Hell yes!
All the rest after I get back to normal posting next week. Hope everyone had a joyful holiday.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 10:32 AM
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Dec 28, 2006
Hell yes!
All the rest after I get back to normal posting next week. Hope everyone had a joyful holiday.
Dec 24, 2006
Merry Christmas, everyone! We're off to Cleveland for family, snow, and the unveiling of the purple lamb.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 8:30 AM
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Dec 21, 2006
When E's mom got pregnant, I was in college. Twenty years-old, completely self-absorbed, and trying to decide between London, Paris, or New York to begin my career as a romanticized starving artist. Oh, how metro.
The state of Texas intruded on my naval-gazing pretension only as the butt of a joke, or in moments of vitriolic camaraderie with my British friends. Americans, they thought, especially given who we'd elected as president, must be a bunch of gun-toting, Texas-loving wackos. And it's true, we're just as loud and crass as they say we are. Brits, however, are whiney, annoying, and have bad teeth. So it evens out.
But E's mother is from Texas. It's where her family lives, and, subsequently, where E was born. Faced with the choice of missing the first few months of my daughter's life, or moving to a "city" lost somewhere in the nether regions of South Texas, I got over myself, and chose the latter.
I was broke, so I had to rent a room in a decrepit old house full of other twenty-somethings, all in varying stages of recovery from substance abuse. Considering I wasn't together with his step-daughter/the woman about to give birth to my child, the fact that I had the room in the first place meant my landlord was a pretty decent guy. Nevertheless, I saw more cockroaches in that house than I will ever see again. We'd spray bug killer one night, and there'd be dozens and dozens of them lying belly-up all over the house the next morning. It's also the only place I've ever heard the expression "sand nigger" used in earnest. A couple that lived there -- she was 18 and pregnant, he was 21 -- used to have the most vicious, manipulative, unspeakably horrible fights I've ever been witness to, all while she smoked a pack-a-day and he tried to find work. While E was with her mother, I spent the 4th of July with some roommates, riding in the flat bed of a pick-up truck across a beautiful cattle ranch -- we barbecued, played horse shoes, and shot off fireworks like friends.
On the best days, I'd see my baby daughter. On good days, I'd escape up to Austin, half trying to find a job, and half trying to remember the person I used to think I was. I desperately wanted this to be a place I could identify with. I searched for whatever I could convince myself was the essence of the city, immediately trying to believe in that essence like it was my own. Austin is actually very urban, inundated with the mysterious "creative class" that economic magazines latch on to from time to time, but at first glace it looks like an overgrown college town -- full of of granola-loving peace-niks and quaint eccentricities. I therefore assumed that these sentimental hippies would be my people -- I, too, could learn to love rambling folk music, thong-wearing, homeless local "celebrities," and flip-flops 9 months out of the year.
I was finally "employed" by a "theatre" (which, in the arts, means "given the privilege of working for free") directing a one-man musical. I'd only once met the producer who'd "hired" me, so when I arrived at the "theatre," and found a voluptuous woman with short dark hair leading a small group of hippies in some kind of kumbaya-like sing-a-long I figured, "ah, this must be it."
"Come and join us," said the woman, as if she'd been expecting me. And off they went, singing more hippie nonsense.
As it turned out, that wasn't were I was supposed to be at all. My directing gig was inside, and these welcoming oddballs were having a "Jewish Wicca Festival" between the four of them in the theatre's outdoor lobby. Somewhere, amidst the community pages of Austin's alternative weekly paper, they'd listed the "event" as being open to the public, and they'd assumed I'd walked in off the street to join in the Jewish Wicca revelry.
This isn't the Austin I live in these days, sipping coffee at hipster cafes and crashing family-friendly rock shows on weekends. But I'd like to think it was the perfect introduction.
The state of Texas intruded on my naval-gazing pretension only as the butt of a joke, or in moments of vitriolic camaraderie with my British friends. Americans, they thought, especially given who we'd elected as president, must be a bunch of gun-toting, Texas-loving wackos. And it's true, we're just as loud and crass as they say we are. Brits, however, are whiney, annoying, and have bad teeth. So it evens out.
