They say that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.  For me, this has typically meant that I get to drink the milk after its sell-by date.

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But there is a larger usage, where there are things that the universe generally loves that I just don’t, and vice versa.  Like how you, the intelligent reader, feel about American Idol and Two and a Half Men.  So, today: a list of some things that just don’t honk my horn.  Monday: a few things that probably don’t ring your bell.  But that would be annoying and noisy, so it’s a good thing, right?

Country music

There isn’t enough beer in the world to get me to appreciate country music.  And if there was, I don’t drink anyway.

Listen, I’m from New Jersey.  I have no business liking country music.  My accent is the opposite of twang.  My interests are good pizza, the beach, and changing lanes.  I couldn’t care less about beer or trucks, and I’m not sure what an open road looks like.  I imagine there are fewer strip malls and more concealed weapons.  Anyone from New Jersey who likes country music probably doesn’t have enough black friends.

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When I arrived to the University of Maryland, there was a housing shortage, and I had the good fortune of being placed into a “converted triple.”  What this really meant is that there were three of us sardined into a double room.  The university gave me an XXL t-shirt that said “TRIPLE” on the back, as if that was my last name OR sufficient compensation for the discomfort.

Anyway, my roommates in the tiny, tiny room were from Virginia (hi Meg!) and Atlanta.  They both loved country music, and in an era of Napster and Audiogalaxy, there was no shortage of supply.  But you know what they didn’t love?  My my deep sighs, eye rolls, and taunting about the North winning the Civil War.  So, they also quickly learned to love headphones.

I’ll close with this: if I got a barbecue stain on my white t-shirt, I wouldn’t write a song about it, I’d ask everyone for a Tide pen because that is an emergency.

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Country music is out.

Try instead: the greatest R&B, mediocre R&B, shitty R&B, hip-hop, everything from the 90s, most music from the 80s, and Billy Joel.

Winter

Oh, you love snow?  You love to go skiing?  You love curling up by the fire?  Sounds wealthy.

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Do you also love ashy skin, chapped lips, and cabin fever?  How about runny noses?  You like those?  Or maybe you prefer mealy tomatoes and apples.  Maybe you like that your only choices for “fresh” produce grow underground, where they can’t be ashamed of their hideous, tasteless bodies.

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I’m not sure there’s anything I hate as much as I hate winter.  Winter, the season of bare trees, cream soups, and walking home from work when it’s already dark outside.  It’s the worst.  It’s horribly inconvenient.  I don’t want to have to carry my jacket all night long because I’m too cheap to check it at the door and too sensible to leave it at home.

Winter rips at your skin, sucks air out of your lungs, and turns your appendages into blocks of ice.  Winter is violent and wrathful.  For example, I went for a run today and the wind nearly carried me off the Key Bridge.

People who like winter must really like looking ugly.  When I look in the mirror in the winter, I see some frowny loser whose skin is so pale it’s almost blue.  And my hair is so dull that I almost look – gasp! – brunette.  But the people who love winter seem to embrace the ugly.  They defend “bundling up.”  They relish the day they can wear their scarves or turtlenecks, obscuring the vampire bite that I’m assuming they have.  What else would explain their enjoyment of long nights, short days, and the absence sunshine?

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“But don’t you like wearing sweaters?” they ask.  No.  I don’t even want to wear a shirt, really.  I just want a sports bra or bathing suit so I can be brown/orange and glowing and Nubian and bursting with Vitamin D.  I want to eat peaches and be blonde again.

Try instead: summer, spring, fall, moving to Mexico, not being a vampire/wooden stake through the heart/garlic.

Olives

Three times a year, I’ll walk up to a dish of olives, close my eyes, and hope.  I think positively — this time!  This time I’ll like them!   

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You see, I’ve tried and tried and tried to like olives.  I feel like I’m shunning the signature crop of the Mediterranean.  It feels wrong.  I love eating!  I love food!  I love ambiguous fruits that people think are vegetables!  I love olive oil!

So why do olives taste so terrible to me?   Maybe because they are salty, slimy lizard balls.

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And I’m not an olive racist.  I don’t care what color they are — green, black, purple — they all taste like a vommyburp to me.  And you can’t fool me by putting them into a tapenade.  As if I’m going to change my mind now that they’re hanging with anchovies and capers.  Even when the crostinis and baguettes vouch for olives, I just can’t abide.

And no matter how many people line up at the olive bar at Whole Foods, I think they’re all misguided.  It isn’t unprecedented, you know.  People thought the Earth was the center of the universe until Galileo finally stuck his neck out.

I will continue to try olives, hoping they wear me into submission or enough of my taste buds die that I eagerly and willfully consume olives by the fistful.  But until then, I remain unconvinced.

Try instead: trail mix, apples, peanut butter, tofu dogs, old lunchmeat.

Mad Men

Smart people who eat olives and dress impeccably — men and women in perfectly fitter blazers and pants with pointy-toed shoes – told me I would like Mad Men.  They bragged about its deep, intricate storyline.  They sold me on its historical significance and accuracy.  And then they said the magic words: character development.  My heart was all aflutter.

So I tried.  I tried to like it.

After the first episode, I was concerned that maybe I wasn’t smart enough for the show.  What was I missing?  What was all the fuss about?  By the power of Netflix, I kept going — on a school night, even.

Episode two, let’s do it.  I took it seriously.  I watched it in the dark, under a blanket, my eyes fixed on the unfolding story.  If it really was so deep, I didn’t want to miss anything.  I didn’t want those smart people and their thick framed glasses to tell me I missed the point.

Still nothing.  I kept going.  Ok, another.  And another.  Five episodes deep and I couldn’t take it anymore.

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Sure, the sets are beautiful and convincing.  Yeah, Christina Hendricks has a nice rack and Jon Hamm is devastatingly handsome.  But these fucking people are awful!   They are all conniving, sadistic, unfaithful, misogynistic liars.  These people are broken.

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I found it impossible to care about or root for any of them.   Even Peggy sucks!  I have no patience for dickheads in real life, so I’m not sure why I’d tune in week after week to watch them in a fictional show.  It turns out I don’t care about Don Draper’s character development because Don Draper is an insufferable  asshole.  If that’s the point: if it’s about chronic imperfection, how everyone is terrible, and so on, then I got the point already.  I read Waiting for Godot — I don’t need to read the second act.

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So, I hear that it’s a great show.  And maybe it is.  Just not for me.

Try instead: re-watching Billy Madison for the 40th time, getting made fun of for watching Lie to Me,  reading until my eyes accidentally close and I lose my page from dropping the book on my chest.

Cats

Listen, you and I both know cats stink.  They’re detached and sociopathic little bastards.

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They’re judgmental, selfish, and arrogant.  Did you just say “takes one to know one?”  If not, then you must also hate cats.  Good choice.

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Try instead: dogs, bunnies, sharks, active yogurt cultures, making actual friends.

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After a seven-game win streak, the Redskins beat their division rival to win the NFC East for the first time since 1999.  My Facebook feed lit up with shocked and overjoyed Skins fans.  This was like the Taylor Swift of playoff runs.

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It’s a feel good story, and as a dejected, agonized Jets fan, I need something to feel good about other than firing Mike Tannenbaum and Tony Sparano.  I need a team to root for in the playoffs.  And it would have been the Redskins if something better hadn’t happened:

Adrian Peterson fell short of breaking Eric Dickerson’s single-season rushing record.  By 9 yards.  Nine.  Single digits.

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Are you a sadistic wretch?

Now, I know you think I’m drunk off Haterade.  I know it sounds like mean-spirited schadenfreude.  But, you have to believe me, it’s not.  I love AP.  I have a big, fat, jersey-chasing crush on him.  I mean, look at this man.

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He’s an MVP candidate.  He’s physically flawless.  He’s excellent at his craft.  And he’s not even a jerk.  Adrian Peterson is a bonafide good guy.  He’s damn near perfect.

So if you like him and he fell short, how is it the best sports story of 2012?

Here’s why.

Someday, you’re going to have a son and he’s going to play football.  And he’s going to be good.  Damn good.  As a running back, he’ll be a man among boys.  He’ll be fast, strong, slippery, and agile.  Virtually unstoppable.

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Your son will be picked 7th overall in the NFL draft.  He’ll go to a freezing cold Midwestern state where they have accents like oh-Bobby- don’tcha-know.  He will be surrounded by very nice white people who are sick of Brett Favre.

Your son will only get better, faster, and stronger.  He will work his tail off.  He will rush for an obscene amount of yards per carry, per game, per season.  He will make fantasy owners sing “Dream Weaver.”

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Every opposing team will focus its defense on containing him, which will open up passing lanes for receivers and make his quarterback look like a first-rate game manager (even if he’s actually Christian Ponder).

Your son won’t complain about his number of carries.  He won’t blame his teammates, coaches, or officials when the game doesn’t go so well.  He won’t do idiot things off-the-field that jeopardize his health and well-being.

He will be everything good and pure and whole in sports.  He will be good for the game.

Oh, I see.  Adrian Peterson is your protagonist.

Bingo.

The day after Christmas, he will tear his ACL and MCL.  It’s going to be devastating.  He’ll schedule immediate reconstructive knee surgery.  People will talk about how he’ll never be the same, how he was always injury prone.  They’ll wonder if he’ll be back for Week 4, Week 6 of next season?   Should he even bother?

But he’ll rehab like a motherfucker.

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By the time camp comes around, he hasn’t lost a step.  He’ll be back, at full strength, by Week 1.  It’s not a miracle.  It’s Adrian Peterson.  You should know this by now.

The Vikings’ season will have its ups and downs, but the one constant will be AP.  He will go H.A.M. week after week, and by mid-season, Eric Dickerson’s 28 year-old single season rushing record will be within reach.  He’s going for it.  He wants it.  He wants it badly.

Skip ahead to Week 17.  He’s so close to this record that Eric Dickerson can’t bear to watch the game (cut to 4:13 to hear him say so).  I mean, it’s right there.  If AP has an AP day, we might see history.

After all he’s been through, this story just wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t break that record.

Now, hold up.

What’s the point of the game?  What’s the objective?

To win.

So how about this sweet little twist?  If the Vikings win this game, they go to the playoffs.  And if they lose, their season is over.  This is high stakes.

The score is tied at 34-34 with 0:04 left on the clock in regulation, and the Vikings have the ball on the 11-yard line.  They could run one more play, hoping AP will make it to the endzone, get his record and send them to the playoffs.  If it doesn’t work out, there’s always overtime, right?

But that’s idiotic.  That’s poor management.  That’s selfish.  And that’s not how you win football games.

Instead, the Vikings drill a 29-yard field goal to win the game 37-34 and go to the playoffs.  Our hero and protagonist walks off the field victorious but nine yards shy of his personal record.

