In Which I, Like Peter, Deny My Faith

OK, so I'm back to the measuring again. I thought it sounded good when I wrote it, but I haven't kept it up. I haven't kept anything up, actually. But I didn't bring the iPod this morning, so that's something.

Today I began the 13-week program outlined in the book that Melissa mentioned back when she was fighting her hatred of running. What, you may wonder, sold me on it? Was it her glowing endorsement of bloody nipples and diarrhea? No, surprisingly, it was not. It was mostly that it was a beginner's book that had neither "Dummies" nor "Idiots" in the title. And the fact that she said, "There it was in black and white what I needed to do to become a runner and I sort of started to feel like a runner."

The thought of feeling like a runner appealed to me. I've never felt like a runner. When I run, my chubby bits bounce embarrassingly, I breathe noisily, and the air huffs out of me noticeably on each footfall. My knees sound like a bowl of Kellogg's® Rice Krispies® when I walk up stairs, too, and I didn't think pounding all of my weight down on them over and over again would help that much.

And so, because I over-intellectualize everything I do, I got a book. I got two, actually. The second is this book hoping it might help with the knee thing. I haven't read it yet, though. If ChiRunning appeals to me in the same way that yoga does, it will probably mean I never actually do it. Despite my conservative, North Austin suburban veneer, I have South Austin hippie leanings like a strong yearning to practice yoga. But somehow I never actually find a way to fit it into my life. Just like veganism.

Which brings me back to running. I started today, and immediately these two thoughts came to mind: 1) wow, it sure is dark and quiet at 5:15 a.m. 2) wow, it sure is humid here.

I'll resist the temptation to use this space as the "running journal" the book encourages runners to keep. But I'll let you know how it goes. Today's status: Session 1 of Week 1 complete. Weight, 250 lbs. Total time: 35 minutes. Total running time: 3 1/2 minutes.

Note to Self

When making a joke, you may want to consider whether or not the cultural experience on which it is based is universal to your audience. Case in point: I made a bad joke yesterday. While rinsing the pesto sauce out of my lunch dish, I chuckled at my own cleverness. I went into the other room and said to Mrs. Rodius:

"If I were an adman creating a campaign for a company that sells pesto sauce, I would pitch the slogan, Pesto es vivia."

She said, "What does that mean?"

It then occurred to me that not everyone, and certainly not Mrs. Rodius, watched as much television through the '80's as I did. Perhaps for them, the Lynn Redgrave Weight Watchers "This is living" campaign does not occupy any space in the memory cells of their brains. If that's true, then the exotic spin Ms. Redgrave put on it in a commercial for a Mexican dish of some sort ("esto es vivia") may not immediately spring to mind when it is cleverly tweaked to apply to pesto sauce.

And once again it was demonstrated to me in clear terms that the me walking around out here in the real world just ain't as funny as the me inside my head.

These Kids Today, and Their Fancy MP3's!

I have a strong tendency towards curmudgeonry. I love the phrase "These kids today..." and have been using it with an ever-decreasing sense of irony since my early twenties. But one modern trend with which I have kept pace is the migration from CD's to MP3 players. I love my iPod so much, it hurts my heart. I love that I have not minutes, not hours, but days of music, audiobooks, and Spanish lessons at my fingertips. Whatever I may be in the mood for at any given moment, it's available. What could be better than that? But I've noticed that my sense of context is gone, chronologically, physically, socially.

Chronologically, I have no idea what year most of the music I'm listening to originally came out, so that I'm revelling in the discovery of the crazy new sound of Hooverphonic ten years after it was originally released. While I am still taken back to a particular moment when I listen to a particular song, the moment that I first got addicted to Peter, Bjorn & John's "Young Folks" and cemented the addiction through horrific, repeated abuse that made Mrs. Rodius want to jab me in the eye with a ballpoint pen, that moment no longer has specific context in the larger world.

Physically, there's no longer a tangible artifact inextricably connected to the music anymore. When I was younger, I would listen to a new CD while looking at the artwork and reading the liner notes. A cassette that didn't have the lyrics printed on the long origami of the insert was a sore disappointment indeed. Today, I may or may not know what the CD cover looks like, but I certainly don't have the mental association between the image and the sound cemented in my mental conception of it the way I used to. And if I shuffle a whole playlist or an entire genre of music, I may recognize the artist, but I often don't know which album the song comes from, or which track number on that album it is. Music floats out in an undefined, nebulous space in my mind, no longer tethered to the physical object from which it came.