But E's mother is from Texas. It's where her family lives, and, subsequently, where E was born. Faced with the choice of missing the first few months of my daughter's life, or moving to a "city" lost somewhere in the nether regions of South Texas, I got over myself, and chose the latter.
I was broke, so I had to rent a room in a decrepit old house full of other twenty-somethings, all in varying stages of recovery from substance abuse. Considering I wasn't together with his step-daughter/the woman about to give birth to my child, the fact that I had the room in the first place meant my landlord was a pretty decent guy. Nevertheless, I saw more cockroaches in that house than I will ever see again. We'd spray bug killer one night, and there'd be dozens and dozens of them lying belly-up all over the house the next morning. It's also the only place I've ever heard the expression "sand nigger" used in earnest. A couple that lived there -- she was 18 and pregnant, he was 21 -- used to have the most vicious, manipulative, unspeakably horrible fights I've ever been witness to, all while she smoked a pack-a-day and he tried to find work. While E was with her mother, I spent the 4th of July with some roommates, riding in the flat bed of a pick-up truck across a beautiful cattle ranch -- we barbecued, played horse shoes, and shot off fireworks like friends.
On the best days, I'd see my baby daughter. On good days, I'd escape up to Austin, half trying to find a job, and half trying to remember the person I used to think I was. I desperately wanted this to be a place I could identify with. I searched for whatever I could convince myself was the essence of the city, immediately trying to believe in that essence like it was my own. Austin is actually very urban, inundated with the mysterious "creative class" that economic magazines latch on to from time to time, but at first glace it looks like an overgrown college town -- full of of granola-loving peace-niks and quaint eccentricities. I therefore assumed that these sentimental hippies would be my people -- I, too, could learn to love rambling folk music, thong-wearing, homeless local "celebrities," and flip-flops 9 months out of the year.
I was finally "employed" by a "theatre" (which, in the arts, means "given the privilege of working for free") directing a one-man musical. I'd only once met the producer who'd "hired" me, so when I arrived at the "theatre," and found a voluptuous woman with short dark hair leading a small group of hippies in some kind of kumbaya-like sing-a-long I figured, "ah, this must be it."
"Come and join us," said the woman, as if she'd been expecting me. And off they went, singing more hippie nonsense.
As it turned out, that wasn't were I was supposed to be at all. My directing gig was inside, and these welcoming oddballs were having a "Jewish Wicca Festival" between the four of them in the theatre's outdoor lobby. Somewhere, amidst the community pages of Austin's alternative weekly paper, they'd listed the "event" as being open to the public, and they'd assumed I'd walked in off the street to join in the Jewish Wicca revelry.
This isn't the Austin I live in these days, sipping coffee at hipster cafes and crashing family-friendly rock shows on weekends. But I'd like to think it was the perfect introduction.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 7:17 AM
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Dec 20, 2006
I have a more lengthy story that I'll be writing later, but for the moment, I wanted to share a little snippet from our ice-skating escapade this weekend. All E kept saying for the rest of the day was, "we'll go skating when we're in Cleveland and it's COLD!"
Hell yes!
Hell yes!
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 5:26 PM
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Behold.
For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, read yesterday's post.
For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, read yesterday's post.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 7:00 AM
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Dec 19, 2006
Sure, at first, this seems a little odd. But when your toddling superdaughter, who's only just recently been indoctrinated in all things Claus, tells the fat man that the only thing she wants for Christmas is a "purple [fucking] lamb," the quest for said mythical creature will consume your weekend.
You'll travel to multiple toy stores, all over town, repeatedly amazed at how incredibly lame the stuffed animal selection is. Irony, it seems, is that the demand for lambs of any sort is so low, that even compensation-sucking commercial demigods like Toys R' Us flip you the proverbial bird when you come crawling to them, begging for help.
So what do we do? Personal pride mandates that if I tell a big, whopping lie along the lines of "a jolly man in a red suit who travels with the aid of magical flying reindeer will bring you lots of presents," then my daughter will believe it. For real. I cannot, therefore, fail to make good on the promise that Santa made -- at the mall, without consulting me first -- when my darling E asked him for the aforementioned violet farm animal. "Lies father!" She'd scream, as she stormed out of the room, her tears falling upon a discarded Hello Kitty Karaoke set, now worthless in her eyes. "I've fallen victim to the most heinous rouse, you bastard!" Merry. Fuckin'. Christmas.