It’s so bittersweet that it’s almost tragic.

Life’s like that, isn’t it?

I really thought this story would be about personal achievement and triumph over adversity, but it revealed what we often forget about professional sports:

There is no “I” in team.  Fantasy stats don’t count.  And the best players in the game play to win.

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Isn’t it poetry?  It’s just about the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard.

And because of Adrian Peterson’s grace, talent, and because he has a sick body, I am riding this Viking ship until the fat lady sings.

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In a previous post, I spent a good 1500 words trying to explain that people who like cats and winter have it all wrong.  This week, I’m spreading positivity.

I don’t have a lot of love in this cold heart of mine, but it seems that what little I have is spent on things that no one else cares about.  I’m not going to use cheap stunts like showing emaciated doggies while Sarah MacLachlan whimpers over a piano.  Not my steez, bro!  I’ll just blog about it.

I can’t understand how people have completely ignored these most tremendous things.

MTV’s The State

At eleven years old, I wore a lot of backwards hats and looked alarmingly like Clarissa.  As you can imagine, this took its toll on my social life.

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Fear not!  Your esteemed narrator found solace in The State, a sketch comedy show that you may never have heard of, and if you have, you probably thought it was idiotic and strange.  Is it any wonder I love it so much I wanna dip my balls in it?

MTV’s The State featured a bunch of obscure weirdos like Ken Marino, Michael Showalter, Thomas Lennon, David Wain, Ben Garant, Kerry Kenny-Silver, and an adorable 22 year-old Michael Ian Black.  Now, these weirdos write and star in 30% of the box office comedies you watch religiously.

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The sketches never had a perspective like Chappelle’s Show.  They weren’t topical or current like SNL.  And they didn’t suck like MAD TV.  The State paid the rent by being nonsensical and silly.

Like when the hosts at a dinner party serve freshly-caught Muppet.  Or when Captain Monterey Jack passionately explains the perils of not tying your shoes.  Or, the beloved “Louie, the guy who comes in and says his catch phrase over and over again.”

It may be as off-beat as the crowd at a Florence and the Machine concert, but absurdist humor is my favorite.  And no matter how few people celebrate its premiership, The State is the zenith, the tippy top, the #1 stunna of absurdist humor.

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Math

I used to be one of the people who thought math stunk.  I thought it was super boring and really hard.  I acted like math was this rabid, maniacal beast with its teeth bared and heart set on destruction.  It’s such an unfair reputation.

Math is awesome.

Math makes you think analytically.  It requires logic and clearly-defined processes.  But just when you think that’s so dry and prescriptive, it’s also mystical.  Are you telling me that the Fibonacci sequence and Golden ratio aren’t mind-blowing?  MATH EXISTS IN NATURE.  How fucking cool is that?

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And why does math exist in nature?  Because math makes sense.  Because things that make sense survive.  Because bees build honeycombs in hexagonal shapes because it’s more efficient.

Math is common sense.  Math is reason.  Math is argumentation and precision.

It’s funny how many problems would be resolved if people just cared more about math.  The line at Chipotle would move more quickly, there would never have been a housing bubble (and it definitely wouldn’t have burst), and this shit wouldn’t have happened.

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Math isn’t the problem, dummies!  It’s the solution.

Carpet

Let’s avoid the annoying lesbian accusations and euphemisms.  We can just assume your jokes were hilarious when I said “I prefer carpet.”

When prospective homeowners walk into a house and see carpet, they get all snooty and particular.  They scrunch their noses, say the words “I don’t know,” and shrug disappointedly to describe how they feel about it.

I just don’t understand the irrational boner for hardwood flooring.  The hard wood for hardwood, if you will.  Yeah, it looks nice.  But it is cold as a motherfucker.  It gets scratched, dinged, and sticky.  If you’re not Tom Cruise in Risky Business, hardwood offers very little substantive benefit.

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It’s like this.  When I was a freshman in college, I took plant biology to fulfill CORE requirements because it was easy.  My first day of lab, I sat next to E.J. Henderson, who was about as enthusiastic about being there as he was for taking this picture.

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But I was nineteen and thought it would be cool to have E.J. Henderson as my lab partner.  It was a conversation piece for parties.  ”My lab partner E.J. and I,” I could say.  ”When E.J. and I were dissecting monocots,” I could boast.  And everyone would be so impressed.

But here’s the real deal.  E.J. Henderson was not a good lab partner.  I don’t even think I’m sullying his good name.  Dude had no interest in plant biology.  He was leaving to go to the NFL.  I just didn’t realize at the time that just because something is cool, it may not be the best choice.

When your dog wants to lounge around or when you have so many guests at your house that they can’t even fit on your couches, they sit on the carpet.  No one is looking for a cozy spot on the hardwood.  Why is that?

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Because carpet is plush and cozy.  Carpet wants you to walk barefoot — it never gets sticky or dewy or cold.  It adds color and texture to a sterile room.  It has looks and personality.  And look, I’m no dirtbag, but carpet even lets you hide dust or crumbs until a more convenient time for vacuuming.

Carpet is just generally helpful and nice.  Carpet is a much better lab partner.

Grammar

u don get 2 rite lik this.  Not in emails, not in Gchat, not on Facebook, not in text messages.  YOU DO NOT GET TO WRITE LIKE THAT.  There is no media in which that is acceptable.  It’s impermissible.  Those are barely words.  That is not a sentence.

“Why am I so goddamn uptight about this?” you ask.  Because I love grammar.  I think it is so incredibly important.  It’s the keystone to successful communication, which is one of the few things that actually distinguishes humans from the rest of the animal kingdom.  And I have news for you.  The way the AP Stylebook has dropped the Oxford comma and we all overlook the glaring misuse of apostrophes, we’ll be lucky if primates don’t surpass us before the next iPhone hits the market.

Ultimately, it comes down to this:

“Proper punctuation is both the sign and the cause of clear thinking. If it goes, the degree of intellectual impoverishment we face is unimaginable.” — Lynne Truss, Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation

I’m not unreasonable.  I don’t expect everyone to know the difference between less and fewer.  I don’t stop the conversation to explain subject-verb agreement every time someone says, “Everyone keeps talking about their favorite football team.”  (It’s his or her.  The noun is singular.   Yes, “everyone” is singular.)  I don’t throw a flag when someone doesn’t know the right time to say “John and I” versus “John and me.”

Those are nuanced, complex applications.  And while I’m definitely wincing in discomfort at every missed comma, I realize that’s unfair.  I don’t expect perfection, I just can’t accept complete bastardization of English.  That lazy approach to language makes it challenging to read, difficult to understand, and impossible to communicate.

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Hell yeah I have a red pen.  I brandish that thing with no regard for your fragile self-esteem because I’m on a quest to defend what is sacred.  I take no prisoners.  Grammar is not optional.

* PS – For all the readers out there, if you ever have something you’d like me to edit, it would be my pleasure.  My sick, sick pleasure.  I love editing.  

Sweating

And, to make a long story short (too late!), I like sweating.  I think sweating is awesome.  It validates any activity and makes me feel accomplished.  Like I really did something.

I think sweat makes people look attractive, and apparently so do a whole bunch of Pharrell’s beats.  Because you can’t shake your ass or moneymaker without getting a little sweaty.  Right Nelly?

Right Britney?

And it’s not just Pharrell.  Sweating is the jam.

C+C Music Factory gets hella serious about it.  I’m gonna make you sweat till you bleed?  That’s no joke, guys.

And I’m looking in your big brown eyes, Inner Circle.

Here’s the real deal.  If you’re not already up and dancing to this sick playlist, sweating in your office, cubicle, or bedroom, then you and I are just different.

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There’s always been something special about the position of quarterback.  We’ve built storylines around him.  We can’t “Remember the Titans” without Sunshine.  ”Varsity Blues” made us believe that Dawson might not be a pussy.  And Friday Night Lights gave us the Holy Trinity of Jason Street, Matt Saracen, and Vince Howard.

It’s the most glamorous position in all of sports, 90% due to the huge responsibility on a quarterback’s shoulders.  But the other ten percent?  It’s because QBs are notoriously dreamy.

I’ve grouped the NFL’s starting QBs into four tiers of attractiveness, and to keep it short and sweet, I’ve written a haiku distilling each QB’s appearance into a little 5-7-5 rhythm.  Today, the hottest of them all.  Tier 1, the Actively Hot Dreamboats.

Mark Sanchez, The New York Jets

Dark skin and light eyes
A body that just won’t quit
(Maybe it should though).

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Cam Newton, Carolina Panthers 

My God!  Those dimples.
My fantasy team comes true
Wham Bam, Thank You Cam.

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Brady Quinn, Kansas City Chiefs

John Hughes should cast him
As the jock who steals the girl.
Take your shirt off, bro!

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Tom Brady, New England Patriots

Despite his butt-chin
Even Jets fans can agree:
Dude is fly as hell.

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Josh Freeman, Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Last year was awful.
Now that you’re toned, I sweat you
And dig your fro-hawk.

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Colin Kaepernick, San Francisco 49ers

Sensing a pattern?
Surprise!  I like the mixed dude.
But lose the goatee.

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Russell Wilson, Seattle Seahawks

Seventy-fifth pick?
What a money quarterback
Change found in the couch

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Robert Griffin III, Washington Redskins

A smile like Strahan’s,
The spaces make it better.
The braids have to go.

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Ryan Tannehill, Miami Dolphins

Blonde hair and blue eyes,
This guy played at A&M.
Can you say “typecast?”

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Today, haikus about the second hottest group of NFL QBs.  Tier 2, Average to Slightly Above Average Dudes.

Drew Brees, New Orleans Saints

Fit, kind eyes, nice smile.
He looks like a gym teacher.
Is that an insult?

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Michael Vick, Philadelphia Eagles

Almond eyes, square jaw.
Since I hate the word ‘sexy,’
Just a handsome dude.

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Jake Locker, Tennessee Titans

This year Jake looks worse.
Cool it with the facial hair;
Boyish looks are best.

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Christian Ponder, Minnesota Vikings 

Wow!  Nice head of hair!
Your eyes are close together –
Otherwise?  Way hot.

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Blaine Gabbert, Jacksonville Jaguars

His face might be nice
But I really can’t get past
Stupid ugly hair.

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Tony Romo, Dallas Cowboys

Beady eyes, thin lips.
So why is he in Tier Two?
Big ears are my thing.

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Eli Manning, New York Giants

Did you think you’d see
A high-ranking mouth breather?
“Little brother” cute.

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Sam Bradford, St. Louis Rams

Awe!  He’s so youthful!
Because I also have them,
I don’t mind big teeth.

