Memorial Day has come and gone, which means that if we invited you over and you haven't shown up yet, you're no longer welcome.
But the day after Memorial Day means more than that.
It means you had to go back to work today, even though you'd probably forgotten whatever it was you'd been working on at the end of last week. It means that when you were off target when you wished your co-worker a happy Monday.
But it also means the start of summer!
But let's face it: that prospect probably not as exciting as it used to be when you were a kid. Summer, like nostalgia, isn't what it used to be.
If you're an adult who is not employed in the school system, your summer probably sucks. It's too hot outside, reruns litter your TV, and your kids, if you have them, are soon to get restless and annoying (even more so than usual). Vacation time is hard to come by and doesn't last as long as it did when you were in school.
But fear not. Even if your summers are usually hot, sweaty and depressing, I've set out to make sure this one is different. You may never re-live the carefree days of your youth, but dang it, your summer will be better than, say, last February, at least if I have anything to say about it.
And in this space, I do.
So without further ado, here is Andrew's Guide to Summer Fun, Fulfillment and Frivolity, presented in the popular Q&A format that I've been using as a literary crutch for the last 13 years:
Q: I have no plans this summer and no one likes me. How do I survive until college football and my favorite TV shows return in September?
A: Use the summer to learn how to trick people into liking you. That way, you'll be invited to all the A-list cookouts, and you'll get more impromptu calls to join friends at outdoor restaurants than you'll have time to accept.
Here are some tips: When someone speaks to you, don't ever express your actual opinion unless you happen to agree with the speaker. Just ask questions and nod along until you can gracefully change the subject. Ask people about their dogs. Learn two sentences worth of knowledge about every common topic of conversation. And if all else fails, offer people drinks (or a handful of multi-colored mints if they are Southern Baptist.) Soon you'll be the most popular person you know (provided you only know a handful of people).
Q: My air conditioner is broken and I can't afford to fix it. How do I not hate my life for the next three months?
A: Go hang out at coffee shops, bookstores, lecture halls, and places of worship. Or go out for drinks. Interpret the situation as the universe's way of telling you to get out more. And spend the next year saving up to buy a new air conditioner so the universe will leave you the hell alone next summer.
Q: It's May 28th and I'm already sweaty when I come from work every day. What can I do?
A: Sleep at your office.
Q: I'm a cultural snob, and I hate summer because theater and symphony season ends, it's too hot to enjoy outdoor parks, and all the movies out are about stuff blowing up with little extrinsic justification.
A: That's not a question.
Q: True, but you still haven't solved my problem.
A: Sorry, you only get one shot at this. Go drink some wine. I'm pretty sure they still sell that in the summertime.
Q: But I only like red wine, and it dehydrates me when it gets hot outside.
A: Move to Australia. It's winter there and my friends Jon and Rebekah will take care of you.
Q: How do you know these people?
A: Jon and Rebekah won my undying affection when they told me that they used to sneak off to the woods to make out in the evenings during the ultra-conservative Christian summer music camp where we all served as camp counselors.
Q: I have a job and can't go waltzing off to some Christian summer music camp to look for my excitement like the "one percent" do. What other advice do you have for me?
A: Accept that it's going to be hot outside. Turn up the AC if you can afford it, so that you don't walk around being cranky. Make a list of things you never make time to do during the school year and check them it off over the course of the summer. Take walks at dusk. Take a trip, even if it's just for a weekend. Be friendly. Invest time and energy in something outside yourself or your family. Enjoy a favorite chilled beverage of your choice, and try to slow down the pace of life, at least just a little bit. Things will get suddenly and unexpectedly busy around Labor Day, so rest up while you can.
Q: Anything else?
A: If it's too hot to go outside, I know a nice blog you can read. It might not bring you fulfillment, but it passes the time nicely until something else does.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
The Purpose of Life
"What do you want?," he asked me.
"Ice cream," I said.
"No, what do you really want?
"It's hot outside. I really want some ice cream."
"No, I mean what do you want out of life? What are your hopes and dreams?"
"You mean besides eating ice cream?"
I was stumped. I hadn't really thought past my mint chocolate chip.
The question made me think: I make a list of goals every year, I don't often stop to think what the greater purpose of those goals are, or what I want my legacy to be or what I want people to say about me when I'm gone.
I wonder how many of you do?
It's relatively easy to write out a set of objectives for the year. But stopping there leaves the more difficult question unanswered: what is the greater purpose of our lives?
I mean, besides eating lots of ice cream.
Many people have weighed in on this subject.
In the final episode of Cheers, Cliff Clavin said the secret to life is "comfortable shoes," citing the accomplishments and footwear of history's great achievers as proof.
While he might have had a point, I have a sneaking suspicion that there's something else in our, um, souls to be filled.
In that same episode, Norm theorized that happiness came from an undying devotion to the one thing most important to your soul.
There's an argument to be made for that position too. People rarely accomplish big things unless they figure out what they want and go to great lengths to make it happen. And more importantly, by Norm's standard, my ice cream fixation would be a worthwhile pursuit.
But we probably shouldn't define our existence based on the advice of sitcoms. (Although I'd listen to an argument for Community.)
But the flaw in Norm's theory is that putting all your energy into achieving only one thing makes for an unbalanced life and makes you a bore at parties. Not that you'd have time to go, anyway.
Douglas Adams tackled the question of "life, the universe and everything" in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but he couldn't find a satisfying answer, so he gave up and declared it to be "42." This, of course, is ridiculous. "24" would have made much more sense.
Some religious figures have said that the purpose of life is to make the world a better place by your existence. Others have said that it is to be a reflection of God's love to those around you by giving more than you receive.
These principles are great ideas, and they are probably as good as we can do in finding our answers. But they don't exactly resolve questions like who you should marry, whether that goal you've put so much time into is worth it, or whether you should quit your well-paying but unsatisfying job to go live on the beach.
So, I guess the question that matters is not so much "what's the purpose of life?" as "what's the purpose of your life?"
I mean, besides eating a lot of ice cream.
I can't tell you that.
But if you can find some intersection where what you enjoy, what you are good at, and what gives you a sense of purpose meet, you are probably getting close. If you have multiple things that fit in that category, pick one and see how far that road takes you. When you reach a dead end, it's time to take a different road.
And if you find someone in your life who helps give you the strength and courage to get where your soul tells you that you should be going, you should probably keep that person around for the journey. Just make sure you stop for ice cream along the way.
The destination probably look different for every person, and for every person, there's probably more than one trail to get there (although some may be more winding than others). The journey might be steep, but the upward climb somehow seems just a little bit easier when you are on the right path.
That is, so long as you are wearing comfortable shoes.
"Ice cream," I said.
"No, what do you really want?
"It's hot outside. I really want some ice cream."
"No, I mean what do you want out of life? What are your hopes and dreams?"
"You mean besides eating ice cream?"
I was stumped. I hadn't really thought past my mint chocolate chip.
The question made me think: I make a list of goals every year, I don't often stop to think what the greater purpose of those goals are, or what I want my legacy to be or what I want people to say about me when I'm gone.
I wonder how many of you do?
It's relatively easy to write out a set of objectives for the year. But stopping there leaves the more difficult question unanswered: what is the greater purpose of our lives?
