Men and Marriage

First of all, I would like to preface this blog post with the fact that everything that you think you know about men after prom, is a joke. Everything you know about men after sleeping over a few times, is a joke. Even the things that you know about men after going on your one-or-two-year-anniversary-trip is a joke. Everything that I learned about men in 23 years was trumped by three months of marriage; and, yes, no matter how expensive your underwear is, it's going to happen to you. Here are a few reasons why:

1) If you marry a man of quality, it doesn't matter whether you shop at Wal Mart or Victoria's Secret, because neither of these companies sell vaginas.

2) Men smell like shit. All the time, except for the five minutes after they get out of the shower, but even that depends on what body wash that they use.

3) "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach" is a ton of bullshit. If that's true, you have the wrong one. All that aside, your grocery bill will triple, but not for any product of immense quality.

4) You. Will. Look. Like. Ass. In. Front. Of. Him. No ifs, ands or butts. You will look the worst that you want to, in his face, in the morning, every day. And you know what, only you will notice this. He will still think that you're goddamn Cinderella letting her hair down. And by hair I mean pants.

5) Marriage is fun. It's being with your best friend every day. It's waiting to hear their car lock in the drive; footsteps; kisses; pranks; finding new ways to love, and hemispheres of your heart that you never knew existed.

6) Marriage is hard. It is like looking is the most accurate mirror ever invented. There is no hiding; no quiet apartment to come home to. It's the most work, and the most rewarding endeavor, that you will ever encounter in this life. You will have to confront yourself; your partner; the way that you live your life, every moment, every day. Stupid misunderstandings happen as easily as stubbing your toe; except that sometimes they hurt longer.

7) I will stop here, because seven is my lucky number. Marriage is not overrated. It might be viewed as antiquated, conservative, religious, or as a settlement. But promising to spend all of your days with a person who fulfills your emotional and physical needs; who finds ways to support you that you could never imagine; who sees your weaknesses and loves you all the same; who helps you to be better every single day that you are together; where distance or time does not matter, is not any sort of compromise. It is the best deal that could ever be settled.

All this being said; WEDDINGS ARE SO OVERPRICED AND OVERRATED THAT AT THE END OF IT YOU WILL FEEL AS THOUGH YOU PURCHASED A HOOKER IN A WHITE DRESS AND STILL WON'T KNOW A DAMN THING ABOUT FLOWERS.

I only hope that your bartender was awesome.

Go Home Monday, You're Drunk

Go Home Monday, You’re Drunk

I would say that today was the sort of day where a ton of ridiculous situations occurred, but that would be taking away from the context that this entire week was a week of complete shenanigans, the end of the universes’ patience, karmic retribution, and emotional train wrecks. This week, was one of such epic Monday proportions, that it would be a shame to keep it all to oneself, and to not, in some bassackwards way, find a morbid sort of humor in it. On huffingtonpost.com there are several articles, with excellent pictures I might add, depicting individuals in such awkward situations as to make you think that your entire life is nothing but peaches and orgasms, and I won’t pretend that this essay is half as entertaining; however, if you are at all acquainted with myself, I hope that you will split an ab or give at least a good snort or two.

 This week:

1)      I got off of work early. That was great. By ‘early’, I mean 0745, because I went to work at 0430 on a Monday morning, and literally did nothing until 0744. The instant that I left work, it began to pour down rain. Stomping/power walking down the sidewalk to my vehicle, since I park at least a solid hundred football fields from work so as to stick it to the meter maids, I rapidly came up on a little old lady, gracefully (is this something that comes with being 70+ years old?) taking up the center of the sidewalk. Naturally, I went for the pass. The instant that we were parallel, she whips out an impressive umbrella, and, unintentially, lands a solid left hook to my jaw with said preventative weather apparatus. She then follows this with a demand that I do not hog the sidewalk.

       Monday followed up with a beautiful day, beginning five minutes before I was scheduled to clock on for my second shift. Well played sir, well played. 

2)      My bike got stolen. $1,000 vehicular device, which, although I admit is not essential to my transportation needs, was a lot of fun, had many future plans wrapped around its handlebars, and was equivalent to approximately 40 man hours of work. Or 20 women hours, depending on which bra is worn to work. Immediately, I was livid, and looking for any available hoodlum to throttle. Ten treadmill miles and several whiskey neats later, I was feeling much more zen about the situation, and realized that the fact that my bike was insured, and that now I knew how to effectively file a police report could be a blessing in disguise. However, Evenrude, you were, and always will be, the shit.

3)      If you have, at any time, tried to do something that could possibly piss off Karma, such as try to pass a little old lady and take up .05% of the sidewalk, don’t do anything even mildly retarded for at least a week. Especially run errands unshowered and in spandex. Because, guess what? Karma is probably fed up with your punk ass, and before you know it you drop your keys in the center consul to reach for your wallet, hit the auto lock and shut the car door. And at that point, life is essentially simplified to you standing awkwardly in your practically-underwear, waiting for a cabby to arrive and inform you, less than 12 hours after you get bike-jacked, that your car is probably the easiest one to steal that he has yet encountered. And then you compensate said cabby $40 dollars for that knowledge. Or .25 of women hours.

4)      Just when you think that Monday must surely be passed out naked on the hood of their supervisor’s vehicle, wearing nothing but their birthday suit and a scuba mask, he/she/they/it strikes again. And by ‘strikes again’ I mean dumps a can of chili into your sheepskin slippers when you open the fridge, leaving you wondering 1) how the crap do you clean a former sheep? And 2) what the fuck kind of crack-whore -bastard are you, Monday?

5)      You run out of ketchup mid omlet. Nuf said.