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Some of these guys are getting homely.  Tier 3, hopefully these guys developed a personality to accompany their athletic talent.

Joe Flacco, Baltimore Ravens

You’re average, Joe.
But I have just one question:
What is your eyebrow?

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Ryan Fitzpatrick, Buffalo Bills

You’ve seen this guy, right?
Generic white bearded man…
But he’s from Harvard.

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Matt Stafford, Detroit Lions

Nice eyes and smile, but
I can’t forgive a fat face.
He’s got potential.

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Aaron Rodgers, Green Bay Packers

A doofy frat boy
Look at the size of that schnoz!
Double-check your face.

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Brandon Weeden, Cleveland Browns

Unremarkable.
Grow out of your baby fat
Harmless ginger dough.

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Matt Ryan, Atlanta Falcons 

Is that all you got?
Generic puppet person,
I’m bored by your face.

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Carson Palmer, Oakland Raiders

No WASP-y good looks?
A name like Carson Palmer?
I expected more.

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Good thing for shameless jersey-chasers, helmets, and money.  MY DEAR LORD.  Stay indoors.

Peyton Manning, Denver Broncos

Face fails to reflect
That you’re better than Brady.
Broncos?  Colts?  Horseface.

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Andy Dalton, Cincinnati Bengals

Bengals are orange;
Ginger angry rodent face.
Curtains match the drapes.

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Matt Schaub, Houston Texans

Boring, dark circles
Beneath his bored, distant eyes
A hairline retreats.

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Andrew Luck, Indianapolis Colts

Goofy can be cute,
But let us not forget this:
Neck beard is a choice.

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Phil Rivers, San Diego Chargers

You sniveling hog!
A dump truck filled with backwash
Please lose thirty pounds.

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Ben Roethlisberger, Pittsburgh Steelers

I hate your body:
An upside down bowling pin.
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Jay Cutler, Chicago Bears

A permanent frown?
Mediocrity shan’t be
So smug and dickish.

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John Skelton, Arizona Cardinals

I just need to know.
If inbreeding is outlawed,
What the fuck happened?

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I was wrong.

I know you’re all silently pumping your fist under your desk, thrilled that a smug(ly) know-it-all like me just said those three magical words.  I’ll let you have your moment.

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But for as insufferable as I am when I correct your inaccurate lyrics or explain the reasons that lactose intolerance is a fictional ailment, I’m not afraid to admit when I am wrong.  And I have been horribly, terribly, unbelievably wrong.  I’m a complete idiot.  I’m a bit ashamed, actually.

You see, I recently realized something.  I make myself suffer through the winter.  It’s my own fault.

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If I were on a red carpet and a reporter asked me who designed my pants, I’d have to say “Which ones?” because I wear running leggings under my jeans.  It’s bulky and unsightly, but so is Clay Matthews, and people still love him.

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I have a space heater breathing its delightful breaths directly onto my sneakers, but my toes are still frozen tater tots.

And if my hand accidentally touched your bare skin, you would recoil and ask me if I was a reptile or a corpse.  The good news is that I don’t like touching people, so you’re safe.

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I’ve considered not washing my hands after I go to the bathroom because the idea of subjecting my already chalky hands to another round of abuse seems cruel.  When I shake your hand, you’re actually meeting my alter ego, Ashy KeLarry.

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I don’t own wool socks or warm shoes.  I don’t have sweaters that fit me, so I rotate the same three hoodies all winter long.  My coat barely qualifies.  But it looks warm, and it was free, and it’s already mid-January so why would I go get a new coat?

Every year, I’m completely unprepared for winter.  Because I hate it.  Because I don’t like wearing coats or wool socks.  Because I think sweaters are frumpy and boring.  Because I’d rather spend my discretionary income on tropical fruits or neon bikinis or flights to Costa Rica.

My policy on the winter is to I pretend it’s not coming.  So when it comes — and it always does — I just kind of suffer.  Cold, miserable, and unprepared.

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It starts to sound like a right-wing religious demagogue.

I hate the cold.  It makes me uncomfortable.  It’s just not right.  Being cold is just not the Lord’s way.  I want to keep cold out of our community.  I don’t want them teaching about cold in our schools.  I want to dedicate my life to ending the cold.

It’s the same faulty logic as idiots who believe in abstinence-only sex education or that being gay is a choice.  We all live on this utopian island of denial, when we’re the ones who are wrong.  We pretend it’s not a force of nature.  We pretend it’s not biology.

Do you know how ashamed I am to be such a fool?

Winter isn’t coming.  Winter is here.  Buying a better coat doesn’t change the likelihood of cold.  It only makes me better prepared to face it.

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It’s winter and I’m cranky.  So, instead of writing the gorgeous prose that you and I both know I’m wont to do, I’m just over here waving my crooked finger like an angry old man.  I’m Fifty Shades of Gripe.  Shouting at you meddling kids.  

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But, look.  It’s fine to have a caustic side.  You can make a good living just swirling a glass filled with your own backwash.  Simon Cowell, Tony Kornheiser, this dreamcrushing old hag –

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– they’re all professionally cranky.  So I’m moving to join their ranks today.  Behold!  A list of things that are played out like a Phil Collins track on Lite FM.

Bacon.

Yes, bacon is delicious.

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But, dude, cool it.  It’s not as if bacon just got out of rehab or off parole.  It’s not like bacon just lost fifty pounds and paid off its credit card debt.  Bacon is not having some kind of awakening.  You’re not getting a second look at bacon.  Bacon is just being bacon.  Same guy he’s always been.

The sudden urge to celebrate bacon’s every move strikes me as forced, like the inexplicably trendy “You Go Girl” feminism of the late 1990s.  Like bacon is some kind of underdog in the fight of its life.

Answer these questions to identify whether you like bacon:

Q1) Are you Jewish or Muslim? [IF YES = go to Q1a, IF NO = go to Q2]
Q1a) Do you follow your religion’s antiquated food restrictions? [IF YES = does not like bacon, IF NO = go to Q2]
Q2) Do you have a mouth? [IF YES = likes bacon, IF NO = dead in a few days so who cares]

Guys, liking bacon is hard wired.  It’s nature.  It doesn’t make you unique or special or funny.  Do you need to constantly harp on how much you like bacon?

Bacon cupcakes.  Bacon flavored vodka.  Bacon wrapped No. 2 Pencils.  Bacon cards.  Bacon clothing.  Enough already.  Who are you?  Benjamin Buford Blue’s terrestrial business partner?

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It’s over the top.  It’s just too fucking much.  I mean, everyone likes pizza, right?  But do you see a bunch of defensive losers wearing pizza advocacy shirts?  Of course not.  Because pizza has enough self-confidence to just kind of ball out and be like “Whatever bro, take me as I am.” 

So, yeah, bacon’s great, but I’m throwing a flag.  The excessive celebration of bacon has to stop.  Bacon has been delicious for centuries.  Let’s stop treating it like it’s some novel innovation.

Making fun of women’s basketball

It’s May, and it’s too early to know who’s going to be in the pennant race, so you and your boys are enjoying open windows, grilled meat, flip flops, and inconsequential baseball.  It’s a great day.  At commercial break, the TV shows an ad for the upcoming Mercury vs. Storm game.  Suddenly, there are more snickers than Halloween on a Saturday.

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I don’t get it.

Are we still doing this?  We’re still making WNBA jokes?  It’s been 16 years.  The WNBA already has its learner’s permit and lost its virginity.  Sixteen years and dudes are still cracking the exact same jokes as when Seinfeld went off-air.  Coincidentally, the only jokes that are still funny after 16 years originated on Seinfeld.

I’ve tried to understand the rationale for hating on women’s basketball.  At its best, women’s basketball encourages young women to play, understand, and enjoy the sport (which pays dividends when your wives, girlfriends, and daughters would rather go to a game than to the ballet).  At its worst, women’s basketball is irrelevant and easily ignored.  There’s really no rational reason to be so salty about it.  So what’s with the animosity, fellas?

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Ohhhhh.  I get it.  You think — and I know because I’ve heard this 300 times — that because the women’s basketball team at your college practiced against a squad of five dudes and couldn’t even beat them, that they all stink.  You’re upset because here are these women who are not that good at something you love, and they’re getting publicity and a paycheck to do it.  You’re upset because you might be better than some of these women, and how are they playing professionally and you’re not?  You’re upset because you got cut junior year.  Because your wife earns more than you.  Because you don’t know if you’re saving enough for retirement.  Because your son is as unathletic and unremarkable as you are.  Because your hairline is receding and it takes you three days to recover from a workout.  But, come on, WOMEN’S BASKETBALL IS A JOKE!  They’re not even physical in the paint!   The passing is terrible!  And it moves too slowly!  How can a transition play take more than four seconds?!   They’re all just a bunch of ugly, hulking lesbians.  Life would be so much better if you fucking women would just leave the hard stuff — dunking, crisp passing, posterizing, pleasing a woman — to a real man.

Whoa.  That escalated quickly.  Take a deep breath.  Let’s unpack that.

You’re a little irrational and emotional right now, but I’m just going to explain something.  Sue Bird is not the reason your son won’t make the varsity team.  Thinking you could school Skylar Diggins won’t get your finances in order.

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Life is hard, bro.  I can’t help you with that.  That’s on you.  But these jokes about women’s basketball are clearly a red herring.  You’re impotent, aren’t you?  It’s OK.  It happens to lots of guys.

Wedding / Engagement Photos

While we’re on the subject of emasculating things, let’s briefly chat about your engagement photos.

I have to ask you and your beloved some questions.  Was that your first time wearing khakis on the beach or is that something you guys regularly do?  And that shot where you are pretending to laugh like lovers do — what was so funny?  Because I’m guessing it wasn’t actually funny.  I’m guessing you knew a camera was on you and wanted to look like you were having a gay old time.

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I know your big day is your big day, and I don’t mean to shit all over it.  I’m sure you had a lovely time and it was really special for you.  But it feels like every week, my Facebook feed blows up with the same album.  Lovers on the beach.  Lovers holding hands.  Just the girls!  Now, just the guys!  The bride staring into her flowers.  The groom getting his buttoneer pinned to his lapel.  The rings in focus with the rest of the bridal suite in a haze.  Now, 1-2-3, everybody jump!  Show the world how much fun you’re having in this very natural photoshoot.

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If all you want is to have beautiful, perfect photos that catch you looking your best, then you’ve succeeded.  The pictures look amazing — no doubt — but what do they actually capture?  Is that really how things are with you and your boo?  Or is that just Option C from your photographer’s cost estimate?

Because they are so formulaic and posey and routine, the photos don’t look like you.  They look like anyone and everyone else.  And if that’s the case, then why not save a whole lot of money on your photographer and just Photoshop your face on someone else’s head? 