I mean, besides eating lots of ice cream.
Many people have weighed in on this subject.
In the final episode of Cheers, Cliff Clavin said the secret to life is "comfortable shoes," citing the accomplishments and footwear of history's great achievers as proof.
While he might have had a point, I have a sneaking suspicion that there's something else in our, um, souls to be filled.
In that same episode, Norm theorized that happiness came from an undying devotion to the one thing most important to your soul.
There's an argument to be made for that position too. People rarely accomplish big things unless they figure out what they want and go to great lengths to make it happen. And more importantly, by Norm's standard, my ice cream fixation would be a worthwhile pursuit.
But we probably shouldn't define our existence based on the advice of sitcoms. (Although I'd listen to an argument for Community.)
But the flaw in Norm's theory is that putting all your energy into achieving only one thing makes for an unbalanced life and makes you a bore at parties. Not that you'd have time to go, anyway.
Douglas Adams tackled the question of "life, the universe and everything" in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but he couldn't find a satisfying answer, so he gave up and declared it to be "42." This, of course, is ridiculous. "24" would have made much more sense.
Some religious figures have said that the purpose of life is to make the world a better place by your existence. Others have said that it is to be a reflection of God's love to those around you by giving more than you receive.
These principles are great ideas, and they are probably as good as we can do in finding our answers. But they don't exactly resolve questions like who you should marry, whether that goal you've put so much time into is worth it, or whether you should quit your well-paying but unsatisfying job to go live on the beach.
So, I guess the question that matters is not so much "what's the purpose of life?" as "what's the purpose of your life?"
I mean, besides eating a lot of ice cream.
I can't tell you that.
But if you can find some intersection where what you enjoy, what you are good at, and what gives you a sense of purpose meet, you are probably getting close. If you have multiple things that fit in that category, pick one and see how far that road takes you. When you reach a dead end, it's time to take a different road.
And if you find someone in your life who helps give you the strength and courage to get where your soul tells you that you should be going, you should probably keep that person around for the journey. Just make sure you stop for ice cream along the way.
The destination probably look different for every person, and for every person, there's probably more than one trail to get there (although some may be more winding than others). The journey might be steep, but the upward climb somehow seems just a little bit easier when you are on the right path.
That is, so long as you are wearing comfortable shoes.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Stranded in the Everglades
In case you were wondering, the Florida Everglades a terrible place to find yourself stranded.
That notion might seem obvious, but I had to learn it the hard way. Here's what happened:
When I was in college, my dad, who you might remember from the story of time he put catfish in our swimming pool in a failed attempt to save money on chlorine, invested a small fortune in a multi-level marketing scheme, selling vitamins.
My dad is the most natural and brilliant salesman I've witnessed, but in the vitamin endeavor, he found a pill larger than he could swallow. Suffice to say that when you are a type-2 diabetic without a large social network living in a rural area of the South, selling expensive vitamin products, or the idea of joining in a sales network to do the same, isn't exactly a license to print money.
Having exhausted his contacts in the Mobile area without coming close to breaking even from his initial buy-in (and with a giant pile of unsold vitamins in his office), my dad decided to take his show on the road. He picked a health and fitness expo in Miami, and being a bored college kid on summer break, I asked to go with him, if only for the free trip to South Beach.
Little did I know what I had signed myself up for. The trip was a complete disaster, and by that description, I'm underselling it by half.
The expo was filled with multi-million dollar companies selling the latest and greatest through the best tanned, professional salespeople that South Beach had to offer. Against that backdrop, you might imagine what kind of success awaited an untrained, skinny 19-year-old college kid and his 56-year-old diabetic dad selling vitamins out of a box.
But it was even worse than that.
In addition to selling almost nothing, much our liquid vitamin supply was stolen out of our bin overnight, which to be fair, might have been the only way we would have ever gotten rid of those bottles anyway.
We signed up a grand total of 3 people for our multi-level network, and none of them made any sales to carry on the chain. Factoring in the costs for hotel, gas, food, the hourly wage my dad paid me for helping, and the repair bills (more on that in a second), he made an 22-hour roundtrip drive and worked 24 hours for the privilege of losing a couple thousand dollars.
But that wasn't the worst thing that happened. The worst, was when our car broke down in the Everglades on the way home to Alabama.
About midway through the stretch of I-75 aptly known as "Alligator Alley," our minivan lost power. It was low on gas, but not terribly so, so that wasn't the problem. But the van wouldn't restart, and just as importantly, the air conditioning wouldn't blow and we were trapped in oppressive South Florida summer heat.
I started walking toward the emergency call box down the road, thankful at every step of the way for the short, wire fence separating me from the visible alligators lingering lazily on the other side.
After spotting my second alligator, I decided that walking was not my most sensible mode of transportation. I started sprinting, reasoning that I could recover from whatever heat stroke might befall me, but there would be no recovery should that fence prove as insubstantial as it appeared.
When I breathlessly hit the button at the call box, the operator told me they could have someone there in about an hour.
And then I had to get back to our car.
I ran the mile back to our stranded van, only to notice that I had stepped in a bed of fire ants somewhere along the way. I frantically shed my socks and shoes, but not before my legs had been turned into a crimson relief map of the Himalayas.
When I finally got rid of the ants, it started raining. Soon, it was a downpour, which meant we had to shut the doors and close ourselves in our miserably hot car, the inside of which soon became hotter than the 98 degree temperature outside.
About an hour later, a guy who happened to be a mechanic pulled up behind us. He kindly offered to help, and he even got our car started. But he told us it wouldn't make it home to Alabama, and he directed us to follow him off the next (only) exit to a town called Immokolee, where we could get it fixed. We accepted his offer, waiving off the highway patrol car that conveniently arrived right as our van cranked.
We drove the long winding road through the swamplands toward Immokolee and began to notice as the swamps turned to jungles that the car was getting dangerously low on gas. We had calculated that we would have enough gas to drive straight through the Everglades until we hit civilization on the Tampa side, but we had not accounted for this little detour to the remote place where our mechanic friend had connections, which proved further than we had ever imagined.
As we passed a yellow sign warning: "Panther Crossing," we ran out of gas and the van began to sputter. Miraculously, as we coasted around the next corner, we saw the first building since we had entered the Everglades hours before.
It was a gas station.
A fill-up and another jump start later, and we were soon in Immokolee. God help us.
The mechanics at the shop looked skeptically at our car. The one mechanic there who spoke English told us that our 9-year old van was newer than what they were used to working on, so they weren't sure they'd have the parts we needed. He needed advice, so he picked up a phone to call the local Autozone to ask for advice. (Amazingly, they had one. A phone, I mean.) Instead of dialing, the mechanic literally picked up the phone, dialed "0" and asked "Sarah" to connect him.
I'm not kidding.
During the interminable wait, I asked the receptionist if there was a Dairy Queen in town. She had never heard of it.
When I told her I wanted ice cream, she directed me to the convenience store three blocks down, advising, reassuringly, that it was "pretty safe."
When I got there, there was a wino passed out by its front steps, which was bad, but they did in fact have ice cream (in the old school individual plastic cups), which was good. But the place, which was for all appearances the only thing in town resembling a grocery store, also had no spoons, neither available with the ice cream nor for public sale. That was bad.