Fortunately, finally, while shopping for someone else, we stumbled upon the lamb you saw above, moments before his/her death. That lamb was post-humusly dyed purple by Lady-A. Not that she didn't feel guilty about it.
As a parting shot, my sister and my dad were out shopping in Cleveland the same day, and -- along with a little help from Mr. Interweb -- found two lambs that might also satisfy E's craving for impossibly pigmented four-legged creatures. I'm thinking of giving her all three lambs, thus somehow proving that Santa loves her the most of all the world's children. God forbid she ever asks for a pony.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 9:15 AM
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For those of you that care, I'm still jogging.
Even worse, is that I'm prone to pepper this labored inhalation with self-motivational comments. "Come on, dude! Push it! Let's do this!" Embarrassing as it is to divulge this problematic verbal diarrhea after the fact, it's way, way worse when I'm overheard mid-sentence.
The problem is, my belly bulge doesn't appear to be going anywhere. This, after all, was the point. Where the fuck is my runner's high?
Even worse, is that I'm prone to pepper this labored inhalation with self-motivational comments. "Come on, dude! Push it! Let's do this!" Embarrassing as it is to divulge this problematic verbal diarrhea after the fact, it's way, way worse when I'm overheard mid-sentence.
The problem is, my belly bulge doesn't appear to be going anywhere. This, after all, was the point. Where the fuck is my runner's high?
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 7:02 AM
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Dec 15, 2006
Heavy sigh.
It's in this kind of mood that I become susceptible to the delusion that my life is a movie. Generally -- hopefully -- it's only when my day is set to music, and not while I sit, mired in the more mundane aspects of my job, stuffing holiday envelopes in mind-numbing silence. If that was the movie of my life, it'd be one of those bleak, depressing 70s Eastern European art films that movie masochists like me once sat though in college because some pompous ass told us it was important.
But, in my movie life, even in the down-trodden, fatigued, unraveling moments, there's the kind of quiet-hero-against-all-odds optimism that allows you to root for the nerds in Revenge of the Nerds, or the Dude in The Big Lewbowski, or whatever. More recently, they've made some abominably shitty movies about this kind of hero -- movies that, if they hadn't been obnoxiously self-indulgent and so bluntly, crassly created to suck money from my demographic, I might've enjoyed (but probably not). Movies like Garden State (vomit). So know that, because of this, it's mildly embarrassing to admit to my little hallucination.
Anyway, as I imagine my valiant character shining through the hazy, unforgiving facade of his directionless existence, pulling it together during an evening drive across Central Texas, I underscore the movie of my life with something a little more emotionally charged than the irritating silence of fluorescent lights, or the quiet hum of city traffic (though, occasionally, the latter can be sort of nice).
Stuff like this.
Or this.
Or even this (though that's somewhat cliche these days).
And I'm feeling like a bad ass motherfucker, stuff like this.
I know my life isn't actually directionless, or unforgiving, or hard at all, really. But it's always nice to have a little music to indulge the epically melancholic (mis)representation of that existence every now and again. Right?
It's in this kind of mood that I become susceptible to the delusion that my life is a movie. Generally -- hopefully -- it's only when my day is set to music, and not while I sit, mired in the more mundane aspects of my job, stuffing holiday envelopes in mind-numbing silence. If that was the movie of my life, it'd be one of those bleak, depressing 70s Eastern European art films that movie masochists like me once sat though in college because some pompous ass told us it was important.
But, in my movie life, even in the down-trodden, fatigued, unraveling moments, there's the kind of quiet-hero-against-all-odds optimism that allows you to root for the nerds in Revenge of the Nerds, or the Dude in The Big Lewbowski, or whatever. More recently, they've made some abominably shitty movies about this kind of hero -- movies that, if they hadn't been obnoxiously self-indulgent and so bluntly, crassly created to suck money from my demographic, I might've enjoyed (but probably not). Movies like Garden State (vomit). So know that, because of this, it's mildly embarrassing to admit to my little hallucination.
Anyway, as I imagine my valiant character shining through the hazy, unforgiving facade of his directionless existence, pulling it together during an evening drive across Central Texas, I underscore the movie of my life with something a little more emotionally charged than the irritating silence of fluorescent lights, or the quiet hum of city traffic (though, occasionally, the latter can be sort of nice).