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Look, we’re all grappling with our narcissism.  It’s fine — it’s why I have a blog.  Your thing is wanting to look flawless.  But I would just argue this.

There’s nothing intimate about perfection.  It’s cold, distant, and unrealistic.  It’s boring and flavorless.  It’s the opposite of what I’d hope a momentous personal occasion would be.  

If we’d all stop trying so hard to be picture perfect, we might actually be special.

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I don’t mean to cheapen this story.  The one in which the double-amputee Olympic sprinter, Oscar Pistorius has been indicted for murdering a woman in his home.  Details surrounding the death of Reeva Steenkamp are still murky, but we know she was killed by multiple shots from a 9mm pistol, and that Oscar Pistorius is the one who fired the weapon.

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I’m deeply sad to see an athlete that I looked up to – so determined and remarkable and actually heroic in his sport — is at best, fatally careless, and at worst, a monster.  It might have been an accident or it might have been on purpose.  I’m not sure which is worse.  It’s just absolutely terrible.

There’s nothing I can do that can have any impact on this event.  But what I can and must do is find a replacement for Oscar Pistorius on my Top 10 Hottest Dudes list.  If Chris Brown can’t be on my list, neither can Pistorius.  Those are the rules.

So what do I do?  Who gets the big call-up?

Do I go with Stephen Curry, the underdog who played at Davidson, only to become one of the NBA’s most consistent 3-point shooters?  With his babyface and perfect eyes and his chocolate milk (not to be confused with milk chocolate) skin.

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The uncanny ability to drain threes.  No.  Steph is great,  but if the underdog gets his come-up, then he loses one of the things I like most about him.  It’s a Catch-22.  It’s unfair.  But, sorry, Steph, you just missed the cut.  Stay hungry.

Or, I’ve always been a sucker for nerds.  What about that little up-and-comer Skylar Astin?  He’s got some decent dimples and an unexpectedly nice body.

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He looks like what would have happened if Luke Perry was better at algebra, and I like that about him.

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But, there are two huge reasons I couldn’t possibly let Skylar Astin make the list.

1) I can’t allow myself to have a crush on a dude named Skylar.  That’s just not right.
2) It would require admitting that I voluntarily saw Pitch Perfect, which is never going to happen.

What about Miguel?  I can’t shut up about that guy.  My iPod caught fire from listening too hard to Kaleidescope Dream.  Is that love?

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No.  Miguel has a skinny head and just plain isn’t fly.  He can sing his ass off, but it’s just not happening.

Ok, what about CP3?  I’ve always loved point guards, and Chris Paul might be the flyest one.

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He has a mesomorph build, light eyes, and went half on this precious little creature.

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Maybe it’s Chris Paul.  No.  It’s not Chris Paul.  It could have been Chris Paul, but it isn’t.  It’s like why chocolate chip aren’t my favorite cookie.  There’s nothing wrong with them, but oatmeal chocolate chip just happen to be better.

Alright, alright.  So I know this feels bandwagon-y, but there was no other way to find Colin Kaepernick.

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Clik here to view. It’s not like I only liked him when he went to the Super Bowl.  I picked Kap up as my backup fantasy QB about ten seconds after his first start for the Niners.  And boy, I really liked watching that stack of legs run.  He’s got my favorite build in the universe: long and lean, skinny but not scrawny.

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And his face is adorable, always wearing a mischievous grin, like the kind of guy who would have watched Dumb and Dumber 800 times and listened to “Medium Pace.”  I guess I’m saying it looks like we’d be compatible as like more than friends.  And dude could have played pro baseball.  But he didn’t.  Because now he’s the starting QB of the San Francisco 49ers.  The only reason it’s not Colin Kaepernick?  I don’t love tattoos.

So I’m still on the Kaepernick bandwagon, but you know what Outkast says?  Motherf*ck the wagon, come join the band.

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LOOK AT JOSH FREEMAN.  LOOK AT THIS MAN NOW.

Gone are the days when Josh Freeman looked more like a Bucs fan than their starting QB.  Now he’s got the chiseled features, the adorable fro-hawk, and the, GULP hip bones.

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It’s crazy.  He’s visibly a new man, and his QB stats this year would say the same.  It’s amazing what a little overtime in the weight room will do.

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Oh, and guess what else.  Josh Freeman isn’t just a cold-blooded, tiger-taming pop icon with a phony jheri curl.  He also loves soccer.  And Cristiano Ronaldo.  I think there’s something magical between us.

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Josh, come on up here and get your rose.  You’ve earned it.

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I can hear the waterlogged slurp of cars driving by on the street.  It’s less than a dusting so far, but the forecast calls for heavyish snow this afternoon.  I check the OPM website to confirm — our first and probably only snow day of the year.

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Unlike this delightful firefox, I waste no time at all celebrating. I don’t even attempt to go back to bed.  My greatest excitement is that I get to rock sweatpants all day, maybe even my space-themed feety pajamas if things get wild.  I might not bother to put on deodorant.  Who am I kidding?  I’m definitely not putting on deodorant.  Take me as I am — with the vague smell of yesterday.

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This is great.  This is going to be so great.  

At thirty, a snow day is an unexciting but functional marriage, together for the tax breaks and to divide the chores.  But it used to be better than that, Snow Day.  We used to love each other.  There used to be passion.  There used to be snow suits.  We used to get Freezy Freakies.

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A snow day used to be this grand and fantastic occurrence that ambushed you from behind, gave you a hilarious wedgie, and then gave you the bigger half of its King Size Butterfinger. Better than assemblies or talent shows, bake sales or book fairs. Those clowns interrupted your school day, but you still had to raise your hand and stay quiet.  Your teacher still had her eye on you, and she probably collected your homework, a ditto on contractions.

But not on a snow day!  It was the greatest surprise in the history of school, aside from Friday night rollerskating or after school intramurals.  Ok, or field day.  But field day is like, some next level shit.  

There weren’t many opportunities to align with our teachers — we stood at odds on important issues of the day like running in the hallways, throwing solid objects indoors, and whether or not cursive was stupid.  But snow days?  No-brainer.  Unanimous support.  

When the forecast called for snow, no one in all of Applegate School was more enthusiastic than Mrs. Summonte (or Miss O’Grady if you knew her before she married our gym teacher).  She’d gather all the first graders in an impromptu, top secret, super important meeting.  No one spoke out of turn because it seemed serious and grave.  And when she told us that we were going to do a Snow Dance, you’d have thought she told us that Splinter had been kidnapped by the Foot Clan.  We would have done anything to help.

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It was easy to fit all sixty of us around the class piano because our classrooms had an open layout.  Our school was organized in “pods,” alcoves with desks in them, separated by walls but no doors.  Peninsulas of learning, if you will.

Mrs. Summonte would pass out a few maracas and tambourines.  She’d pump her fists slowly to signal the rhythm.  Mrs. Paradiso, who was cool but maybe not as fun as Mrs. Summonte, on the piano, playing low notes that kept time.  On beat, Mrs. S said the word, starting with a whisper.  Snow.  And then again.  Snow.  As first graders, we didn’t always catch on that quickly, but this one was pretty simple.  Snow.  Snow.  Snow.  We did the single clap on beat, getting louder and louder.  Faster and faster.  And then, after a minute of chanting like the roof, the roof, the roof was on fiyah, Mrs. Summonte opened her eyes as wide as could be and drew her hands into two closed fists.  It was over.

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“Now, whatever you do, don’t say the ‘S’ word for the rest of the day or it won’t happen,” she told us.  We were six years old and we believed.  We believed so hard.  We told the fifth graders on our bus to be quiet.  To stop saying the ‘S’ word!  And they laughed because they knew a different ‘S’ word.  But we were serious!  We didn’t want them to ruin all our hard work.  We didn’t want them to disappoint Mrs. Summonte.

Snow days meant hot cocoa and snow suits.  Walking to the Ruzga’s house and sledding down Mount Ruzga and eating grilled cheese while we put our hats and gloves in the dryer.  We’d never last the full 60-minute dryer cycle.  We’d pull our clothes while they were hot but still damp, almost steamy.  To protect our feet, we wore two pairs of socks and lined our boots with plastic grocery bags.  To be honest, I don’t think it ever really worked.  But no one cared!  It was a snow day!  To care was opposite the point!

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We didn’t notice if it disrupted our parents’ work schedule, didn’t care about the dirty mounds of snow piled in parking lots for weeks.  We wanted it all.  We wanted it now. 

For adults, snow days are born of liability, so no one gets hurt or sued.  We work from home; we multitask.  We catch up on laundry.  We get a few extra winks of sleep and maybe deep condition our hair.

As I stir the big pot of spaghetti sauce that I’ve already planned to freeze in smaller containers, I no longer wonder what kills the magic. Pragmatism.

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The Boston Marathon is the gold standard of marathons.  It’s for elites and thoroughbreds.  It’s for the strong, the fast, and the steadfast.  For all those who believe that you don’t just get the neon jacket.  You have to earn it.  

I’ve only run Boston once.  It’s among the most notable achievements in my running career and a constant source of motivation and inspiration.  I have to get back there.  I have to BQ.  I need to get back across that finish line to catch the elusive unicorn.   

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For an unknown and certainly unjustified reason, the Boston Marathon was attacked today.  I am disgusted and angry.  But more than that, I’m deeply sad.  Hurt.  Confused.  Why did this happen?  Who would do such a thing?  Why target this event?

These are my people.  We, the runners.  Sweaty overachievers who train for three or four months just to cross that finish line.  We are gritty and unglamorous.  The wiry men with chicken legs and the wholesome girls with flat chests.  What the hell did we ever do to you?

People died.  Families and friends waving supportive posters.  Grimacing runners with 26 miles behind them and only glory in front.  These are the people who were injured or killed.  It’s obviously stupid to give advice to heinous, evil criminals, but you’ve got the wrong guys.  These are the good ones.  

We don’t yet know who did this or why.  But what we do know is that the Boston Marathon is a great race in an even greater city, and that those of us who have climbed the ruthless miles of Heartbreak Hill surely have the tenacity to fight through the pain.

I will be back, Boston, and so will you.  

—————————————————–

I’m going to put down some quality miles tomorrow and encourage you all to do the same.  Lace up and get out there. 

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You called me this morning
(I’d been up since five)
To invite me to dinner
To talk ’bout our lives.

You said “How are you?”
I said “Get to the point.”
“Would you like to have dinner
At that new Spanish joint?”

“That new restaurant?
That requires a waiter
And I don’t have the bravas
To wait for potaters.”

“Ok, then at my house
Does that work for you?”
I sighed, “I suppose,
But I’ve so much to do.”