I was forced to use the plastic lid of the container, and with every bite I vowed that if I ever got out of Immokolee alive, I would never sell things venture into the world of trade show salesmanship again.
The mechanic told us that they would only stay and work on our car until 6, at which point the shop closed. We had no way of driving to a hotel, and there didn't appear to be one anyway, so we did a lot of praying that afternoon. They finally got us running at about 5:45.
We drove through the night, alternating drivers while the other slept, terrified that if we ever stopped we might not ever get moving again.
We finally got home somewhere around dawn the next morning. I had never been so happy to see my parents' condo.
My dad finally gave up on the multi-level-marketing vitamin idea not long after the trip. I never asked him why.
But I think it's safe to assume that he made the same vow as I did.
That notion might seem obvious, but I had to learn it the hard way. Here's what happened:
When I was in college, my dad, who you might remember from the story of time he put catfish in our swimming pool in a failed attempt to save money on chlorine, invested a small fortune in a multi-level marketing scheme, selling vitamins.
My dad is the most natural and brilliant salesman I've witnessed, but in the vitamin endeavor, he found a pill larger than he could swallow. Suffice to say that when you are a type-2 diabetic without a large social network living in a rural area of the South, selling expensive vitamin products, or the idea of joining in a sales network to do the same, isn't exactly a license to print money.
Having exhausted his contacts in the Mobile area without coming close to breaking even from his initial buy-in (and with a giant pile of unsold vitamins in his office), my dad decided to take his show on the road. He picked a health and fitness expo in Miami, and being a bored college kid on summer break, I asked to go with him, if only for the free trip to South Beach.
Little did I know what I had signed myself up for. The trip was a complete disaster, and by that description, I'm underselling it by half.
The expo was filled with multi-million dollar companies selling the latest and greatest through the best tanned, professional salespeople that South Beach had to offer. Against that backdrop, you might imagine what kind of success awaited an untrained, skinny 19-year-old college kid and his 56-year-old diabetic dad selling vitamins out of a box.
But it was even worse than that.
In addition to selling almost nothing, much our liquid vitamin supply was stolen out of our bin overnight, which to be fair, might have been the only way we would have ever gotten rid of those bottles anyway.
We signed up a grand total of 3 people for our multi-level network, and none of them made any sales to carry on the chain. Factoring in the costs for hotel, gas, food, the hourly wage my dad paid me for helping, and the repair bills (more on that in a second), he made an 22-hour roundtrip drive and worked 24 hours for the privilege of losing a couple thousand dollars.
But that wasn't the worst thing that happened. The worst, was when our car broke down in the Everglades on the way home to Alabama.
About midway through the stretch of I-75 aptly known as "Alligator Alley," our minivan lost power. It was low on gas, but not terribly so, so that wasn't the problem. But the van wouldn't restart, and just as importantly, the air conditioning wouldn't blow and we were trapped in oppressive South Florida summer heat.
I started walking toward the emergency call box down the road, thankful at every step of the way for the short, wire fence separating me from the visible alligators lingering lazily on the other side.
After spotting my second alligator, I decided that walking was not my most sensible mode of transportation. I started sprinting, reasoning that I could recover from whatever heat stroke might befall me, but there would be no recovery should that fence prove as insubstantial as it appeared.
When I breathlessly hit the button at the call box, the operator told me they could have someone there in about an hour.
And then I had to get back to our car.
I ran the mile back to our stranded van, only to notice that I had stepped in a bed of fire ants somewhere along the way. I frantically shed my socks and shoes, but not before my legs had been turned into a crimson relief map of the Himalayas.
When I finally got rid of the ants, it started raining. Soon, it was a downpour, which meant we had to shut the doors and close ourselves in our miserably hot car, the inside of which soon became hotter than the 98 degree temperature outside.
About an hour later, a guy who happened to be a mechanic pulled up behind us. He kindly offered to help, and he even got our car started. But he told us it wouldn't make it home to Alabama, and he directed us to follow him off the next (only) exit to a town called Immokolee, where we could get it fixed. We accepted his offer, waiving off the highway patrol car that conveniently arrived right as our van cranked.
We drove the long winding road through the swamplands toward Immokolee and began to notice as the swamps turned to jungles that the car was getting dangerously low on gas. We had calculated that we would have enough gas to drive straight through the Everglades until we hit civilization on the Tampa side, but we had not accounted for this little detour to the remote place where our mechanic friend had connections, which proved further than we had ever imagined.
As we passed a yellow sign warning: "Panther Crossing," we ran out of gas and the van began to sputter. Miraculously, as we coasted around the next corner, we saw the first building since we had entered the Everglades hours before.
It was a gas station.
A fill-up and another jump start later, and we were soon in Immokolee. God help us.
The mechanics at the shop looked skeptically at our car. The one mechanic there who spoke English told us that our 9-year old van was newer than what they were used to working on, so they weren't sure they'd have the parts we needed. He needed advice, so he picked up a phone to call the local Autozone to ask for advice. (Amazingly, they had one. A phone, I mean.) Instead of dialing, the mechanic literally picked up the phone, dialed "0" and asked "Sarah" to connect him.
I'm not kidding.
During the interminable wait, I asked the receptionist if there was a Dairy Queen in town. She had never heard of it.
When I told her I wanted ice cream, she directed me to the convenience store three blocks down, advising, reassuringly, that it was "pretty safe."
When I got there, there was a wino passed out by its front steps, which was bad, but they did in fact have ice cream (in the old school individual plastic cups), which was good. But the place, which was for all appearances the only thing in town resembling a grocery store, also had no spoons, neither available with the ice cream nor for public sale. That was bad.
I was forced to use the plastic lid of the container, and with every bite I vowed that if I ever got out of Immokolee alive, I would never sell things venture into the world of trade show salesmanship again.
The mechanic told us that they would only stay and work on our car until 6, at which point the shop closed. We had no way of driving to a hotel, and there didn't appear to be one anyway, so we did a lot of praying that afternoon. They finally got us running at about 5:45.
We drove through the night, alternating drivers while the other slept, terrified that if we ever stopped we might not ever get moving again.
We finally got home somewhere around dawn the next morning. I had never been so happy to see my parents' condo.
My dad finally gave up on the multi-level-marketing vitamin idea not long after the trip. I never asked him why.
But I think it's safe to assume that he made the same vow as I did.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
"Running Diary": What I Felt, Saw and Learned From Running a Half Marathon in a Monsoon
It was 4:30 a.m. and already raining outside. My first half marathon was to start at 7:00 and the forecast indicated I might have to swim half the race. This day has the potential to be seriously miserable. But I'm going to at least have a blog post to show for my trouble:
4:31: I don't know if I can get back to sleep, but I should probably try. I need all the rest I can get. Wait, is that thumping noise on the roof rain or have Santa's reindeer landed out-of-season?
4:56: Ok, now I'm up. Time to change, and eat a light breakfast before leaving to catch my race shuttle in 45 minutes. I don't hear the rain anymore, at least.
5:15: My brothers, one of whom finished chemotherapy last year, are running the race with me. It's to be a symbolic victory for overcoming the struggles in our lives. Also we're all competitive to a slightly unhealthy degree. I've been training the longest, so I have a 2-hour goal, while my brothers hope for 2:15.