Socially, I'm finding music through a much broader system of links, recommendations, and accidental stumblings, so there's not as much of a sense of shared experience as there was when I was listening to the same newly released Metallica album that everybody else in my peer group was listening to, at the same time they were listening to it. It's not just technology that's affected the shared experience of music for me; music is no longer central to or universal to my peer group. But the broadening of communication in the last decade or so has broadened the group of people who influence my musical selections and weakened the degree to which music is part of a social connection.

And that word, album. I think it dates me. I tried hard not to use it above, but still it managed to sneak in there. I maintain that a CD is an album. A cassette was an album. But I may be in the minority. Album evokes vinyl for many people now.

Anyway, I'm somehow feeling wistful now. These kids today and their fancy electronics! I remember when I had to flip the cassette over in my generic Walkman made of three pounds of bright yellow plastic. And I was glad, and lucky to have it! We didn't care about playlists and randomizing tracks. We listened to an album straight through, in the track order that God intended. Bah! I yank my pants up as high as they'll go and shake my fist in the air! These kids today!

Throw Down

People like to give pregnant women advice. They like to advise the husband, too. This morning, the security guard at my office passed this one along:

"When my kids were, you know, still in the belly, the doctor asked if she was getting any exercise. I said she was walking. He said it is not enough. She needs more... You know, for, like... To make the delivery easier. You know?"

Here he pointed at his belly. I nodded knowingly.

"The doctor said to take a box of matches. You know, the matches that come in a box?"

Here he mimed striking a match against a box. I nodded again to let him know I'm hip to the whole match-in-a-box thing.

"Take the box of matches, and throw them all over the floor. Really spread them out. Then tell her to pick them up."

Here he mimed a person with a large belly bending over, picking up a match, and putting it in a box. Then he repeated the maneuver, in case I hadn't properly appreciated the amount of exercise involved in picking up an entire box of matches, one by one.

"Picking up the matches, it is very good. It makes it easier."

For my part, I'm not sure that throwing a box of matches on the floor and telling Mrs. Rodius to pick them up would make anything much easier. In fact, I'm pretty sure it would have the opposite effect.

With a Guilty Start

When I opened the door, he was moving in a straight line directly for the drinking fountain, with an intent expression on his face. He heard the door, though, and suddenly changed direction while looking quickly over his shoulder at me.

"Good morning!" he said, and shuffled away. It wasn't late in the day, but still, we were clearly on the p.m. side of noon.

I can't help but wonder, what might he have done to that fountain if I hadn't happened along?

Paving the Way II: Give Me a Gift, You Cheap Bastard

We've been getting some pressure lately, mostly from one of the Once and Future Grandmas, to make a gift registry for the baby shower. This is apparently serious business that must not be postponed.

There's something disconcerting to me, and to Mrs. Rodius, about telling people what gifts to give us. "Mom, I think you should buy us a rocking chair. And you should spend $300. Maybe more, we haven't decided yet." Seems a little, I don't know, awkward. I know, she offered. Both of the Grandmas have said they want to buy us Something, and preferably one of the Bigger Somethings. Even so, telling them what the Somethings will be, and how much the Somethings will cost, feels a little presumptuous.

A co-worker with four kids gave me this advice: "Be thorough, and be specific." He said he felt awkward, too, for the first kid. But by the time the fourth came along, they were asking for everything, specifying colors and sizes, and registering so they wouldn't get duplicates. It all sounds so mercenary.

We've been very generously offered a crib, changing table, and dresser, as well as what sounded like many cubic yards of clothes, from Mrs. Rodius' brother and his wife. The nephew is ready to graduate to the Big Boy Bed, and we're grateful to give the furniture a new home. So with the furniture, and the rocking chair and stroller/carrier/car seat "Travel System" that the Grandmas are very kindly giving us (or else!), I don't know what to put on the registry. Not that there aren't lots of helpful suggestions at Babies 'R' Us. But my God, surely you don't need that much equipment to raise a baby! They're just little people; how could they need all that stuff?

I'm getting better at it, though. $30 for a thermometer? I wouldn't pay that! But hey, I'm still not, so on it goes! What else you got?

But you, you should definitely buy us diapers. Cloth diapers, though. I don't want you thinking you can get away with a bag of disposables, like that's going to cover it. Our friendship is definitely worth cloth. You can get us a couple of 12-packs of one-sizers for around $400. That should do it. But remember, I've got my eye on you, you cheap bastard.

Observation

I find myself washing my hands a little more thoroughly than usual when I'm standing next to Well-Documented Germophobe as he does his "Prepping for Surgery" handwashing before he uses the urinal.