“I’ll make us fajitas
That ought to be quick.”
I wrote in my calendar
Dinner at SIX.

“I’ll make guacamole.”
But crap!  I need limes.
Through the phone you keep talking
And wasting my time.

I’ve got so many things
On this week’s agenda
I’ve no time to hear
About dear cousin Brenda.

We get off the phone
And I look at my list
“I should have said no.”
As I pound my fist.

I’m racing the clock.
I’m fast but he’s faster.
It’s almost five-thirty?
Oh, what a disaster.

The base of my guac
Is a hard avocado
I put the “desperate”
In the word desperado.

I grind it all up
It’s not what I want though
I forgot to add salt
Y me falta cilantro.

Where does the time go
For the people who waste it?
Now I have to leave
And don’t have time time taste it.

I jump in the car
And press hard on the gas
How is modern convenience
Such a pain in the ass?

That red light turned green
Didn’t you see it?
HONK! “You’re a moron!”
Yeah, that must be it!

I drive past your driveway
Reverse, then I’m in it.
I knock on the door
Till you say “Just a minute!”

You whisk me indoors
And sit me at the table
You wag your finger at me
“Let me tell you a fable.

“There once was a girl
Who thought she had to hurry
She ran here and there
Her whole life, it was blurry.

“When she tried to look back
Well, the speed made her nauseous
I wish someone warned me
To be much more cautious.

“Don’t hurry too much,
Though you’re still in your prime
But life is too short
To care about time.”

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Sunday was warm in the sunshine, chilly in the shade.  So when I returned from the gym with the whole day ahead of me, I layered up and sought a place where the rays could wrap their tails around me and purr.

A park bench would be good if there weren’t so many trees.  Too many trees, what a tragedy.  A rooftop would be ideal, but I live on the ground floor in a modest building.  Forgive me, a mere serf in this kingdom.  So where can a girl catch some sunshine without walking to the Carolinas?

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Well, I know it’s unconventional, but there’s this parking lot next to my building.  It’s more of an abandoned field than a parking lot, but on Sundays the churchgoers drive in with their sedans and give purpose to this grassy plain.  And being a Sunday, that made it a parking lot.

I’ve got a small beach chair that hibernates next to my washer and dryer for the winter, so I took her outside to stretch.  Along with my laptop and a couple undercooked ideas, I sat down in the parking lot and  just started typing, because, why not?

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It had been a confusing week for a variety of reasons.  I had spent the beginning of it in Spain, where I had a transformational experience and begun to rethink my entire concept of life, success, and how to be happy.  I know that sounds dramatic, but I want to be honest with you.  When you’re alone with your brain for an eight hour flight, digesting twelve days in paradise and inedible plane food, shit gets real.  For a cold and logical robot, this is as close to romance as I get.

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In the same week, I had also seen the worst in humanity.  Watching the news unfold around the Boston Marathon bombing was surreal to watch from a Slingbox in Barcelona.  Nothing made sense.  Why am I here?   I had qualified for Boston, but the race had already filled up by the time I got my BQ.  Had I gained entry to the marathon, I wouldn’t have been in Spain at all.  I would have been in Boston.  So, round and round we go.  The incalculable luck of a race over capacity.  The serendipitous missed opportunity.  I’m still trying to make sense of the paradox.

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And though the little sunbeams made it hard to see my screen, I kept typing.  So many disjointed things firing through my mind, I could barely keep track of them all.  I felt like a chaperone on a kindergarten trip.  Every time I pulled one screaming kid back into line, another one would have to go to the bathroom.  It was worse than herding cats, and I hate cats.  Cats are truly awful.

It was vacation, so I hadn’t been keeping track of time.  Besides, it was six hours ahead, so I don’t know if the bombs went off when I was sunning myself on the beach in Barceloneta or eating the best tapas I’d had all trip.  But the idea of feeling safety and happiness at the moment that evil attacked the innocent?  While I don’t practice all the tenets of Catholicism, I sure know how to practice guilt.  It made me sick.

My thoughts darted between overjoyed and deeply hurt.  I typed about the gorgeous architecture and practicing my Spanish with benevolent cab drivers, bored shopkeepers, and anyone who would sell me jamón.  Then suddenly I’d remember the two ignorant fucks who decided to play God, stealing the life and limbs from innocent people who celebrated tenacity, strength, and the triumph of the human body.  The push-and-pull was exhausting.  

I had my back to the street so I could face the sun, but every so often I’d hear a peep over my shoulder.

“Enjoy!” a woman said as she strolled past me.  I hadn’t seen her approaching, and I was caught off-guard.  I think my response was one of those awkward laughs, combined with something completely inarticulate like “Yeah too!”  Whatever.  She knew what I meant.

“Just enjoying the sunshine?” asked a man.
“Trying to soak up as much as I can!” I responded.  He strolled onward, both of us smiling.

At this point, I realized that strangers were going to do this thing.  This thing where they talk to other strangers.  This crazy thing that happens when the season turns to spring, when the sun tells us it’s OK to take chances.  When we leave the house without an umbrella and walk home in the rain.  When we smile at people we don’t know because we just kind of felt like smiling, and they smile back because it’s time to thaw out.

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I continued to jot down my distracted butterfly thoughts, coming and going with the breeze.  I’d been chasing some ideas about how terrible humans are as a species and what a dickhead I am most of the time.  But nothing concrete took shape.  I was unfocused and undisciplined, not to mention impatient.  I should go to a coffee shop, I thought.  I’m wasting my time out here.

I explored some pretty obvious feelings of of misanthropy, which Wikipedia describes as “ the general hatred, mistrust or disdain of the human species or human nature. A misanthrope, or misanthropist is someone who holds such view or feeling.”  But with each happy stranger, I started to warm up a bit.

And then I wrote a poem about guacamole.  I’m not saying it was good, but it was something.  It wasn’t even supposed to happen.  It just fell out.  When the muses talk to you, sometimes they say weird things.

As I counted my cadence and thought of words that rhymed with avocado, a thin but otherwise nondescript man approached me.  ”I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said.  I assumed it’s because I was wearing orange socks with red sweatpants and carry a neon yellow bag.  Or because I was the lone occupant of a Cadillac graveyard.  Or maybe because that guy is a total creep.  Right?  I’m fashionably misanthropic, so that’s clearly on the table.  But hold on, stay with me.  There’s a moral in this story somewhere.

“You know,” he said.  ”Most people would see this run-down lot and think ‘what an eyesore.’  It takes a special mind to come out here and make it into something different.”

“As I try to put words on paper, let’s hope you’re right,” I said, brushing off the compliment.

“No, I mean it.  I hope you don’t mind, I took a picture of you,” he said.  And then, asking for my work email address, he sent it to me with the subject line “Photo of a visionary.”  As if my ego needed any more stroking, right?

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Go ahead and call him a creep.  Go ahead and say he was trying to spit game.  I’m choosing not to think that.

Because perhaps it is all in how we see it.

I’ve felt bipolar for the past week, trying to sort out the good from the bad.  Trying to make sense of whether it’s OK to feel happy or ungrateful to feel sad.  But maybe it’s not worth the hassle.  I’m not saying ignorance is bliss; I don’t believe that.  But maybe it’s too easy to focus on the shadows and miss the sunshine.

Perhaps the people running toward chaos are the ones I should observe, acknowledge, and admire.  Perhaps the ones who turn terror into hope are the only ones worth noticing.  The ones who smile at strangers.  The ones who take a chance in telling you that you, sitting amidst the weeds and dandelions, might have a touch of inspiration.  The unknowing strangers who put your faith right back together.

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Humans.  The best and the worst of all living things.  We live and die together.

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I returned from Spain and promptly posted vacation photos to Facebook with my buck-toothed grin even hammier than usual.  I glowed with the bright red blush of Jamón Ibérico, after consuming enough thin pig sheets to wallpaper a bathroom.  Giant naked pig legs dangled in almost every storefront, showy and vulgar like a red light district.  I salivated and dropped €2 coins, carrying on like homina homina homina. What a disgusting pervert.  I guess the good news is I don’t ever have to visit Amsterdam, but I should probably visit a cardiologist.  

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I tell you.  People rave on and on about the health benefits of a Mediterranean diet, so I’m both confused and happy to report that apparently you can eat all the ham and cheese you want.  And in the words of the talented Liz Lemon:

I learned even more lessons in Spain, some profound and others just dumb conclusions based on a very small sample size.  As someone who started my professional career with a heavy dose of statistics, I happily admit that I’ve got no business making broad cultural claims based only on my twelve days in two cities.  But it was twelve solid days worth of sopping up the culture with the crust of my pan con tomate, dabbing the plate and signaling for the check while trying not to sound or look too American (and failing).  So believe me or don’t.  I can only tell you that I saw and heard and felt something very special in Spain, and that I now have a severe and fiscally dangerous case of wanderlust.

Statistically Unreliable Lessons

• I am both better and worse at Spanish than I thought.  This is great news.  Somewhere, Rebeca Moreno, my college Spanish teacher, is smiling in delight – mostly because she’s adorable and perfect, pero también porque ella me enseño español con éxito.  I think.
• No matter where you go, pigeons and French teenagers are gross and annoying.
• The difference between my fluency in Spanish when I’m tired compared to when I’m rested is like noche y día.  When I’m tired, I have neither the courage nor faculty to produce coherent sentences.  When I’m rested, I’m a diligent little robot with artificial intelligence, planning a benevolent world takeover.
• When people say to “dress in basics” so you can rotate the same items and have a different look, I never really understood that.  I prefer dumb, literal graphic tees that provide context clues about my comically loud personality, such as the one I’m wearing now, which has a cookie and a carton of milk holding hands and declaring their love for each other.  Subtlety has never been my strong suit.  But guys, when I packed for this trip, I did it with solid color shirts in varying shades of white and black and blue.  I wore the same three items like eighteen times in a row and no one was the wiser (until now).  Pretty smart strategy, guys!