5:17: As we get ready to leave, we try to make small talk, but everyone is tired and there isn't much to say. My oldest brother Paul fills the space by debating his wardrobe choices. Waterproof socks? Sunglasses with a built-in mp3 player? Utility belt with built-in water bottle holders? Meanwhile, my brother Scott and I lace up our decades-old running shoes and curse under our breaths at our lack of suitable rain gear. I can't believe our bad luck.
5:19: I just wish I could use the bathroom. My stomach unraveling moments before the start of the race is pretty much my worst nightmare. And I just know that will happen if I can't make myself go beforehand.
5:38: It stops raining. Maybe this won't be so bad. Time to go.
5:40: Wait, I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Now.
5:43: Drive to LP Field to catch the shuttle for the race. Paul regrets not buying that waterproof hat. I can't seem to secure my timing chip within my shoe laces. Scott is cold. The race has way too many people left to shuttle over to start on time.
6:02: Park, catch shuttle to start of race. There are lots of open port-a-potties, but thankfully none of us has to go.
6:05: Pack sardine-like into bus and take longest-ever 3 mile trip to start of race. Discover I have to use the bathroom again. Arrive at 6:30, and a light rain starts falling almost immediately upon our exiting bus.
6:35: We all sort of have to go to the bathroom. The race starts in 20 minutes and the port-a-potty lines are 20 deep. This is going to be a race against the clock...
6:50: Getting nervous.
6:52: As we get close to the front of the line, a woman scrambles out of port-a-let screaming, "Someone took a sh!t on the floor!" I guess that's one potty out of service.
6:54: Business accomplished. Whew. Go to coral #11 for staggered start to race. Sky immediately opens up, with a steady downpour replacing the earlier light rain. It's starting to get damp and miserable.
7:05: The race hasn't started yet and my brothers scavenge for discarded ponchos. We really hope they start this thing soon. It's cold.
7:15: Finally, we're moving. Let's do this thing.
7:16 Cross start line. My friend Les and his band are playing at the stage in front of the start line. I yell to get his attention, but I don't think he saw me. I hope I don't regret expending this energy later.
7:25: I stop noticing the rain that's falling from the sky, but the rivers running in the street are unavoidable. Suddenly wish I had my brother's waterproof socks.
7:43: 3 miles down, all of us running at a perfect 9-minute pace. Feeling great, except that we keep having to dodge slow movers who started in front of us, and my shoe is untied. Should I stop to tie it, or just keep going? Meanwhile, Paul gives up on his mp3-embedded sunglasses, a cool technology that's of limited use in the rain.
7:44: There's a Gatorade stand. I can tie my shoe there without getting trampled, and catch up with my brothers later. Going to try it.
7:49: Shoe is tied. That's better.
7:50: My shoe is untied again. And now, somehow, the other one is too. But screw it, I'm just going to keep going. In this rain, my laces are too slippery.
7:53: 4 miles down, but my watch says 36:20 has elapsed. Starting to lose the pace. Scott tosses the poncho he found near the start line. It's time to pick it up.
8:11: Somewhere around the 5 or 6 mile mark, I pass the woman running with the 2-hour pace banner and leave my brothers' view. The herd is finally starting to thin. I'm feeling great, except that the rain soaked my shorts, and the added weight keeps sagging them downward. The spectators lining the course might be in for quite a view. Regardless, I tell myself that I was pacing myself for the first half, but that I'm going to make the second half of this thing my female canine.
8:23: Around the 7-mile mark I lose the ability to think rationally, or think about anything other than finishing. I turn a corner expecting to cross back into downtown Nashville, where the race finishes, only to remember I have two more neighborhoods to run through first. As I pull my soggy pants up, I notice a cross-dressed man standing alongside the race route and begin to wonder how I'm going to finish. A runner beside me yells "Only 19 more miles to go!" and I vow that I will never, ever, venture to run a full marathon.
8:27: Pass by a Gatorade stand in favor of the stand offering a cool-looking yellow energy drink. It turns out to be beer. Not what I was looking for, so I keep running, but I laugh in my head as I keep going.
8:38: Around mile 9, I realize I've been running too fast the last several miles. My thoughts go from counting down until my strong finishing kick to just hoping I can finish. And then I pull my pants up. As I turn onto music row and see hordes of people wishing me well, including a sign reading, "Go random stranger!" I almost start crying, touched by the outpouring of support in the pouring rain.
8:47: Hit 10-mile mark. "Surely I can do 3.1 miles more," I tell myself, but I'm really starting to feel the distance. I enjoyed the first 7 miles, endured the last three, but now I'm starting to suffer.
8:55: How is it that I can't even see the 11-mile mark? I demand a recount! It feels like I've gone 15 already. And now my running jacket is bunching upwards, leaving an open patch of skin between it and my sagging wet shorts. This is soooo not funny. Next time, I'm going gear shopping with Paul.
8:56: There's the 11-mile mark, but I don't know if I can go two more miles. My legs are on fire. Ever step is agony. The people who saved some energy for the end are starting to pass me. At least I'm still on my pace. As long as I don't stop, and my pants don't fall off, I will make my time. But the race turns through a park back road where no encouraging spectators stand. I'm going to have to do the rest of this race on my own. It suddenly seems much harder.
9:00: I'm running about 2 minutes ahead of pace. It occurs to me that I could stop and rest for one minute and 59 seconds and still break 2 hours. But I fear that if I try it I won't be able to get started again. I ran 11 miles in training for this but it never hurt like this. I can feel the lactic acid bouncing around my legs with each step.
9:05: About 100 people have passed me in the last mile, and the two-hour pace setter who I whizzed by at mile 6 is now directly behind me (running ahead of pace, it would turn out). I don't have strength to go any faster. But I tell myself that if my brother can endure 12 sessions of chemotherapy, I can go another mile at this pace. I've never voluntarily hurt this badly before, though.
9:08: Right when I think I'm turning the last corner, the route doubles back in the direction from which I just came. This is just cruel. From a physical standpoint, this is the hardest thing I've ever done before. But I'm still clinging to a slight lead over my two-hour pacesetter.
9:11: Hit the home stretch. I speed up just a little, not to get a better time, but to hurry the moment when I can finally stop running.
9:13: I look around in search of my wife and niece as I cross finish line. I don't quite have the strength to hold up my hands in victory, but I got them about half-way. It's over. I did it, and with three minutes to spare.
The sky opens up, going from steady rain to full monsoon. Minutes, later I'll be freezing and want to die, but at that moment I couldn't care less about the rain. I really did it! 1:57!
9:15: It sure is cold out here, when you aren't running.
9:15-9:30: At the finish line, they hand out water, Gatorade, cookies, power bars, bananas, apples, muffins and various other goodies. I take every single thing they offer and scarf them all down, including two packs of cookies. But I'm freezing.
9:32: Can't find my family at our designated waiting area. Go stand under a tent to get out of the rain. Cold and miserable.
9:45: Find family. Learn my brothers were just a few minutes behind me, well in front of their race time goals, and amazingly fast for the limited amount of time they had trained. But we can't find our car. I parked in the dark this morning and, in the excitement, I didn't notice where. Everyone wanders in the rain.
