A Life Unlived

It’s nearing that time of the year where I think about what I accomplished in the past 12 months and what I want to accomplish in the new year. We’ll begin a new decade in just a little over a month, which has me thinking about the big picture. One thing I’ve realized is that, despite being on this planet for almost half a century, I haven’t really lived because I’ve missed out on some things that are the hallmark of a well-lived life.

For instance, I’ve never engaged in a fight over a chicken sandwich. Popeye’s has been in the news lately just as much for its customers getting physical as it has for the taste of its revamped chicken sandwich. I’ve never even stepped foot in a Popeye’s much less popped a fellow fast-food customer because they landed the last of the sandwiches available. I feel like I’m missing something, and I’m not talking about the indigestion likely to be had from a greasy fast-food sandwich. Maybe I’ll swing by Popeye’s today and look for an opportunity to join in the fisticuffs. That will surely make me feel like I’ve truly lived.

I’ve never spent the better part of my day arguing online with someone or something (in the case of the many bots that populate the online world). I’ve always taken the perspective that I have better things to do, but do I really? Have I truly lived if I haven’t tasted the victory of overcoming a half-baked argument from an ill-informed or ill-advised person/bot? I can’t say that I have. How much of a man am I if I haven’t verbally bludgeoned a 12-year-old boy who spouted off a few trigger words on Twitter? I have my doubts.

I’ve never breathlessly followed every move of reality TV stars. The problem is that I wouldn’t recognize most of them if they walked through my front door right now. Recognition aside, think of all of the drama I’ve missed from not knowing that so-and-so is on her fourth boyfriend after she caught the last one cheating with her best friend’s mother’s dog’s veterinarian? I’d get dizzy just trying to figure that out. I’m not sure what reality these people represent but I’m in full FOMO mode here. I’m headed over to Instagram right now to add these people (who are they again?) to my feed.

It’s disappointing to look back on my life and realize I’ve missed out on the things that make a life worthwhile. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I fell asleep in school when the teachers talked about the need to resort to physical violence when you don’t get what you want. It’s not too late. I can make up for lost time. See you at Popeye’s.

The Curious Case of the Headless Snowman

Years ago, when my daughter was still a little girl, I took her into a Starbucks so that I could grab a coffee. As kids are wont to do, she lingered by the bakery case eyeing the sweets that lined the lower shelf. The countdown to Thanksgiving and Christmas had already begun, so Starbucks had reintroduced their snowman sugar cookies, and she wanted one. I caved and bought her one, which made her positively giddy. The sugar high will do that to a kid.

A few weeks later, I was in the drive-through at Starbucks (I’m sensing a pattern here) ordering a coffee (go figure) when my daughter chimed in from the back seat that she wanted another snowman cookie. Apparently, she’d found her favorite thing at Starbucks. I obliged and pulled around to the pickup window. After the cashier handed me my coffee and the cookie, I looked back at my daughter who eagerly extended her arms toward me indicating she wanted her cookie. I looked at her and smiled, and then, I bit the head off of the cookie.

I meant it as a joke, but my daughter gave me that mixed look of aggravation and disgust that I may or may not have received from her mother once before (okay, maybe a few times). She was mostly stunned. I had taken a presumptuous bite of her glorious treat, and she wasn’t happy. She didn’t cry, but when I handed her the headless snowman, she looked like I had put a lump of coal in her stocking. She stared into the paper wrapper, and then, she took the maimed cookie out and looked at it like she couldn’t eat it now that it had been disfigured. I laughed and made a comment about the “Daddy tax,” that overwrought go-to dad example meant to teach our kids about paying taxes.┬áMy daughter wasn’t too upset to eat the rest of the cookie. In fact, she recovered enough to laugh it off. She dismissed me as her silly daddy.

A few weeks later when she asked for another snowman cookie, she eagerly anticipated my response. I bit the head off again and she laughed heartily as if I had told a hilarious joke. My son even got into it because I did the same thing to him. He followed her lead and giggled about it as well. It became our thing during the holiday season. They’d ask for snowman cookies, and I’d bite the heads off before I gave them to them.

The snowman cookies returned to Starbucks recently, so I swung by and picked up a couple of them after work one night for my now teenage kids. I handed each of them the familiar Starbucks paper wrapper when I got home. They were smiling even before they looked inside the wrapper because they knew what I had done. My daughter plucked the headless snowman from the package and laughed. She knows she can always depend on me for a bad dad joke and a headless snowman cookie. I don’t get many smiles from my teenagers nowadays, but sometimes, an old bit does the trick.