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• If I moved to a Spanish speaking country, I would take cabs everywhere.  Not because I’m scared of public transit and not because I’m lazy.  But rather because cab drivers are the best audience for a chatty nerdbot.  And everybody wins.  The cabbies and me, we’re equally needy of meaningful human contact, afraid of awkward silences, and eager to talk to people.  It’s perfect!  In related news, cabbies in DC continue to be the worst service providers and human beings in the universe.
• If you just talk to people… if you just try… they’ll like you so much more.  I think this is a universal truth, not just when you are not a native speaker.  Being shy or reserved is so boring.
• I like to think that I’m cautious about love.  But boy, do I fall hard and fast for new cities.  Be still, my beating heart.  I LOVE YOU BARCELONA!  I’M COMING BACK FOR YOU!
• I like men before they have a chance to try.  When they’re in public with their parents or jogging angrily because they forgot an umbrella.  One morning, I went exploring in Las Ramblas and saw a twentysomething man chaperoning a sea of elementary school kids.  He was up to his neck in questions, holding hands with a boy on his left and a girl on his right.  With his baby face, dark spiky hair, square jaw, and athletic build, dude was already crazy hot and checking every box on my survey.  But this was some next level shit.  He smiled, kind of embarrassed of his situation.  Aaaaand I blushed for the next eleven blocks.  If you want to make my heart race, do less.
• I could more easily live in Spain than most English-speaking countries.  Before you roll your eyes and call me a pretentious twat, I need you to understand why.  I firmly believe that I could make it through the discomfort and challenges of learning Spanish.  I also firmly believe that a car would run me the fuck over in England, South Africa, Australia, and so on.  Language – I can learn by practice and making mistakes, but the instinct to look left at intersections is one mistake away from DEADSIES.

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• Spanish dudes are not afraid to hold eye contact with a woman.  Holy smoldering eyefucks, Batman!  I was 0-45 on accidental staring contests.  I’m not sure where they get the confidence, but it’s audacious and bold and wicked hot.
• They don’t make legs like mine in Spain, and I got the commensurate confused stares to prove it.  Wage said it was because I was wearing shorts, but I don’t agree.  I’ve seen that look before.  It’s the look that screams “Shawtaaaay!” from the window of a car moving through an intersection.  I’m convinced I would not fit in any pants in Europe.  These women have some skinny bird legs.  
• In related gigantic leg news, I ran almost every morning of the trip.  More morning runners in DC than Barcelona.  Then again, DC is naturally uglier than Barcelona so we have to work harder, don’t we?
• “Unnamed sources” note that Catalan people are known for being “grumpy and incompetent.”  Maybe so, but those people know how to make jamón.
• When I don’t know what someone is saying, I smile a lot.  I believe this is good manners because who would want to help a sad or angry nincompoop?
• Anyone who believes that if you’re in America you should immediately speak English and only English is a jingoist idiot loser.  Straight up.  You people sicken me.
• Being blonde is a dead giveaway that I’m not from these parts.  Not that this rubia is complaining…
  
• According to Barcelona, rollerblades are back in!  Also, this guy doesn’t give a WHAT.

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• I didn’t brush my hair all week and it looked pretty fucking awesome.  Look out world!  I’m compromising my hygiene again!
• They really don’t drink water in Spain, and they sure don’t give it to you free with your meal.  In related news, beer and wine are as cheap as water.  In related news, this is personally inconvenient for me and I’m seeking reparations.  And by that, I mean I’m depleting the Ferraros’ supply of ginger green tea.
• Why is it that being a tourist is so exquisitely embarrassing?  There is really nothing that feels less cool than being a tourist.  As someone who has never hurried to fit in or worried about standing out, my God, there were times I wanted to throw my camera into the bushes and evaporate.
• It makes no sense at all, but there is nothing more purposeful than getting lost in a new place.  I don’t want a plan.  I don’t need a plan.  I don’t want facts, I want experiences.  If I can’t find my way home, I’ll just stay here and look at the beautiful Spaniards.

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A good family. Irish and Polish. A family will never fall apart because we aren’t built that way. We’re built to endure.

On both sides of the line, we survived by digging up potatoes and maintaining a perpetual and healthy mistrust of authority. We don’t ask for chapters in history books. We know who we are and we carry it with us because that’s enough.

Our Irish grandparents were firefighters and soldiers. Our families worked for every goddamn thing they owned. Strong Irish, brewed from dark tea leaves and steeped overnight. You’d call us bitter if we weren’t served warm or with all the milk and honey your little heart desires.

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Grandpa wouldn’t like it if you forgot the Polish. The only people physically and mentally incapable of pitying themselves. People who shrug at oppression, the rib-sticking heartache they don’t bother to show because it tastes better when tucked inside a pierogi. The word is stalwart. It’s the secret ingredient in kielbasa.

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Our ancestors gave us sturdy bones and backs. We see it every time we look in the mirror. Good posture to hold up our end of the bargain. Broad shoulders to carry the load. Big feet that keep us steady. Thick legs that don’t even fit in jeans. Strong.

We don’t whine. We suck it up. We eat our vegetables. We don’t care if it’s a little moldy or undercooked, we’ll eat it anyway. (OK, my parents won’t eat it, but Jillian and I will.) We don’t get sick, haven’t been sick in years.

We don’t know our own limits. We keep going and going and going. We stretch. We grow. We don’t break. No matter what you throw at us, we don’t break.

We fix things. We fix things before we call a handyman. We fix things that we have no business fixing. We fix things because we break them. We wear them out. We are imperfect and careless and human, but we always make right.

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We don’t tolerate stupidity. In fact, we don’t tolerate much. We roll our eyes and make comments under our breath. We tell you what we’re thinking because mystery and uncertainty are overrated. We play it honestly because sugar-coating is bad for your teeth.

We yell. We yell from the stands Dig, baby, dig! and Use your arms! until you break the record for most hits in a season or the 800m run. We yell through the house because it is more efficient than walking up next to you to ask Where are the paper towels?  If you walked past our house on a spring night with windows open, you’d assume hell broke loose, but that’s just our way of agreeing. Loudly. Because what’s the point of being on Earth if no one else knows you are here?

We fight. We disagree constantly. We get adamant. We say things we don’t mean. We hurt each other. We are stupid and wrathful and mean. We are human. Definitely human. And for that, and all the terrible things we said, we are sorry.

We laugh too loud. We get shushed and kicked out of bars. We shake our fists in the air and spit in disgust. We vow never to go back because if you don’t accept us, we don’t need you. We don’t need much of anyone. We have each other and that’s done just fine till now, thank you very much.

We think litigation is for cowards or the uncreative. We think that problems are solvable, and when they prove otherwise, vengeance is possible. We clean up our messes. We take responsibility and give credit. We do what we say we’re going to do. We are true to our word.

We don’t wear enough khakis to pose for a family photo. Besides, we believe in real moments. We don’t need a photographer to tell us to smile. We live at the beach.

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And we live for the beach. We don’t complain about sand. We like it when the surf is rough. We love the sun. And because we are more stubborn than Irish (though if you think those aren’t the same thing, then maybe you should ask the English), we don’t burn. We glow.

We ignore gender roles because they are stupid, but we use proper grammar because it matters. We believe spelling counts. We shun the passive voice. We reduce fractions and simplify equations. We care about principles even when it’s inconvenient. Have you met my dad? Then you already know. Especially when it’s inconvenient.

We pay no mind to convention. We don’t care if it’s never been done. We are a mix of confident and reckless, bordering on idiotic. But we’re willing to take our chances. We’ve lost and failed, but we’ve always been able to pick up the pieces (except when my mom threw that Jetsons diorama into the dining room because Jillian and I were fighting.  That was a lost cause.).

We shop clearance racks. We shop at TJ Maxx. We shop clearance racks at TJ Maxx. We cut our sleeves off and wear hand-me-downs. We wear navy with black because we felt like it. We are comfortably underdressed, but it has never been so prêt-à-porter.

We buy comfortable furniture and don’t mind that the house looks like people live here. Because people live here. I mean truly live here. We forget to use coasters. We put our feet on the coffee table. We decorate for Christmas. We don’t always take our shoes off.

We don’t golf. We eat adventurously. We would rather spend time than money.

We don’t worry because worrying makes everything worse. Worrying doesn’t help anyone. Worrying is boring. Worrying sucks the life out of things that are fun. We don’t talk every night because we are busy living. We know we can always call on each other, and yeah, maybe we take that for granted. But that’s the only thing we take for granted because we’re grateful for so much.

We don’t ask for favors.  We hate asking for help, but it’s always there if we need it. We are proud but not stupid. We don’t care who cries on whose shoulder. We aren’t keeping score.

We support each other, but we don’t protect each other. There’s a difference, you know? Because life happens no matter what you do. You can’t stop it. So we let things happen. We make mistakes. We figure it out. Sometimes alone and sometimes together. But we always figure it out because we have to. It’s in our blood. It’s who we are.

We struggle and overcome because we have strong backs and bones.  My family is built to last.

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I was on a bender.  So high on cotton candy and funnel cakes that I got a tiger tattoo on my arm.  It was my aunt’s company picnic, where I joined all the other normal kids in running around with a half-chewed hot dog in my mouth.  A little dirtbag maniac, giggling my head off until I tripped and landed in a heap at a woman’s feet.

I didn’t even know this lady, but when she asked how old I was, I proudly told her, “I’m nine.”  She squeezed my shoulder like she was Danny Tanner teaching one of the girls a very valuable lesson and then told me to tell my mom to be patient.  “You’ll grow out of it.”

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This incorrigible suburban busybody, waiting for her son to get out of the moonbounce so he could grow up to resent her, went on to suggest that my very conscious decision to dress like a boy — multicolored jamz, British Knights high tops, and a filthy Georgetown baseball hat — was just a phase.  That someday I’d get over it and become a real girl.

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I was still young enough to fear adults.  I hadn’t quite developed the “fuck you” reflex that now comes so naturally.  I curled my lip at her and decided against telling my mom (who thought I was the coolest kid in the world) that I would “grow out of it.”

I knew this lady was wrong.  And not just because she was a meddlesome idiot with a moderate to large FUPA.  Because I was a Conochan.  Because my mom would flex her muscles and shout, “No wimpy women in this house!”  Because my dad coached my softball team and we played Tinkertoys on the weekends.  Because I was as strong-headed then as I am now, and I wasn’t going to let this cud-chewing wench predict the future.

Oh, and also because I grew up as a little boy.  No, not like that.  There’s no Caster Semenya testosterone issue.  I never had a vestigial penis or anything.

I just… well… let me start at the beginning.

Meet Jillian.

Like any grade schooler siblings, my sister and I hated each other with a fire that burned like the chorus of a Johnny Cash song.  We couldn’t fight our inborn similarities — our blonde hair and blue eyes, good posture, buck teeth, and excellence in spelling — but we sure could fight about everything else.  So we did.  Our relationship was either an exercise in sadism or forgiveness because even though we hated each other, we started each day with no memory of our previous offenses, and would attempt not only to coexist, but to play.  As friends.  Because proximity and boredom are very strong forces when you’re a kid.

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Things escalated quickly, from annoying to teasing to threatening stuffed animals to wrestling holds.  I wouldn’t ever tell on my sister, but I would yell just loud enough for my mom to bark down the stairs, “JILLIAN!  Knock it off!”  I also learned a neat trick, extending and adding syllables like “Owww-UHHHHHH” to ensure that the enforcer had heard my despair.  I would smirk, but I forgot about the long game.  When you’re the youngest, you never really win.