Stuff like this.
Or this.
Or even this (though that's somewhat cliche these days).
And I'm feeling like a bad ass motherfucker, stuff like this.
I know my life isn't actually directionless, or unforgiving, or hard at all, really. But it's always nice to have a little music to indulge the epically melancholic (mis)representation of that existence every now and again. Right?
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 8:48 AM
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Dec 13, 2006
To say that parenting has "ups and downs" is a redundant statement on the scale of "Santa Claus sure is fat," or "Texans drive like assholes." However, I am compelled to relay the story of Lady-A's dressmaking triumph and disappoint, if for no other reason that I think it's kinda funny.
So, in her estimation, Lady-A spent about 36 hours crocheting this dress:
The pink trim, the little "e", and the flower buttons really bring it together, I think. Lady-A was so pumped when she finished it, that a photo of said dress now adorns her myspace page. The photos of the dress on our flickr page have been viewed more times than nearly anything else I've ever posted. (Which, incidentally, also may be an indication that I'm a shitty photographer.)
But, to my dismay, when E finally wore the dress, Lady-A made this face:
Sure, I know that feeling. The times when your kid refuses to stop crying, or she tries to play with the kite you bought her, only to discover that it's a cheap plastic piece of shit that won't leave the ground. But I don't think this should be one of those times. I think the dress actually looks really cute.
Tell me, oh wise and noble internets, am I wrong?
So, in her estimation, Lady-A spent about 36 hours crocheting this dress:
The pink trim, the little "e", and the flower buttons really bring it together, I think. Lady-A was so pumped when she finished it, that a photo of said dress now adorns her myspace page. The photos of the dress on our flickr page have been viewed more times than nearly anything else I've ever posted. (Which, incidentally, also may be an indication that I'm a shitty photographer.)
But, to my dismay, when E finally wore the dress, Lady-A made this face:
Sure, I know that feeling. The times when your kid refuses to stop crying, or she tries to play with the kite you bought her, only to discover that it's a cheap plastic piece of shit that won't leave the ground. But I don't think this should be one of those times. I think the dress actually looks really cute.
Tell me, oh wise and noble internets, am I wrong?
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 11:34 AM
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Dec 12, 2006
CHRISTMAS: the holiday that puked all over our weekend!
There is a fire inside me. An unrelenting drive to bring the very spirit of Kringle himself crashing into our holiday. We will be jolly! We will be merry! WE WILL FEEL THE MAGIC OF THE SEASON SO FUCKING HELP ME GOD.
Little-E, as I have mentioned about 6,894 times, will be spending Christmas with my family this year. This is a big deal. At 2 1/2, her little imagination is finally ready to engender a fictitious fat guy with the power to fly, distribute presents, and monitor the behavior of children the world over from his mystical, magical headquarters at the mall. She's excited, she's full of hope, she screams "WE'RE GOING TO CLEVELAND TO SEE SANTA AND GET PRESENTS" every time I bring up Nanny and Grandpa's house. Or snow. Or Christmas. Or stuff that's totally unrelated.
So we're like the ambassadors of Christmas -- which is this enormous responsibility that, to be honest, crept up on me when I wasn't looking.
And it's a rough game, this Christmas thing -- as it seems kids are actually more likely to be possessed by the spirit of demonic outlaws on acid when you're trying to get them to like something.
"Do you like this tree, Little-E?"
"NO!"
"What about this one?"
"NO! I'M SAD BECAUSE I WANT MY MOMMY!"
"Are you excited to see Santa?"
"YEAH! I wanna see SANTA!"
"We just have to wait in line a little longer."
"I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN."
"We're in line to see Santa, honey. Maybe we can come back to ride the Christmas train another time."
"I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN. I WANT TO RIDE THE TRAIN."
At least, upon leaving Santa's den du holiday photography, E seemed pleased with the conference that'd taken place. He didn't say "ho ho ho," which was, I think, a significant logistical complication for her, but he did say that'd he bring her a purple lamb, and gave her a cheap plastic duck as a parting gift. Score!