9:50: Find car and everyone pours into it. Paul curses his waterproof socks, which turned out to be not match for the flowing river in the streets. I finally tie my shoes.
10:10: Beat the traffic and arrive home. Paul immediately runs hot bath. Scott dives into bed and wraps himself under the covers. I make a double pot of coffee. I guess we all cope in different ways.
10:15: Savor my warm coffee. I ponder what we've just done. I understand that beating a half-marathon won't keep Scott's cancer from coming back. I realize it won't heal my disappointments, undo the past or keep my polyps from returning. I accept that finishing the race, standing alone, won't transform me into the person I'd like to become.
But, as I delight in my hot coffee, I appreciate that life, like a long race, keeps on going. Sometimes it's fast, the course is downhill and everything feels great. Other times, it's a grind, the rain is pouring, every step is agony and you can't believe the end isn't in sight. In those times, it's wonderful to have someone cheering you along, but you can't always count on that happening.
If you just keep going, though, you're capable of persevering beyond what seems possible, even in the pouring rain. You just might accomplish something important to you along the way. And you'll have a nice warm bath, or comfy bed, or warm cup of coffee waiting for you when you reach the other side.
And that coffee tasted better than any I've ever had.
4:31: I don't know if I can get back to sleep, but I should probably try. I need all the rest I can get. Wait, is that thumping noise on the roof rain or have Santa's reindeer landed out-of-season?
4:56: Ok, now I'm up. Time to change, and eat a light breakfast before leaving to catch my race shuttle in 45 minutes. I don't hear the rain anymore, at least.
5:15: My brothers, one of whom finished chemotherapy last year, are running the race with me. It's to be a symbolic victory for overcoming the struggles in our lives. Also we're all competitive to a slightly unhealthy degree. I've been training the longest, so I have a 2-hour goal, while my brothers hope for 2:15.
5:17: As we get ready to leave, we try to make small talk, but everyone is tired and there isn't much to say. My oldest brother Paul fills the space by debating his wardrobe choices. Waterproof socks? Sunglasses with a built-in mp3 player? Utility belt with built-in water bottle holders? Meanwhile, my brother Scott and I lace up our decades-old running shoes and curse under our breaths at our lack of suitable rain gear. I can't believe our bad luck.
5:19: I just wish I could use the bathroom. My stomach unraveling moments before the start of the race is pretty much my worst nightmare. And I just know that will happen if I can't make myself go beforehand.
5:38: It stops raining. Maybe this won't be so bad. Time to go.
5:40: Wait, I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Now.
5:43: Drive to LP Field to catch the shuttle for the race. Paul regrets not buying that waterproof hat. I can't seem to secure my timing chip within my shoe laces. Scott is cold. The race has way too many people left to shuttle over to start on time.
6:02: Park, catch shuttle to start of race. There are lots of open port-a-potties, but thankfully none of us has to go.
6:05: Pack sardine-like into bus and take longest-ever 3 mile trip to start of race. Discover I have to use the bathroom again. Arrive at 6:30, and a light rain starts falling almost immediately upon our exiting bus.
6:35: We all sort of have to go to the bathroom. The race starts in 20 minutes and the port-a-potty lines are 20 deep. This is going to be a race against the clock...
6:50: Getting nervous.
6:52: As we get close to the front of the line, a woman scrambles out of port-a-let screaming, "Someone took a sh!t on the floor!" I guess that's one potty out of service.
6:54: Business accomplished. Whew. Go to coral #11 for staggered start to race. Sky immediately opens up, with a steady downpour replacing the earlier light rain. It's starting to get damp and miserable.
7:05: The race hasn't started yet and my brothers scavenge for discarded ponchos. We really hope they start this thing soon. It's cold.
7:15: Finally, we're moving. Let's do this thing.
7:16 Cross start line. My friend Les and his band are playing at the stage in front of the start line. I yell to get his attention, but I don't think he saw me. I hope I don't regret expending this energy later.
7:25: I stop noticing the rain that's falling from the sky, but the rivers running in the street are unavoidable. Suddenly wish I had my brother's waterproof socks.
7:43: 3 miles down, all of us running at a perfect 9-minute pace. Feeling great, except that we keep having to dodge slow movers who started in front of us, and my shoe is untied. Should I stop to tie it, or just keep going? Meanwhile, Paul gives up on his mp3-embedded sunglasses, a cool technology that's of limited use in the rain.
7:44: There's a Gatorade stand. I can tie my shoe there without getting trampled, and catch up with my brothers later. Going to try it.
7:49: Shoe is tied. That's better.
7:50: My shoe is untied again. And now, somehow, the other one is too. But screw it, I'm just going to keep going. In this rain, my laces are too slippery.
7:53: 4 miles down, but my watch says 36:20 has elapsed. Starting to lose the pace. Scott tosses the poncho he found near the start line. It's time to pick it up.
8:11: Somewhere around the 5 or 6 mile mark, I pass the woman running with the 2-hour pace banner and leave my brothers' view. The herd is finally starting to thin. I'm feeling great, except that the rain soaked my shorts, and the added weight keeps sagging them downward. The spectators lining the course might be in for quite a view. Regardless, I tell myself that I was pacing myself for the first half, but that I'm going to make the second half of this thing my female canine.
8:23: Around the 7-mile mark I lose the ability to think rationally, or think about anything other than finishing. I turn a corner expecting to cross back into downtown Nashville, where the race finishes, only to remember I have two more neighborhoods to run through first. As I pull my soggy pants up, I notice a cross-dressed man standing alongside the race route and begin to wonder how I'm going to finish. A runner beside me yells "Only 19 more miles to go!" and I vow that I will never, ever, venture to run a full marathon.
8:27: Pass by a Gatorade stand in favor of the stand offering a cool-looking yellow energy drink. It turns out to be beer. Not what I was looking for, so I keep running, but I laugh in my head as I keep going.
8:38: Around mile 9, I realize I've been running too fast the last several miles. My thoughts go from counting down until my strong finishing kick to just hoping I can finish. And then I pull my pants up. As I turn onto music row and see hordes of people wishing me well, including a sign reading, "Go random stranger!" I almost start crying, touched by the outpouring of support in the pouring rain.
8:47: Hit 10-mile mark. "Surely I can do 3.1 miles more," I tell myself, but I'm really starting to feel the distance. I enjoyed the first 7 miles, endured the last three, but now I'm starting to suffer.
8:55: How is it that I can't even see the 11-mile mark? I demand a recount! It feels like I've gone 15 already. And now my running jacket is bunching upwards, leaving an open patch of skin between it and my sagging wet shorts. This is soooo not funny. Next time, I'm going gear shopping with Paul.
8:56: There's the 11-mile mark, but I don't know if I can go two more miles. My legs are on fire. Ever step is agony. The people who saved some energy for the end are starting to pass me. At least I'm still on my pace. As long as I don't stop, and my pants don't fall off, I will make my time. But the race turns through a park back road where no encouraging spectators stand. I'm going to have to do the rest of this race on my own. It suddenly seems much harder.
9:00: I'm running about 2 minutes ahead of pace. It occurs to me that I could stop and rest for one minute and 59 seconds and still break 2 hours. But I fear that if I try it I won't be able to get started again. I ran 11 miles in training for this but it never hurt like this. I can feel the lactic acid bouncing around my legs with each step.