6)      You receive a 12 hour nosebleed and suddenly your bathroom looks like it belongs to an emotional high schooler and/or dorm full of at least 8 women on the same cycle.

7)      I would like to say that that is all, but to prevent retribution before the upcoming Monday, I’m going to save this as a working draft. Stand by.

Kryptonite

Everyone has their kryptonite; be it sugar, fast cars, a sports team, shopping, whatever. A kryptonite is not a hobby, a habit, or an enjoyment. Kryptonite is a compulsion. A crippling power. A power that wastes something within a person; time, money, calories, willpower, etc.

My kryptonite is alcohol. No other dynamic in life justifies itself as falsely, cripples as thoroughly, or clings as closely to my spiritual Achilles heel as drinking does. Why? Yes, it is an escape. Yes, it is a social expectation. But mostly, I'm just good at it.

Other people might live with, and even enjoy, their kryptonite. But I don't have to. I don't have to waste time recovering. I don't have to waste money on something that wastes me. I don't have to waste hard earned muscle, strength paid for in sweat, stress, dollars, diets, sacrifice, dedication, health and tears.

I refuse to be owned by a substance. I refuse to be physically strong, but mentally weak. I refuse to settle for the status quo, or count among my accomplishments any sort of ability to embrace this weakness.

No matter how many times I fall on my face through this battle, I will keep pressing on. Each time, I will stand. Each time I will forgive. Each time I will absorb the blow, and take another step, because I believe in victory.


I am not a superhero, because I refuse to have a kryptonite.

Spiritual Selection

Most days, I feel as though I am in a spiritual black hole. I know that there is something there; it is all around me, and I progress through it, with no guidance, no direct intervention, and no ending. I believe in a being. Whether it is the being of elementary Sunday school, the being of the nation of Israel, the being who calms our spirits during yoga, the being behind all the coincidences and lucky happenings and seemingly unmistakable miracles, or all of the above, it is there. Somewhere.

Sometimes, I go to church. Most times, attendance is out of a sense of obligation, either to my mother, religious friends, deep-rooted inner scripts, or a guilty conscience. Today, I went to church for none of these reasons. I went for me.

I went, because I want to know what I believe. I want to know what I don't believe. If this being is here, I want to know him. I want to know why the only concept that I truly feel grounded in is love. And, if this being, God, is love, how many forms of love he takes on. Is he a selective love, a gender-biased love, a wait till your wedding day love, a temporary love, a passionate love, a gentle yet steady love, a wild love, a love found only in the church pew, or a love found in every plant, star, romantic book, ancient hymn and heathen heart?

Is hell truly a place of brimstone, or simply a place that love has left?

I wonder which is worse.

The War on Wine

My good friend Tia once told me that progress is not constant upward climb, but a series of peaks and valleys, dark places and fresh starts, but continuous, as long as you don't stop. Today is-yet another-of hundreds of fresh starts. I stand once more at the starting line of sobriety.

Why, you might ask. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not dysfunctional. I'm active and fit and healthy and motivated. But, I'm not all I could be. When I ingest alcohol, I break my muscles down. I turn healthy cells into lipase cells, that I then have to fight to turn back into healthy muscle growth. I break down healthy brain function; I invite poor decisions, under utilize the small amount of time given to me on this earth, and deceive those who care about me most.

Here is to the dust I'm brushing off myself once again. Here is to the falling down, the breaking, the mistakes, the heartache, the regret, the resulting motivation, the starting over, and the non-existent finish line.

Why be good, when you can be better?
Why be effective, when you can be exceptional?
Why be drunk, when you can be sober?

Ready, set, run from mediocrity.

Pumpkin, You're Great

As someone who can comfortably down an entire pumpkin pie in a day, it has been the product of much mental energy to create such a pie as would prevent a personal caloric Armageddon. To clarify, I do not eat an entire pumpkin pie in one sitting. However, replacing all three daily meals with pie is not entirely unheard of. Pie with a side of eggs? Sure. Pie with a side of veggie burger? Why not. Pie with a side of salad? Absolutely. 

Four or five pies later, I believe that I have a success. A pie, the entire caloric dent of which is equal to the dent made by a single slice of traditional pumpkin pie, complete with protein, fiber, complex carbohydrates, and a healthy dose of beta carotene. Quite simply: suitable to substitute for any and all meals on an given day for any number of days in a row. Attention trending health sensations:  I have discovered the new superfood. This beautiful pie is also fantastically free of unidentifiable "fat free" or "sugar free" substitutions that are code name for chemical shit-storm.

Being in my own apartment, I have thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to cook and eat and make a mess of anything and everything that I like, and, lately, what I like is pumpkin pie. Today, I purchased Stevia in the Raw to substitute naturally for the sugar, silken tofu to substitute for part of the eggs/condensed milk, and lite coconut milk to add just a hint of creaminess and decadence, while simultaneously hydrating my hair and skin.  I also added a tablespoon of cornstarch and two tablespoons of EnerG Egg substitute to take care of the little pool of liquid that I found in the center of my last pie. 

And, Voila, success. I shall now consume pumpkin dessert at an unprecedented rate, with minimal guilt. The holiday season may come and go, but the training season never ends. In the spirit of GO BIG OR GO HOME, I will have my pie, and my protein too.

Go now, love.

I pray
That love, like death, will come swiftly
Take my feet from beneath me
And catch me in its arms
So that I shall never have to wonder
That it is love.

I pray
That love, like hate, would make me brave
Erase all contingencies
And cause my soul to leap
My heart to fight, my lips to scream the name
Of this one love.

I pray
That love, like God, will never leave
My heart, though romance fail me
I will not die alone
But know that a lifetime was worth the fall
To be, to love.