Joking aside, this is all a little strange. Christmas was an annual benchmark of my childhood, and some of the fondest family memories I have are from lazy holiday afternoons, sprawled around the living room, enjoying each other's company. (I almost wrote "this was the magic of our holiday season", but couldn't bring myself to be that cornball. The sentiment is true, however.)
I want to make sure the Christmas we create for E is equally as joyful. While I recognize that this logic is flawed on a number of levels, a little part of me feels like it'll prove we're a real family after all.
tags: Christmas, family, Santa
save to del.icio.us
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 8:48 AM
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Dec 8, 2006
Note: forgive me for what you are about to read. I recognize that making crass mention of female genitalia whilst referencing weakness is both immature, and inaccurate as a metaphor. Rest assured, it's only for effect.
Fatherhood has turned me from a boy, into a man, into a pussy.
I was a sensitive youth. Intense, emotional, self-conscious -- a thinker. While other kids were careening down sledding hills, lighting their farts on fire, and partaking in awkward, painful groping sessions of stumbling sexual exploration, I was the cautious outsider -- always one or two steps behind the real kick-ass dudes of my generation.
My punk-infused, high school rebellion opened me up just enough for some real "personal discovery" to take place in college. For me, the recently liberal, middle-class white guy, this meant availing myself of the ignorant, chauvinist, capitalist whore I'd unwittingly become. This was my only chance to make sure I didn't end up like those old, upper-class white guys that have been fucking things up for centuries.
So, I worked very hard at being "emotionally open" (whatever the fuck that meant), became even more "sensitive", and developed an interest in movies with subtitles.
Enter baby.
Fatherhood does a funny thing to the wet-towel, collegiate pussy-man. You have a new-found connection with other dudes that was, up until that moment, easy to ignore. You start seeking out male role models -- guys that exemplify the sort of grown-up you'd like to be, if only you weren't such a sappy, sniveling art-school dweeb. And poof! Just like that, you're watching football, complaining about nagging, and reading GQ just like the fuckin' fire-fighting lumberjack of virility you've always known yourself to be.
I'm glad I went through this phase. And I'm happy it's over.
But these days, it's like college again. Not only do I tear up all the goddamn the time -- feeling gushy, and gooey, and emotional and shit -- I feel compelled to share this information with the internet. I'm likely to sprout waterworks every time my daughter says "I love you," or "I miss you when I'm not here," or "hold me, daddy" when she's cold right after her bath. I feel scared, I worry, and I've learned how to make a pony tail for a two year-old so it doesn't hurt (much). I've become so accustomed to saying "poopy" that it's almost not worth mentioning.
But while traditional, main-stream maleness might dictate that I freak out at this unchecked emotional outpouring, I'd rather be sappy than not. At least my daughter knows that I love her.
And you know, maybe I've had it all wrong. The further into this dad thing I get, the more I feel like all this sensitive stuff takes more balls than I thought.
tags: dad is not a pussy, maleness, fatherhood save to del.icio.us
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 9:10 AM
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Dec 6, 2006
The best part of my day with Little-E is lunchtime.
Used to be, I'd get bored while she went all Close Encounters on her mashed potatoes, squished her grapes like the heads of Russian political dissidents, or made disgusting-as-shit soup from ketchup and carrots. I was only there in case she choked, dropped her water, or threatened to rub her greasy hands all over the wall as blackmail for "MORE TOMATO, MORE TOMATO!"
When I'd perfected the "I'm not fucking around" voice enough to thwart her wall-staining antics without physical intervention, I started to play guitar. This turned into "SING THE [whatever asinine children's ditty I'm currently obsessed with] SONG, DADDY!"
But I'm not a very good guitar player, so I don't know any of those songs. Instead, at E's request, I've been making up 30second one-offs about giants, dinosaurs, or eating your goddamn carrots. And, to the delight of my little narcissist, a valiant toddler named Little-E is the perpetual hero of these impromptu musical tales.
Finally, after 45min of songs about "A SAD PURPLE GIANT!!!" or "A MEAN BLUE GIANT!!!" or "A DINOSAUR!!!" or or or my grown-up brain turns to mush and I'm left pulling old punk songs outta my ass, singing in weird voices about "HAPPY YELLOW GIANTS, DADDY!!! HAPPY YELLOW GIANTS!!!" Hence, the following video.