9:05: About 100 people have passed me in the last mile, and the two-hour pace setter who I whizzed by at mile 6 is now directly behind me (running ahead of pace, it would turn out). I don't have strength to go any faster. But I tell myself that if my brother can endure 12 sessions of chemotherapy, I can go another mile at this pace. I've never voluntarily hurt this badly before, though.
9:08: Right when I think I'm turning the last corner, the route doubles back in the direction from which I just came. This is just cruel. From a physical standpoint, this is the hardest thing I've ever done before. But I'm still clinging to a slight lead over my two-hour pacesetter.
9:11: Hit the home stretch. I speed up just a little, not to get a better time, but to hurry the moment when I can finally stop running.
9:13: I look around in search of my wife and niece as I cross finish line. I don't quite have the strength to hold up my hands in victory, but I got them about half-way. It's over. I did it, and with three minutes to spare.
The sky opens up, going from steady rain to full monsoon. Minutes, later I'll be freezing and want to die, but at that moment I couldn't care less about the rain. I really did it! 1:57!
9:15: It sure is cold out here, when you aren't running.
9:15-9:30: At the finish line, they hand out water, Gatorade, cookies, power bars, bananas, apples, muffins and various other goodies. I take every single thing they offer and scarf them all down, including two packs of cookies. But I'm freezing.
9:32: Can't find my family at our designated waiting area. Go stand under a tent to get out of the rain. Cold and miserable.
9:45: Find family. Learn my brothers were just a few minutes behind me, well in front of their race time goals, and amazingly fast for the limited amount of time they had trained. But we can't find our car. I parked in the dark this morning and, in the excitement, I didn't notice where. Everyone wanders in the rain.
9:50: Find car and everyone pours into it. Paul curses his waterproof socks, which turned out to be not match for the flowing river in the streets. I finally tie my shoes.
10:10: Beat the traffic and arrive home. Paul immediately runs hot bath. Scott dives into bed and wraps himself under the covers. I make a double pot of coffee. I guess we all cope in different ways.
10:15: Savor my warm coffee. I ponder what we've just done. I understand that beating a half-marathon won't keep Scott's cancer from coming back. I realize it won't heal my disappointments, undo the past or keep my polyps from returning. I accept that finishing the race, standing alone, won't transform me into the person I'd like to become.
But, as I delight in my hot coffee, I appreciate that life, like a long race, keeps on going. Sometimes it's fast, the course is downhill and everything feels great. Other times, it's a grind, the rain is pouring, every step is agony and you can't believe the end isn't in sight. In those times, it's wonderful to have someone cheering you along, but you can't always count on that happening.
If you just keep going, though, you're capable of persevering beyond what seems possible, even in the pouring rain. You just might accomplish something important to you along the way. And you'll have a nice warm bath, or comfy bed, or warm cup of coffee waiting for you when you reach the other side.
And that coffee tasted better than any I've ever had.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Assembly Required: Fighting to Comprehend an Instruction Manual
When God was handing out mechanical skills to the line of souls about to be born, I must have been off somewhere watching football.
It's not just that I don't like putting things together. I have a superhuman ability to screw up even the simplest of household projects. I manage to mangle even things that normal people wouldn't consider worthy of being labeled a household project. I once spent an entire night trying to connect the vent hose to the back of my dryer. When my weedeater runs out of string, I can never figure out how to replace it, so I just have to buy a new one.
So I had mixed feelings today when I found our new coffee table packaged in a box outside the front door--happy that I would finally have a place to rest my beverage but terrified of having to put the thing together.
I came to need a new coffee table in the usual way. I accidentally smashed our old one to bits.
It happened on the night my wife's best friend and nephew were in town for a family wedding and staying with us. It was late; her friend had gone to bed and her nephew had decided to crash on our couch. I was wrapping a fitted sheet around the couch's edges when I, myself, stumbled and crashed into our glass-top coffee table.
It broke into a thousand pieces.
I have partial excuse that our floors are old and uneven and I had been fully participating in the spirit of the festivities all evening, but when the DVD of my greatest moments as a husband gets released, this episode won't make the cut.
Against that backdrop, I felt that assembling the 38 pieces that came today into a functional piece of furniture would be an appropriate punishment for my sins.
My theory on assembling things is that nothing should ever come in more than four pieces. When it gets beyond that, the little instruction manual that comes in the box with the pieces is useless. Most of these things, including the one that came in my box today, don't give you any written instructions, just a series of informational diagrams that no normal person can decipher.
The first diagram is always mishmash of microscopic pictures labeling each of the indistinguishable component part with its own letter. The second box show them all magically coalescing, and a caption condescendingly telling you to "fits parts together" or some similarly useless directive. The third shows a the finished product, for the purpose of taunting you.
And this is the best case scenario.
The worst case is when the manual actually writes out the instructions, and you get helpful tips such as: "Insert crescent socket into H-nut and rotate using fen screw. When screw is aft, coagulate block strip adjacent to moop deck."
And that's just step one.
I keep hoping that eventually, one piece of unassembled furniture will actually arrive with comprehensible instructions.
That day wasn't today, but I managed to survive nonetheless. I screwed something up (literally!) early on when the diagram instructed with no further detail to connect three pieces together and I did them in the wrong order. But after about half an hour of my frustration, my wife looked up from across the room and suggested that this might be the problem. Things went smoothly from there.
There's a reasonable chance our new table will fall to pieces the moment I set a book on it, but until then, I'm proud of myself for completing a project like this in less than six months. And our table even looks like the diagram in the instruction manual.
But if you ever come over, please don't rest anything too heavy on the surface of the table. It might just break, and I really don't want to face this process again.
It's not just that I don't like putting things together. I have a superhuman ability to screw up even the simplest of household projects. I manage to mangle even things that normal people wouldn't consider worthy of being labeled a household project. I once spent an entire night trying to connect the vent hose to the back of my dryer. When my weedeater runs out of string, I can never figure out how to replace it, so I just have to buy a new one.
So I had mixed feelings today when I found our new coffee table packaged in a box outside the front door--happy that I would finally have a place to rest my beverage but terrified of having to put the thing together.
I came to need a new coffee table in the usual way. I accidentally smashed our old one to bits.
It happened on the night my wife's best friend and nephew were in town for a family wedding and staying with us. It was late; her friend had gone to bed and her nephew had decided to crash on our couch. I was wrapping a fitted sheet around the couch's edges when I, myself, stumbled and crashed into our glass-top coffee table.
It broke into a thousand pieces.
I have partial excuse that our floors are old and uneven and I had been fully participating in the spirit of the festivities all evening, but when the DVD of my greatest moments as a husband gets released, this episode won't make the cut.
Against that backdrop, I felt that assembling the 38 pieces that came today into a functional piece of furniture would be an appropriate punishment for my sins.
My theory on assembling things is that nothing should ever come in more than four pieces. When it gets beyond that, the little instruction manual that comes in the box with the pieces is useless. Most of these things, including the one that came in my box today, don't give you any written instructions, just a series of informational diagrams that no normal person can decipher.
