Month: August 2012

Disappearing Armstrongs

It was a bad week for two famous Armstrongs.

First, seven-time Tour de France victor Lance Armstrong abandoned his quest to clear his name of drug doping charges. For many, this signaled a guilty plea as the capstone to his multi-year efforts to redeem himself in the bicycle sports arena.

A few days later, Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon, died following heart surgery. Each time we view that 1969 grainy black and white video clip of his first step on the moon, we pause to consider his courage. And, for many, this humble astronaut’s passing seals his noble legacy.

Two stories of life’s fame and fortune, walked out in very different ways.

At the One Stop Shop for Fame and Fortune, a waiting line encircles the block. Fame and fortune is what we think we want. Come and get it!

Aisle One is the widest and most traveled, where laurels are reserved for sports achievements, a dizzying aisle plumped with the most popular—and obscure—awards available to claim. Of course, there are home run records, and most soccer goals scored. Looking for more exotic fame? Help yourself to an ice bowling (yes, there really is such a thing) or Frisbee golf championship or two. On the cycling shelf, I notice a freshly stocked area listing available records under Tour de France, apparently recently vacated of Lance Armstrong archives.

Successive aisles proffer fame and fortune in order of diminishing popularity…famous clothing designers, lawyers who have made fortunes, bank robbers who have stolen fortunes, fertilization-specializing veterinarians….

Let’s see…how do I want to gain my own personalized fame and fortune? What should I pick?

My curiosity drives me to explore the last aisle in the store. Down the damp and darkening shelves, I pass into the bowels of the most unpopular fame and fortune categories: plumbing, bomb shelter design, trash and refuse collection, whoopee cushion manufacturing. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not for me, thanks!

Ah, finally! Here it is—the very least popular way to gain fame and fortune. I’m at the very end of the very last aisle. Not much traffic down here. The lonely previous visitor here was probably disoriented, looking for the restroom.

I find the final forlorn shelf—and it’s empty. Above it is a tattered, fading label, which, under the gathering dust reads: “Good Neighbor.” The space is reserved but unstocked. There are apparently no takers—it’s tough to gain fame and fortune at the gig of good-neighborliness. It’s just a shelf, an empty shelf with a note scrawled in fading red ink: “Tried that. Didn’t work out.”

Armstrong want-to-be’s, step right up. Come on in from the cold and take your pick. Come on in to the One Stop Shop for Fame and Fortune.

Remember, there are plenty of choices available on Aisle One, on the shelf marked Cycling: Tour de France.

Fame and fortune are awaiting.

But take care in making your choice.

A Tilling Experience

Saturday dawned, but I slept in. The weekend had arrived. I could handle life’s demands at my leisure.

Until I recalled that today was the day to create the new, long-promised flower bed. Ugh.

Never mind. By mid-morning I trudged out, armed with my blunt shovel, and started digging up rocks–lots of them–as I created a trench outline of the bed.

At well over 100 degrees, it was one of the steamiest days of the year. Within the hour, I hoisted the unmanly white flag of surrender. I was off to Home Depot to rent a gas-powered dirt tiller.

I narrowed down which tiller I needed: gargantuan, giant, or medium. Intimidated, I asked for something still smaller. I had to settle for the scary, medium-sized beast, the smallest that they had. Getting the thing into my car was no picnic. We dismantled the handle bar and gently hoisted it inside, being careful to place the sharp tines on a thick book of maps to keep the leather upholstery from being pierced.

Once home, I constructed a ramp of two 2 by 4s, upon which I gingerly placed the sole wheel, intending to guide the thing backwards down the ramp. The boards immediately parted, leaving me to precariously balance the heavy and awkward contraption on a four-inch wide plank at a 45 degree downward angle. The disconnected handle protruded toward my chest like the horns of an angry bull. The sharply-honed tines, intended to turn earth into shreds, hovered menacingly near my loins. One unfortunate lurch and I knew I could be singing soprano.

A lifetime can seem to pass in the course of one day. In the case of a groin gore, I was glad to already have family firmly in place. In the case that I should collapse and meet Jesus in the sweltering heat, I was pretty sure that heaven was climate-controlled. Besides, we don’t have enough put away for retirement, so I would permanently escape that spreadsheet diorama that wallpapers my office.

“Seven hours and 32 minutes,” came the report when eventually I returned the tiller to the dude at Home Depot. I was filthy from digging dirt, and I wanted my heroic efforts to be noted by everyone at the macho Home Depot store–wow, what a man.

Mr. Home Depot Rental Check-In Man congratulated me. “Good thing you chose the 24-hour instead of the four-hour rental rate!” He crowed, as though he possessed supernatural insight.

Yeah. Just think. If I had gotten my money’s worth and kept the tiller 24-hours, I could have tilled up all three bedrooms and the neighbor’s dog run.

