to just keep moving, and I did. And I didn't die!

When we turned from Speedway onto 21st, we were looking down the hill at the southwest corner of the stadium. My heart leaped, knowing that we would enter the stadium at the southwest corner to finish. I wanted to sprint down that hill, but I thought there might be some stairs to run up to get us to field level, so I kept my pace. I'm glad I did, because part way down the hill, it became apparent that runners were turning left at the bottom, not right. We would enter at the southwest, but we would have to run a lap around the stadium first.

It was a good thing I didn't take that sprint after all, because the hardest part of the course was just ahead. Turning from San Jacinto onto 23rd, we were looking up the steepest hill on the course. Appropriately, its apex was at Robert Dedman. I imagined course planners chuckling at the irony of the name. Many people walked up that hill, and many walked after that hill, but again, I told myself to just keep moving. And I did. And I didn't die!

At that point, runners who'd already finished had come back down the course to cheer us on. "You can do it! Looking good! That was the last hill; you're almost there!" I felt great. I couldn't wait to run through the tunnel at the south end and burst out beneath the scoreboard, crossing the finish line and stepping out onto the field to the joyful cheers of friends, family, and my fellow runners. I pictured it something like this, with smoke and music and video montage and all (jump to around 2:10 if you're the impatient sort).

But no, it wasn't quite like that. We crossed the finish line at the entrance to the tunnel, then sort of just dribbled out onto the field, where we were directed up and out again to where water, fruit, and a live band awaited us. I thought the post-race festivities would be happening on the field, but I suppose I can understand their desire to protect their million-dollar grass and hustle us away from it as soon as possible. I also didn't wear a watch. I looked at the scoreboard to see if the official race time would be ticking along up there, but alas, it wasn't. And I didn't have the presence of mind to ask anybody what time it was, so I don't know how I did relative to my previous personal best of 1:09. We ran with microchips on our shoes, though, which we turned in at the end of the race, so hopefully results will be posted online somewhere.

Then I came home, ate a lunch lovingly prepared by my wife, and played Play Doh with Thumper. The End.



UPDATE! I finished in 1:01:44! Woo hoo!