The first diagram is always mishmash of microscopic pictures labeling each of the indistinguishable component part with its own letter. The second box show them all magically coalescing, and a caption condescendingly telling you to "fits parts together" or some similarly useless directive. The third shows a the finished product, for the purpose of taunting you.
And this is the best case scenario.
The worst case is when the manual actually writes out the instructions, and you get helpful tips such as: "Insert crescent socket into H-nut and rotate using fen screw. When screw is aft, coagulate block strip adjacent to moop deck."
And that's just step one.
I keep hoping that eventually, one piece of unassembled furniture will actually arrive with comprehensible instructions.
That day wasn't today, but I managed to survive nonetheless. I screwed something up (literally!) early on when the diagram instructed with no further detail to connect three pieces together and I did them in the wrong order. But after about half an hour of my frustration, my wife looked up from across the room and suggested that this might be the problem. Things went smoothly from there.
There's a reasonable chance our new table will fall to pieces the moment I set a book on it, but until then, I'm proud of myself for completing a project like this in less than six months. And our table even looks like the diagram in the instruction manual.
But if you ever come over, please don't rest anything too heavy on the surface of the table. It might just break, and I really don't want to face this process again.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
We Are God's Cats
I've never directly asked them, but I'm reasonably sure my cats don't understand me.
They don't get why I only feed them one scoop per day, or why I don't let them roam freely outside. They don't comprehend the idea that household furniture has other uses besides being their scratching posts. They can't understand why they only get rich, tasty human food on special occasions.
They can't fathom why I seem leave them for hours a day, why I yell at them when they eat each other's food, or why I hurt them by brushing the knots out of their matted fur.
In their little cat brains, the ideas of rules, vet visits and treats withheld must all seem like senseless punishment.
My cats love me because I love them and provide for them, but they often don't have a clue as to how I operate.
Sometimes I try to reason with them, but they can't speak my language. Every now and then a word like "no" or "come" gets through, but they can't discern the nuance of complicated messages.
They try to communicate back to me, but they just make the same noise over and over again. Of course, I usually know what they really want, but it would be nice if to hear something new from them every now and then.
I can tell by their voices and posture when they are scared. I try to comfort them. I tell them that things will be ok, and that I have everything under control.
I tell them that moving to a new place might be scary, but they'll love it when we get there. I tell them that their cat carriers might not be comfortable, but that their confinement will just last a little while. I try to explain that the vet visit might hurt a little bit, but the pain is worth it in the long term.
I say all these things, even though they can't understand.
Sometimes they seem glad to know that I am there with them, even when they can't grasp what is happening or why. I wish they could understand me. I hate to see them suffering.
One cat hisses at me sometimes when I enforce a rule she doesn't like. I'm not threatened by her; I just find her ridiculous. We both know her life is much better with me in than without, and that she wouldn't last very long in the wilderness.
One time my cat--aptly named Trouble--broke the rules. She left the porch and wandered away. It was only a few minutes before she was pawing at the door desperately begging to get back inside.
Another time she hopped into my neighbor's bushes--the ones she always finds so enticing--and she came back with fleas. She didn't like that experience. Or the ensuing flea treatment. But she's still prone to wandering back to those same bushes if she goes too long without hearing my voice calling her back home.
Our other cat, Sebastian, is a better cat citizen than is his sister. He's prone to eating things that make him sick, but he's generally more obedient and less likely to steal food, start a fight or wander away. I don't love him more than his sister, though. While I want my cats to be nice to each other, my love for them isn't based on some kind of merit system.
I love my cats because they, at some level they can't totally understand, want to live in my house and be my cats. When they sit in my lap and purr, I forgive their numerous misadventures. I clean their messes and remove their crap because their companionship is worth it. And sometimes, I like to just sit back and watch them do cat things, like chase bugs around or stretch out in the sun.
When my cats can't understand what I'm doing, sometimes I just have to ask them to trust me. When they seem unsure, I hope that they'll somehow remember that I've never steered them wrong.
I'll never be able to explain to them how I'm different than they are, how they were created, or intricacies of the world beyond our house.
I can't give them everything they want, and they ultimately won't like it if I did. But if they stay in my house and take what I do give, they'll ultimately have what they need. There will be good times and bad, but we'll go through it all together, and we'll comfort each other until the end.
I don't claim to understand God. God is at least as far above my understanding as I am above the comprehension of my cats.
But when Heaven looks down on us, I can't help but think that we must look an awful lot like God's cats.
They don't get why I only feed them one scoop per day, or why I don't let them roam freely outside. They don't comprehend the idea that household furniture has other uses besides being their scratching posts. They can't understand why they only get rich, tasty human food on special occasions.
They can't fathom why I seem leave them for hours a day, why I yell at them when they eat each other's food, or why I hurt them by brushing the knots out of their matted fur.
In their little cat brains, the ideas of rules, vet visits and treats withheld must all seem like senseless punishment.
My cats love me because I love them and provide for them, but they often don't have a clue as to how I operate.
Sometimes I try to reason with them, but they can't speak my language. Every now and then a word like "no" or "come" gets through, but they can't discern the nuance of complicated messages.
They try to communicate back to me, but they just make the same noise over and over again. Of course, I usually know what they really want, but it would be nice if to hear something new from them every now and then.
I can tell by their voices and posture when they are scared. I try to comfort them. I tell them that things will be ok, and that I have everything under control.
I tell them that moving to a new place might be scary, but they'll love it when we get there. I tell them that their cat carriers might not be comfortable, but that their confinement will just last a little while. I try to explain that the vet visit might hurt a little bit, but the pain is worth it in the long term.
I say all these things, even though they can't understand.
Sometimes they seem glad to know that I am there with them, even when they can't grasp what is happening or why. I wish they could understand me. I hate to see them suffering.
One cat hisses at me sometimes when I enforce a rule she doesn't like. I'm not threatened by her; I just find her ridiculous. We both know her life is much better with me in than without, and that she wouldn't last very long in the wilderness.
One time my cat--aptly named Trouble--broke the rules. She left the porch and wandered away. It was only a few minutes before she was pawing at the door desperately begging to get back inside.
Another time she hopped into my neighbor's bushes--the ones she always finds so enticing--and she came back with fleas. She didn't like that experience. Or the ensuing flea treatment. But she's still prone to wandering back to those same bushes if she goes too long without hearing my voice calling her back home.
Our other cat, Sebastian, is a better cat citizen than is his sister. He's prone to eating things that make him sick, but he's generally more obedient and less likely to steal food, start a fight or wander away. I don't love him more than his sister, though. While I want my cats to be nice to each other, my love for them isn't based on some kind of merit system.
I love my cats because they, at some level they can't totally understand, want to live in my house and be my cats. When they sit in my lap and purr, I forgive their numerous misadventures. I clean their messes and remove their crap because their companionship is worth it. And sometimes, I like to just sit back and watch them do cat things, like chase bugs around or stretch out in the sun.
When my cats can't understand what I'm doing, sometimes I just have to ask them to trust me. When they seem unsure, I hope that they'll somehow remember that I've never steered them wrong.
I'll never be able to explain to them how I'm different than they are, how they were created, or intricacies of the world beyond our house.
I can't give them everything they want, and they ultimately won't like it if I did. But if they stay in my house and take what I do give, they'll ultimately have what they need. There will be good times and bad, but we'll go through it all together, and we'll comfort each other until the end.