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I never stood a chance.  Jillian had me bested in every category: she was older, taller, bigger, and smarter.  She knew every button and pushed them with no remorse.

When I was just a wee lass, Jillian would get the neighborhood kids to play a game called “Where’s Kelaine?” in which they would pretend they couldn’t see or hear me.  It shared none of the fun, prizes, or geographical quizzery of the similarly-titled “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” because the answer was always “Guys, I’m right HERE!” followed by foot stomping, screaming, and ultimately in the obnoxious personality and neon wardrobe that I carry forward today.

Jillian tried to foil all my plans, and I hers.  She was the Larry to my Magic.  The Dr. Claw to my Inspector Gadget.  The Kelsey Ellsbury to my unrequited crush on Jacoby Ellsbury.

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Jillian.  More rival than sister.  I had to get away.

Meet The Softball Team.

My dad’s softball team played all summer long.  Games every Sunday, followed by a smash up pool party with all the kids and wives and coolers full of domestic beer.  For the parents, Sunday softball parties meant eating Sabrett hot dogs (obviously with Gulden’s mustard), yelling at the kids not to run in the pool area, and jam sessions led by Tony’s acoustic guitar and an enthusiastic sing-along to “I Like Beer!” (It wasn’t until decades later that I realized that my parents were genuinely, actually, truly fucking cool.)  For us kids, it meant drinking Capri Suns, also eating Sabrett hot dogs, splashing WWF figurines (it was still WWF back then) into the deep end of the pool, getting splinters, climbing “the booby trap tree,” and singing “…it makes me a jolly good felloooooow!”

Fourteen mangy, suntanned kids spanning ten years and seven towns.  The Santiagos, Caseys, DePotos, Fischers, McCullions, Gonnellos, and Conochans.  Every Sunday, we’d dangle unsafely on jungle gyms, make “potions” in beer bottles, or fall off scooters and bleed everywhere.  Life was fucking awesome.

There were so many of us that an interesting social hierarchy developed.

Big Jeff

Members: Big Jeff.
Determined by being the oldest, loudest, and strongest.
Responsibilities: getting yelled at for not watching out for whoever got injured, teaching Kelaine how to fish, riding Kelaine on your pegs, buying and distributing gum to all The Kids.
Benefits: Big Jeff Always Goes First.

The Little Kids

Members: Shawn, Ryan, Lindsay, Steven.
The Little Kids were determined by asking, “Kelaine, how old are you?” and when I’d proudly declare, “Nine,” the eldest present male (usually Big Jeff) would announce “Ok, no one under nine allowed.”  The Little Kids could be easily identified by their whining, tattletale-ing, and tear-stained faces.  Which is exactly why they were banned in the first place.  When banned from our reindeer games, the Little Kids safely played house or searched for butterflies.  (Don’t worry, The Little Kids got their revenge by all growing up to be devastatingly good-looking.)

The Girls

Members: Lauren, Melissa, Jillian.
Because of successful marketing and that idiot woman at my aunt’s company picnic, girls prefer indoor activities like French braiding their hair, reading The Babysitter’s Club, putting stickers in SLAM books, doing cart wheels, and pretending that Lindsay was their baby.  If this sounds like an unfair characterization of what The Girls did, it’s because I’m mostly guessing here.  I really don’t know what The Girls did because (a) I was trying to get as far away from my sister as possible and (b) because I was busy assimilating into a much better group.  May I introduce you to…

The Boys

Members: Mike, Doug, Danny, Mikey, Brian, and Kelaine.
A bunch of monkeys constantly climbing trees, yelling, and throwing shit.  We played basketball and manhunt and “doggies.”  We picked our noses and farted because it was funny.  We splashed and got poison ivy and took our shirts off when we got hot.

Yes, even me.

One of the Boys

When I say I was one of the boys, I fucking mean it, dude.  Again, not biologically.  (I realize I’m not making this easier on myself.  This is how rumors start.  By the way, did you decide — because you are lazy, confused, or judgmental — that I’m a lesbian?  Because that’s also how rumors start.)  Stay with me.

On our annual multi-family vacation to Long Beach Island, my sister shared a room with my cousin Lauren.  They were the girls.  They brought their accessories in tidy Caboodles, met cute boys at Hartland Mini Golf, and caused car accidents because they were pretty (attention: this actually happened).

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Brian, Danny, and I buried each other in sand and wasted $20 in quarters trying to beat Revolution X, a video game that somehow included machine guns and Aerosmith.  They didn’t wag their penises and tell me “No Girls Allowed.”  They loved me.  We were best friends.  So I slept in the boys’ room because I was just like them.

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Notice me squeezed between Danny and Brian, shoving a Jem doll up my nose. Because this is how boys play with dolls.

Sure, I had girl parts, but I didn’t really see that as relevant except in choosing an appropriate bathing suit.  I sorted myself by where I truly belonged.  I knew who I was.  I was one of the boys.

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I still am.  

This isn’t some schtick I use to confuse men into thinking they should date me before I plug in my curling iron, complain about my hips, and sprinkle People Magazine all over their apartment.  It’s not something I do to be cute or accessible.  This is all I got.

I genuinely like sports.  I love sweating.  I’ve worn makeup exactly twice, and neither was by choice (face paint, however, I’ve worn numerous times — with panache!).  I carry a fraying neon yellow duffle bag, and I blush with embarrassment when people refer to it as a purse.  I don’t own shirts that could be called “blouses,” and when I wear heels, I look more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a torn Achilles tendon than a delicate flower.

In other words, I stink at this game.

I never bothered learning how to be a girl in the classical sense.  I was too busy playing football, catching turtles, and attending awesomely sweaty birthday parties at Grand Slam USA.  To give that up so I could learn how to accessorize, moisturize, and sympathize seemed pointless and socially bland.  So I didn’t bother.

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As I look back at my incident with that dumpy narwhal of a woman, I think I understand what she was trying to say.  I think she saw my plucky androgyny and thought that puberty would change things.  But she didn’t quite understand what I know so well.

Hating your sister is a phase.  Wearing shorts every day is a phase.  And resenting your boobs (when you had them) so much that you only wear sports bras until after grad school when you finally realize how a shirt is supposed to fit — is a very long, socially stunting phase.  

Phases pass.  But you can’t outgrow who you are.

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I hope you had a nice long walk down that aisle because when the DJ puts on some Kool and the Gang, commanding me to “Celebrate good times, come on,” it is a call I cannot resist.  You have officially handed over the keys to the spaceship.  You. are. not. ready.

The ceremony gets me in the zone.  I stand when I’m supposed to stand, sit when I’m supposed to sit, and clap when I’m supposed to clap.  It’s a ritual.  You see me meditating?  I’m visualizing success.

Even in the photogenic rose garden, I wear my cardigan and act reasonably.  I wave politely at casual acquaintances and tell your parents what a beautiful service it was.  But when the women in tuxedos start the hors d’oeuvres parade, I become blood-thirsty.  I’m a cold-blooded predator, and this whole fucking party is in jeopardy.

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I identify the hot spots and deploy immediately.  Soggy mushrooms in puff pastry?  Keep walking, sister; don’t waste my goddamn time.  I’m big game hunting, and I know someone in that room has mini lamb chops.  I engage some sucker in a conversation near the servers’ point of entry, staring through him when he tells me he has known the bride since kindergarten, but that’s not the point.  I am a defensive lineman with a nose for taking down the man with the pigskin, or in this case bacon-wrapped shrimp or barbecue ribs.  This is not a drill.

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Listen up, clowns.  If you’re waiting for the entree, you’re waiting too long.  I promise you, there will be nothing more delicious than the single-bite of seared tuna with wasabi, so make sure the lady with that tray knows you’re for real.  Snatch that shit with polite vengeance, and make sure you say thank you.  And take a goddamn napkin.  This is civilization.

By the time 8pm and the stacked catering trays roll around, you need to be fucking ready.  I don’t waste my time on totally underseasoned steak and boiled vegetables that taste like morning breath.  I’m out here plotting an inevitable mass homicide, but you’re too distracted by the table service to notice. Take it from a pro: when a wedding invitation asks for your choice of vegetarian, chicken, or steak entrees, just respond with a drawing of a stegosaurus with a boner.  You’re too smart for this shit.

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At some point soon, that DJ is going to switch over from classical piano to The Temptations.  He’ll grab the mic and ask us all to turn our attention to the dance floor, where the bride will have her last moment as the center of the universe.  The bride and groom will dance their first dance, followed by the awkward opposite-sex parental dance, which has an equal chance of being stoic and weepy.

But then I hear the deep, exaggerated voice of the DJ, and I know it’s time.  He’ll start with the oldies, but I’m not an idiot.  I take the floor immediately, in a land invasion that ranks somewhere between Beatlemania and Normandy in cultural importance.  I’m out there with the fifty-something moms who don’t give a fuck.  They’re not embarrassed to stomp their feet and get sassy to Aretha Franklin, and I promise you, neither am I.  They instantly love me, cherish me, take me as one of their own.  But while I do R-E-S-P-E-C-T my suffragette sisters, I know I will outlast them.  At some point, this DJ is going to put on some fucking Pitbull, and when that happens, they will be the first to go.  I have no mercy.

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Yeah, I’m a good dancer.  You’re going to tell me that, and I’m going to faux blush and say thank you, but I already know it.  It’s like when you tell the soloist at the choral festival that she has a beautiful voice.  Bitch, please.  How do you think she got the part?

The wallflowers already spot me, but too many people are at the bar getting their mixed draaaanks to notice that there is a hostile takeover under my feet.  They need to get a little tipsy before they cut loose.  One more vodka soda, to lower the inhibitions.  But I need to ask you something: what the fuck is an inhibition?  Never seen one, never had one.  Too busy lighting it up.

Someone call HGTV because I am absolutely demolishing this hardwood, and this whole house is about to get flipped.

By the time the sorority sisters have dragged their reluctant boyfriends onto the floor, it’s already too late.  Towering in stilettos, the best they can do is a step-together-step-clap, while I’m out here as sure-footed as a mountain goat.  You see, I’ve already changed into my dedicated dancing shoes, silver and sparkly and frenetic, like a torrent of hungry barracudas.  Between the rubber soles and my low center of gravity, no mere mortal can handle this.  God help you when the DJ throws on some Usher.

I already own Boardwalk and Park Place, but I’m a greedy real estate mogul, conquering this city block by block.

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A circle forms and a few jolly seals bark and amble through it, because I fucking let them.  I wait patiently for my time to strike, like a king cobra or a city garbageman.  What’s that?  Is that the sound of the crescendo?  Why, that’s my cue, ladies and gentlemen.  I step into the circle and pick people off like an assassin.  It’s called Big Dancing.  You better pray for an injury.