Admittedly, I'm a little embarrassed about my singing and/orrandom, vomitous barrage of mis-matched linguistic abominations songwriting, but it's totally worth it so you can watch E dance like a bad ass -- punk rock style!
Used to be, I'd get bored while she went all Close Encounters on her mashed potatoes, squished her grapes like the heads of Russian political dissidents, or made disgusting-as-shit soup from ketchup and carrots. I was only there in case she choked, dropped her water, or threatened to rub her greasy hands all over the wall as blackmail for "MORE TOMATO, MORE TOMATO!"
When I'd perfected the "I'm not fucking around" voice enough to thwart her wall-staining antics without physical intervention, I started to play guitar. This turned into "SING THE [whatever asinine children's ditty I'm currently obsessed with] SONG, DADDY!"
But I'm not a very good guitar player, so I don't know any of those songs. Instead, at E's request, I've been making up 30second one-offs about giants, dinosaurs, or eating your goddamn carrots. And, to the delight of my little narcissist, a valiant toddler named Little-E is the perpetual hero of these impromptu musical tales.
Finally, after 45min of songs about "A SAD PURPLE GIANT!!!" or "A MEAN BLUE GIANT!!!" or "A DINOSAUR!!!" or or or my grown-up brain turns to mush and I'm left pulling old punk songs outta my ass, singing in weird voices about "HAPPY YELLOW GIANTS, DADDY!!! HAPPY YELLOW GIANTS!!!" Hence, the following video.
Admittedly, I'm a little embarrassed about my singing and/or
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 8:49 AM
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Dec 4, 2006
I've started running.
For fun recreation the outdoors stress-relief because I'm getting fat. Nothing propels a young man forward -- beckons, incites and inspires him to haul his increasingly gelatinous frame a-pat-pat-patting down neighborhood sidewalks -- like vanity.
I haven't always been sloth's posterchild. Even after I succame to cigarettes, Guinness, and the unhealthy obsession with thespianism that would eventually end my athletic career, I lived in cities where I could walk. A lot. I thought nothing of a 15 to 20 minute stroll to my local grocer, movie theatre, or corner store where they sold cigarettes and Guinness.
But these days I spend most of my time on my ass. And that ass started to get comfortable. Like an old friend you were always more or less cool with, before he lost his job, moved into your place, and let his stuff pile up on your living room floor in mountainous, unchecked resevoirs of fading newspapers, dirty socks, and classic rock LPs. What the shit, dude? If I'd known you were such a gluttonous asshole, I would've kicked you to the curb long ago -- screaming "Enema! Enema!" while passers-by winced at the constipated, flatulent stench of your directionless life's perfumed facade!
And seeing as my commute, deskjob(s), and toddler-chasing antics weren't providing any respite from the inactivity (and I winced while buttoning certain pairs of pants), I figured it was time I took a stand. I bought some new running shoes, and a pair of shorts with the undies sewn in that "breathe." Surely, I thought, this will ease my transition back into movement.
The funny thing is, I used to play baseball, basketball, and football (I was the quarterback, believe it or not), so my body remembers exactly what it should be able to do. My muscles fall into familiar patterns as I head out into the cold, coaxing my body out of retirement with a confidence I find re-assuring. I grin, pick up the pace, and imagine myself laughing with fellow fitness enthusiasts over skim-milk, no-foam, decaf lattes at Starbucks, only to be surprised by how much more of me there is now than there used to be. I can feel my new insulating layer sloshing around on top of my old spry frame, and it's holding me back, big time.
Then my lungs cave in. I heave heavy, but my chest is so tight I'm sure it's actually on fire. My vision blurred, my hearing muffled, my thoughts fleeting and impossible to grasp, I convince my embattled sack of moldy potatoes to push through to the next stoplight, the next block, 10 more yards, 'till I have to stop. And walk. Nauseated and wheezing while my legs bobble about like human-shaped jello molds.
I was so unbelievably sore the next day. I couldn't concentrate at work. The "extra energy" runners told me would accompany my new active lifestyle was conspicuously absent.
Two days later I did it again. I believe I experienced with athletic types describe as a "runner's high" -- in that for a few euphoric moments (read: 5 to 7 seconds), I was no longer desperately clinging to my every breath, but actually enjoying the forward motion. Interesting.