I don't claim to understand God. God is at least as far above my understanding as I am above the comprehension of my cats.
But when Heaven looks down on us, I can't help but think that we must look an awful lot like God's cats.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Bad Interview Stories
My wife had a series of job interviews recently. She had to endure four interviews for a position for which only three candidates were being considered, but she was thrilled to eventually get the job. Still, the whole episode reminded me of some of the most traumatic moments of my life: job interviews.
The job interview process combines all the worst parts of life into one ball of misery: its where humiliation, desperation, intimidation and frustration combine into one self-esteem bursting heap.
I've had more than my share of bad interviews.
All of these things actually happened to me:
An elderly attorney asked me four times during a 15-minute interview whether I wanted a peppermint. I'm still not sure if my breath was bad or he was senile. Or possibly both. But I still didn't get the job.
While interviewing with a local firm when I was in law school, I wanted to prove that I planned to stay in town long-term. I mentioned to the interviewer that I owned my condo and intended to stay there. He argued with me, for at least five minutes, that I couldn't possibly have obtained the financing.
In the same interview, I noticed the interviewer doodling on my resume while I answered one of his questions. When he saw he was busted, he tried to turn his doodle into a large arrow, but it wasn't really pointing at anything. I didn't get the job.
An interviewer at a large firm in Birmingham firm told me: "If you don't like racism, you shouldn't live in Birmingham." And I don't.
At the end of a promising interview with a small firm in New Orleans, the hiring partner told me that she had one more interview scheduled, but the remaining candidate wasn't strong and that she'd be calling me to tell me the job was officially mine next week. When I hadn't heard back from her in two weeks, I called back. The hiring partner had left the firm, and no one remaining there even knew who I was. Needless to say, I didn't get hired.
At an interview in Pensacola, I was introduced to a sheepish, overwhelmed-looking attorney with his wrist wrapped tightly in a compression bandage. When I asked him what happened, he replied, "working here." Later, he offered me what he termed as "survival tips."
During the same interview, my car slipped out of gear and slid into the middle of the parking lot, blocking traffic completely. The firm was so starved for help they offered me the job regardless. But I turned it down.
An interviewer at a firm in Mobile noted that my resume mentioned I had been a sports writer for my college newspaper. He refused to continue the interview until I named 10 Boston Red Sox players. And I could only think of 4 or 5 off the top of my head.
In the same interview, the interviewer noted that the "activities" section of my resume listed I was part of a newly started swing dance club that one of my law school friends had started. He put on music and made me show him the basic steps. But I still didn't get the job.
A firm in Cincinnati flew me into town the night before my interview and took me to a nice dinner. All was going perfectly until I spilled the remnants of my second glass of red wine onto my only dress shirt as we got up to leave. The fancy hotel I was staying at somehow managed to get rid of the stain and have the shirt back to me--perfectly pressed--by 8 the next morning. I didn't get the job, but I still stay at that hotel every time I'm in Cincinnati.
In St. Louis, a firm asked me if I could come in for a job interview on a Saturday morning. I did. I ultimately even got the job. But it wasn't long before I wished I hadn't. That Saturday morning thing wasn't a fluke--those turned out to be normal working hours. The only consolation was that weekends were the only days I got to wear jeans.
I had aced a preliminary interview with a firm in Nashville and was feeling good heading into a meeting with the hiring partner. He saw I was from Alabama and asked if I followed the state's politics. I had a poly sci minor from the state's flagship university and considered my reasonably well versed, so I responded affirmatively. He then proceeded to ask me my thoughts on some ridiculously obscure ethics scandal involving a little-known state judge I'd only vaguely even heard of. The only response I could think of was, "that whole thing is just a mess."
I didn't get the job, but I managed to accidentally sum up the job interview process rather well, I'd say.
Got your own bad interview stories? Feel free to share them in the comments section, below.
The job interview process combines all the worst parts of life into one ball of misery: its where humiliation, desperation, intimidation and frustration combine into one self-esteem bursting heap.
I've had more than my share of bad interviews.
All of these things actually happened to me:
An elderly attorney asked me four times during a 15-minute interview whether I wanted a peppermint. I'm still not sure if my breath was bad or he was senile. Or possibly both. But I still didn't get the job.
While interviewing with a local firm when I was in law school, I wanted to prove that I planned to stay in town long-term. I mentioned to the interviewer that I owned my condo and intended to stay there. He argued with me, for at least five minutes, that I couldn't possibly have obtained the financing.
In the same interview, I noticed the interviewer doodling on my resume while I answered one of his questions. When he saw he was busted, he tried to turn his doodle into a large arrow, but it wasn't really pointing at anything. I didn't get the job.
An interviewer at a large firm in Birmingham firm told me: "If you don't like racism, you shouldn't live in Birmingham." And I don't.
At the end of a promising interview with a small firm in New Orleans, the hiring partner told me that she had one more interview scheduled, but the remaining candidate wasn't strong and that she'd be calling me to tell me the job was officially mine next week. When I hadn't heard back from her in two weeks, I called back. The hiring partner had left the firm, and no one remaining there even knew who I was. Needless to say, I didn't get hired.
At an interview in Pensacola, I was introduced to a sheepish, overwhelmed-looking attorney with his wrist wrapped tightly in a compression bandage. When I asked him what happened, he replied, "working here." Later, he offered me what he termed as "survival tips."
During the same interview, my car slipped out of gear and slid into the middle of the parking lot, blocking traffic completely. The firm was so starved for help they offered me the job regardless. But I turned it down.
An interviewer at a firm in Mobile noted that my resume mentioned I had been a sports writer for my college newspaper. He refused to continue the interview until I named 10 Boston Red Sox players. And I could only think of 4 or 5 off the top of my head.
In the same interview, the interviewer noted that the "activities" section of my resume listed I was part of a newly started swing dance club that one of my law school friends had started. He put on music and made me show him the basic steps. But I still didn't get the job.
A firm in Cincinnati flew me into town the night before my interview and took me to a nice dinner. All was going perfectly until I spilled the remnants of my second glass of red wine onto my only dress shirt as we got up to leave. The fancy hotel I was staying at somehow managed to get rid of the stain and have the shirt back to me--perfectly pressed--by 8 the next morning. I didn't get the job, but I still stay at that hotel every time I'm in Cincinnati.
In St. Louis, a firm asked me if I could come in for a job interview on a Saturday morning. I did. I ultimately even got the job. But it wasn't long before I wished I hadn't. That Saturday morning thing wasn't a fluke--those turned out to be normal working hours. The only consolation was that weekends were the only days I got to wear jeans.
I had aced a preliminary interview with a firm in Nashville and was feeling good heading into a meeting with the hiring partner. He saw I was from Alabama and asked if I followed the state's politics. I had a poly sci minor from the state's flagship university and considered my reasonably well versed, so I responded affirmatively. He then proceeded to ask me my thoughts on some ridiculously obscure ethics scandal involving a little-known state judge I'd only vaguely even heard of. The only response I could think of was, "that whole thing is just a mess."
I didn't get the job, but I managed to accidentally sum up the job interview process rather well, I'd say.
Got your own bad interview stories? Feel free to share them in the comments section, below.
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