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Two Frames

Years ago, my wife bought me two 5″x7″ picture frames so that I could put pictures of the kids on my desk at work. I’ve carried these frames everywhere I’ve been over the years from Seattle to Beijing, back to Seattle, and now to Atlanta. They’ve been the two constants in my decidedly minimalist offices through the years.

Since the kids started school, I’ve used these frames to hold their annual school pictures, so each fall when the kids bring their official photos home, I cut my copy from the stiff photo sheet and take it to work to replace last year’s photo in the frame. Since I can’t bear to part with pictures of the kids, I usually flip over the last photo and put the new photo on top squishing all of the past photos into the frame. While everyone else sees just the most recent photo, I know there are several years’ worth of photos lurking behind the glass.

The majority of the pictures I have of the kids are in digital form. I have tens of thousands of digital photos saved and backed up in multiple places so that nothing short of the apocalypse could destroy my treasure trove of pictures. These kids have just about every angle of their childhoods covered in photographic evidence. As they have become teenagers, the accumulation of pictures of them has slowed dramatically. If I can get my son to appear in a photo, it’s unlikely he will smile for it. He’s perfected the resting bitch face that’s indicative of being photographed by his dorky dad.

If I’m feeling sentimental, which happens quite frequently as I’ve gotten older, I’ll click on one of my photo folders and flip back in time. Some pictures make me wonder where all of the time has gone. Surely it hasn’t been that long ago since my now teenage daughter used to run from any corner of the house when she heard the theme to Dora the Explorer play on the TV. Maybe it has been a while. Somewhere in my aging mind time has been compressed or truncated so that two points separated by a vast number of days appear seemingly close together. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Last week, my son finally remembered to bring his school pictures home so that I could have a physical copy of the true marker of time. For this picture he managed something that resembled a smile or a smirk. I’m not sure which it was, but at this point I don’t care as long as I have my picture. I dutifully cut it from the photo sheet and took it to work for the ceremonial flip of the photo in the frame on my desk.

When I cracked open the back of the picture frame, the photos from prior years spilled out onto my desk. One of them from several years ago landed right side up on my desk, and I was struck by the little boy staring back at me. Unlike his current photos, he had a big, jovial smile in this one. His face still had the round fleshiness of childhood. I shuffled through all of the photos and laid them out in chronological order. I could see the transformation from little boy to young man. For some reason, I felt like I had lost something. I had lost track of time. I had blinked and something happened that I didn’t want to happen.

I stared at the pictures for a moment before I gathered them up and put them back in the frame with only the mirthless teenager staring back at me through the shiny glass. Somewhere back in the annals of time is a baby who took ten hours to arrive, a toddler who used to do a funky little dance while he sang “Elephants Have Wrinkles,” a little boy who once jumped into my arms with joy when I returned from a long business trip, and a little boy who’d get so upset when he got water in his eyes during a bath or swim lessons that he spawned a phrase that his mother and I still use to this day. Those memories make me happy. I’m still undecided about the smirking teenager.

Closing Out the Year

On Saturday, I ran my eighth marathon of 2019 in Indianapolis, Indiana. With that race I’ve run a marathon in 44 of the 50 U.S. states leaving only six states to finish my 50 States Challenge. If all goes well, I will cross the finish line of the Manchester City Marathon on November 8, 2020 in New Hampshire next year to wrap up the 50 states. After two years of running eight marathons per year, I look forward to a year with only six marathons.

Back in 2010 when I decided to tackle this challenge, I laid out a plan to accomplish it in ten years before my 50th birthday. That plan had me running only five marathons per year, which, when spaced out properly, isn’t that difficult, but a disastrous year in 2014 where I only ran one marathon because of injury derailed that plan. It took a while to get back up to marathon shape, and I knew that if I was going to finish before my 50th birthday I’d have to increase the number of races I ran in the remaining years.

Running so many marathons in a year is not impossible. Many marathoners run much more, especially enthusiastic 50-staters, but inevitably, you sacrifice time when running so many marathons because your body cannot fully recover. I’ve seen this first hand the past two years as I’ve logged eight per year. My times have steadily declined, but it was a trade-off I was willing to accept when I decided to attempt to complete the 50 states in ten years like I had originally planned. Had I not ramped up the number of races, I would not have a chance of finishing in ten years. Now, that prospect seems likely assuming I don’t suffer an injury like I did in 2014.

Now that I’ve finished the 2019 race schedule, I’m going to take some time off. Well, not exactly. I’m going to take it easy or easier. I’ll still be out there running in the pre-dawn cold of late fall and early winter, but my runs will be short. I’m closing out the year in a steady but relaxed pace. I’ve accomplished what I set out to do when the year began. Now, it’s time to get psyched for the year to come, but before I do, I’m going to relax.