And by then, I would definitely have met up with Jesus.  

Bungee Baby

I abruptly halted my stroll through the shopping mall to gaze in wonder at a very large, very pregnant woman bouncing repeatedly on a bungee swing.

Quickly summoning my seventh grade math skills, I calculated that the repeating force and velocity upon her body could momentarily launch an unanticipated sequence of events. At each vertical bounce, I expected the abrupt squeal of a tiny baby’s voice, propelled into birth with the aid of gravity and a giant rubber slingshot. No forceps necessary for this delivery, thank you.

The bounding continued, but I didn’t want to stick around for the spectacular gravitational outcome. Instead, having empathetically sensed my own need for additional anti-gravitational support, I made my move to the men’s underwear department at Macy’s.

One thing was for sure. She owned this athletic event. In the category of Very Pregnant Women Bouncing on a Slingshot, there were no other competitors in the mall. Or, probably, in the entire city.

Recently, a friend asked me if I would consider speaking at a small seminar. He listed several topic options to consider, and he asked me which of the topics I felt that I “owned”.

Huh. I’ve never felt I am a particular expert at anything. That’s the trouble with being a utility player. Send ‘em to left field, or catch, or play third base for half an inning. It doesn’t matter much. They’ve got just enough skill to last for a few minutes. The “real” player will be back as soon as he gets that thumb taped.

To really own something requires an obsessive compulsive streak. That’s laudable. It might not even matter so much what is owned; such a person is driven to own something. The Guinness Book of World Records is full of the bragging rights of those who own a record, no matter how obscure or inane the event.

Owning no particular event makes a person feel downright…well…average.

However, come to think of it, being successfully “average” requires its own skill set—persistence, compassion, integrity, harmony.

Being obsessively compulsive might get your picture on a Wheaties box.

But being the best “average” might just get you through life better.

Okay. Got it.

I don’t know anything about slingshot bungee baby deliveries.

But do I know anything about being average? Oh, yeah! I own that gig!

The iOlympics

I’m an Olympics junkie. I know that because during this year’s games I‘ve been unapologetically watching synchronized diving, beach volleyball, and badminton cheating scandals. These sporting events would typically garner my apathy. But during the Olympics, the post-event television reruns keep me up too late at night.

It’s enough to make me wish I excelled at either an exotic or uncelebrated sport. Any sport will do. All the hubbub makes me want to compete and excel at something.

But how do I identify that special sport? The trick to Olympic excellence is often whittling down to a very narrow, specific sporting event. There are dozens of niche specialties in sports such as track and field, swimming and gymnastics, each event intended to highlight the expertise of a person matching the requirements of that special niche. Can’t run a marathon? No problem. How about 10,000 meter? 5,000 meters? 3,000 meters? 1500 meters? 800 meters? 400 meters? 200 meters? 100 meters? 60 meters? See? There’s something for everyone.

I’m also secretly grieving my now-absent sporting prowess. Once universally recognized as the fastest runner in my elementary school, my glory has faded, leaving this former sixth grader not-so-impressive and not-so-imposing.

I need a new sport in which to compete—perhaps a much more specialized, personal competition, a sort of iOlympics. But still, how do I discover my own uniquely tailored made-for-me iOlympic event?

A few months ago, I complained to my doctor about ongoing lower pack pain. After an x-ray, he revealed the prognosis. I didn’t appreciate the chuckle in his voice as he told me.

“There are three certainties in life,” he began. “Death and taxes are the first two, and you’re fortunate to have experienced only one of those so far.”

“Great,” I replied, sensing I was being lured into a medical humor trap. “What’s the third?”

“Degenerative disk disease!” he grinned. “It comes with the territory as we get older. Some people feel the pain more than others. For you? Eh—it’ll probably get worse over time. That’s how aging is, you know.”

On my way home, I flicked on the seat warmer in my car. It seemed to help ease the lower back pain. I haven’t turned it off since. But in 100 degree summer temperature, it can sure make the backside sweat.

Thus I discovered my iOlympic event. Like the pentathlon, my physical disciplines are several strenuous elements combined into one back-pain busting event: stretching, pulling, arching, bending, and lifting to develop core muscle toning and strong abs.

No, it’s not exactly an Olympic event that could result in a gold medal and the obligatory national anthem, but it’s good enough for me. My gold medal iOlympic routine will help to keep me on my feet and out of the doctor’s office.

Now that I’m getting pretty good at one iOlympic event, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be adding some more performances to my repertoire. The Ten-Pound Belly Fat Drop? The Eight-Hours per Night Sleep Stretch? The Extended Book Reading Marathon? The Staying on Budget Until the End of the Month Grind?

There are probably plenty of iOlympic events to go around.