I took a photo of my stomach, but am too chicken-shit to post it on the internet. If, however, I run 3-4 times a week for the next three months, I'll post before and after shots. Hopefully my potential embarrassment will compel all of you to keep me honest, and keep me running.
I'll certainly be providing updates in the meantime.
I haven't always been sloth's posterchild. Even after I succame to cigarettes, Guinness, and the unhealthy obsession with thespianism that would eventually end my athletic career, I lived in cities where I could walk. A lot. I thought nothing of a 15 to 20 minute stroll to my local grocer, movie theatre, or corner store where they sold cigarettes and Guinness.
But these days I spend most of my time on my ass. And that ass started to get comfortable. Like an old friend you were always more or less cool with, before he lost his job, moved into your place, and let his stuff pile up on your living room floor in mountainous, unchecked resevoirs of fading newspapers, dirty socks, and classic rock LPs. What the shit, dude? If I'd known you were such a gluttonous asshole, I would've kicked you to the curb long ago -- screaming "Enema! Enema!" while passers-by winced at the constipated, flatulent stench of your directionless life's perfumed facade!
And seeing as my commute, deskjob(s), and toddler-chasing antics weren't providing any respite from the inactivity (and I winced while buttoning certain pairs of pants), I figured it was time I took a stand. I bought some new running shoes, and a pair of shorts with the undies sewn in that "breathe." Surely, I thought, this will ease my transition back into movement.
The funny thing is, I used to play baseball, basketball, and football (I was the quarterback, believe it or not), so my body remembers exactly what it should be able to do. My muscles fall into familiar patterns as I head out into the cold, coaxing my body out of retirement with a confidence I find re-assuring. I grin, pick up the pace, and imagine myself laughing with fellow fitness enthusiasts over skim-milk, no-foam, decaf lattes at Starbucks, only to be surprised by how much more of me there is now than there used to be. I can feel my new insulating layer sloshing around on top of my old spry frame, and it's holding me back, big time.
Then my lungs cave in. I heave heavy, but my chest is so tight I'm sure it's actually on fire. My vision blurred, my hearing muffled, my thoughts fleeting and impossible to grasp, I convince my embattled sack of moldy potatoes to push through to the next stoplight, the next block, 10 more yards, 'till I have to stop. And walk. Nauseated and wheezing while my legs bobble about like human-shaped jello molds.
I was so unbelievably sore the next day. I couldn't concentrate at work. The "extra energy" runners told me would accompany my new active lifestyle was conspicuously absent.
Two days later I did it again. I believe I experienced with athletic types describe as a "runner's high" -- in that for a few euphoric moments (read: 5 to 7 seconds), I was no longer desperately clinging to my every breath, but actually enjoying the forward motion. Interesting.
I took a photo of my stomach, but am too chicken-shit to post it on the internet. If, however, I run 3-4 times a week for the next three months, I'll post before and after shots. Hopefully my potential embarrassment will compel all of you to keep me honest, and keep me running.
I'll certainly be providing updates in the meantime.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 11:53 AM
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Dec 1, 2006
I have nothing significant to contribute to the world today.
The groggy, half-enthused, motivational limp I've been hampered by all morning clings to me like a damp, foul-smelling cheese. Let's be real. I am, as they say, in an unproductive mood.
But oh, to the weekend, when I'll get to have more fun with my new camera. As evidenced by the video, I've been so pre-occupied with said camera, that it's been distracting me from the everyday, mundane (but necessary) duties of my life.
As you can see, the picture quality of this camera is a significant improvement.
And now, to the weekend. Huzzah and stuff.
The groggy, half-enthused, motivational limp I've been hampered by all morning clings to me like a damp, foul-smelling cheese. Let's be real. I am, as they say, in an unproductive mood.
But oh, to the weekend, when I'll get to have more fun with my new camera. As evidenced by the video, I've been so pre-occupied with said camera, that it's been distracting me from the everyday, mundane (but necessary) duties of my life.
As you can see, the picture quality of this camera is a significant improvement.
And now, to the weekend. Huzzah and stuff.
posted by Jonathon Morgan at 10:14 AM
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