Dance like no one is watching?  When you’re made of lightning bolts, that’s not an option.  I dance like everyone is watching.

By the time the cake is served, the floor is already mine.  Circles have formed and broken, as have alliances.  By now, everyone is rooting for the underdog.  They’re looking for someone to take me down.  They’re tired of my malevolent rule, of my maniacal cackle as I crush dreams and sweat like a lunch lady.

There’s always one contender.  One brave soul, shouldering the hopes of all the minions.  Sometimes it’s a sweaty elfin dude, the kind who can do the worm or maybe even do a back handspring.  He may have signature moves, but they are no match for my repertoire.  You see, he will run out of ideas and steam, but I will keep going.  Besides, he has been drinking tonight, and I saw him eating the steak.  I’m straight zoning.

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More often, though, it’s the ballsy, awesome ten year-old cousin.  Pre-pubescent and basically genderless.  Sensible shoes and boundless energy.  Limber, agile, and up past bedtime.  No friends in attendance, just parents who are required to love unconditionally.  This kid’s got nothing to lose.

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I give time to work out the kinks because I don’t want anyone to question my mandate.  The kid wiggles and convulses, and the crowd loves it.  Everyone is so excited: we will crown a new champion, here and now.  But this little girl doesn’t know when the beat drops.  Or maybe this little boy accidentally trips over his growing feet.

But when I take the floor, there is no doubt.  I rotate and revolve.  I pop and lock.  And, in case that doesn’t move you, I krump like a motherfucker.

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My body gyrates like it’s creating its own G-force, and you can’t help but anchor yourself to me.  The kid had heart, but he’s no match for a cold-blooded killer.

There is no overtime, but there is sudden death.  There are no prisoners.  This is a massacre.

I take my place at the head table and look out over my kingdom, wiping my face with an unused cloth napkin.  I’ve established a New World Order.

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Be honest.  When the American Medical Association announced that it would begin classifying obesity as a disease, you thought of me, right?  You thought I’d go off on a rant, lambasting fatsos for their personal choices and scolding the AMA for giving an excuse, for making it easier to get coverage.*  You pictured me, gesturing with both hands and these strangely dark eyebrows, verging on despair.  In your head, you heard my New Jersey accent return in brute force (like it does whenever I yell), pointing out all of the faulty logic in such a decision, but mostly directing my ire and loathing toward obese people who need to get their shit together.  Because thanks to obesity, it’s too soon to make a James Gandolfini fat joke.  Oh, and now I’m the asshole?

So here’s the deal.  The way I feel about obesity already offends you enough.  I thought maybe it would be better to redirect my animosity toward an equally deserving group, who always seem to get away scott-free.  A bunch of jerks who keep a low profile, who may even be so bold as to hurl insults at the FUPA-laden tourists, the offensive linemen without the offensive line, or the Revolting Blobs wrestling with their weight and self-esteem.

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Those guys already know we’re talking about them.  But there’s a whole kingdom of people who don’t even know they are slovenly, phlegmatic, and gross.  Yeah, I’m talking about you, Skinnyfat.

Skinnyfat people.  The ones who don’t bother exercising because they assume they don’t have to work out to maintain a totally passable, even enviable, physique.  Skinnyfatties who can liiiike eat whatever they want because I don’t know, they just have a really fast metabolism or whatever.

Right now, as they’re reading this, they’re doing one of three things:

1. Nodding in agreement because they don’t know that I’m talking about them; or
2. Recoiling in horror because this is the first time they’ve ever considered that maybe it isn’t what’s on the outside that makes you healthy, but your habits; or
3. Scoffing like, “Bitch, you’re just jealous.”

I promise you, I’m not.  I’ve seen a lot of you after college.  And then you get married and try even less, if that’s possible.  Boys and girls, it does not get cuter with time.  It becomes more and more of a problem.  Those skinny ass legs might look great in light denim skinny jeans, but when it’s shorts season, girl I can see your calves wiggle with atrophy.  And dude, maybe your belly lacks the unsightly front porch that most of your frat brothers have, but when you take your shirt off, all I see are the first few moves in Connect Four. I’m talking about your rosy nipples and a flat board, bro.

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Every morning, I run past a bunch of people busting their asses just to maintain.  Just like me and everyone else who didn’t battle Persians in the movie 300, these people have some issues about their body.  Yeah, we’ve got some extra wiggle.  We’re thicker than we’d like.  Our arms are a little jiggly or we’re just generally round – just like our mom or dad.  But believe me, we are handling our goddamn business.  We know this shit isn’t easy.  We know that what we eat and how much we exercise have a direct impact on our health and well-being.  And so we keep on our grustle and hope to see and feel results.

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But you, skinnyfat?  You definitely die first in the zombie attack.  And you’re no help whatsoever in the case of an alien invasion.  You’re just deadweight, holding us back, hoping your good looks will save the day once again.   Thanks for nothing, you sinewy fuck.

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You may not remember when people say that thing like “It doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside; it’s what’s on the inside that counts” because you’ve always had the luxury of disregarding it. Wearing your slim-fitting suit or your size 0-2 dress, no one ever noticed that on the inside, you are beginning to atrophy and decompose like month-old steamed broccoli.

Over time, your inert, inactive body will start to manifest some symptoms, or maybe it already does:  No musculature.  No cardiovascular strength.  Terrible lung capacity.  Poor bone density.  A dangerously low or dangerously high resting heart rate.  Low blood pressure or high blood pressure.  Issues with cholesterol.  Maybe your back is sore or your “knees are shot” or you can’t run a mile.

Those sound familiar, right?  Like some fat guy, right?  But wait, you’re not fat, right?  You just looked in the mirror and you’re totally not fat.  So then how in the world…?

I know this is probably coming as a shock to you, but I’m only breaking the bad news because I care about you.  And also because you probably haven’t even considered the fact that while you may look great at 18 or 25 or even 40, someday your weak bones will give way.  And then you’ll be the one with the hunchback.  I’m not trying to spread panic, but it’s time that the skinnyfatties stopped coasting.

If you think that the visibly fat guys are the only ones who need to to get their asses out there and do something about it, then I’d like to take you fishing in the Sahara.  I’d like to show you Kim Kardashian’s post-doctorate thesis.  What I’m saying is that if you think you don’t need to work out because you’re naturally thin, then you’re a blazing fool.

Being naturally skinny doesn’t mean you get to stop trying.  It doesn’t mean you get to sit back and watch while the chubby guy from your office eats salmon and spinach for lunch and then gets his sweaty ass on the elliptical for 40 minutes, three days a week.  It doesn’t mean you can just make a sign to cheer on your roommate (the one with the unfortunate hips) as she runs her first half marathon, and maybe does or maybe doesn’t lose weight.

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It means you have a head start.  It means you’re privileged.  And just like Paris Hilton or Billy Madison or anyone else who inherited good fortune from her/his parents, it’s your responsibility to do something with that privilege.  So, go do something.

Start right now because it’s only going to get harder and worse.  It’s not going to be easy, and you’re not going to see results right away.  Trust us.  We know it sucks.  It’s going to hurt and you’re going to want to quit.  But I want you to remember that inside you lives a fat, lazy person who just happens to be lucky.

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* Look, I’m not an idiot.  I know the AMA made this decision to draw attention to obesity as a public health crisis and to make it easier to provide preventative care and treatment.  But I didn’t get my Master of Public Policy for nothing.  There are advantages and disadvantages to increasing access to care, and It’s too soon to know the intended or unintended consequences of this shift in position.  But if obesity rates decline by a statistically significant margin over the next twenty years, I will gladly remove my hat and sing hymnals praising the AMA.  While maybe I don’t understand the logic behind classifying something as a disease, I do commend AMA’s effort to do something.  It seems a  backwards and strange way to encourage behavioral change, but what do I know?  

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You live for the hard days.

The twenty-milers.  The burpees.  The tempo runs.  The in-and-out 200s.  The negative splits.  The push-ups and the lunges and the 400s.  The blisters, the bruises, the scars.  The agony.

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You live for this shit.

Finishing an already grueling workout, you arrive at the track with no shirt on, your feet throbbing and swollen like, well, a boner I guess.  The veins in your hands look like internet cables, carrying blood from your heart to your extremities like business-class broadband.

5G ain’t got shit on you.

When you cross the finish line, you are more aware than ever that it’s also the start line.  Your toes line up against the white stripe until you’re brave enough to lean forward, and with breaths that sound more like gasps, you pump faster and faster until you’re numb enough that you don’t feel it hurt anymore.

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You can quit anytime you want, but you don’t.

The friction burn beneath your sports bra is red and raw, the color of 90/10 ground beef, not fatty enough to make a good burger.  It’s tender now, but that’s nothing compared to how much it’s going to hurt when you step into the shower.  You will scream audibly, in a gorgeous but blood-curdling soprano.  It will be the first time you admit you feel pain, that you’re human, that forces of nature and physics actually do work against you.

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Until then, nothing can stop you.

You make friends out of enemies, building a tenuous alliance with the hot-tempered sun and the paranoid schizophrenia of darkness.  You let the rain pelt down on you like an angry kid throwing marbles.  You stare down the wind even when it blinds you with malice, sand, and cold so bad your eyes fill with tears.

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But you don’t cry.

Because you can’t.  You’re not built for that.  You’re built to endure, to persevere, to conquer.  When you flex in the mirror, out of both curiosity and vanity, you see lines and angles found in the geometry of great structures — bridges and tunnels and skyscrapers and cathedrals.  And if you look hard enough, you see pieces of your weaker self fall away.

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You have been vaporized and distilled down to your purest state.  You are at your strongest concentration, with nothing more and nothing less than your essential elements.  You are sweat and muscle.  You are grace and power.

You are fucking hungry.

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Your stomach takes you hostage and announces, in the form of a tremendous growl, that its demands are “one million handfuls of trail mix and a fucking turkey sandwich.”  You don’t usually negotiate with terrorists, but this guy seems reasonable.  You fuel him with lean protein and vegetables and whatever isn’t nailed to a table or filled with poison.  Cookies and milk, apples and peanut butter, spaghetti and meatballs. When you eat carbs, it’s like taking Communion.

Every day is a revival.

Your feet hit the pavement with the comforting rhythm and soothing melody of a church choir.  Breathing fast, your lungs open to sing their Hallelujah.  Some days, you speak in tongues, losing consciousness only to wake in a state of complete enlightenment.  The moment of gratification when you finish a workout and you’re so physically exhausted that you have to close your eyes.  That’s when the blinding pain becomes the blinding truth.

That’s when you see God.

And science: Darwinism, survival of the fittest, and the primal urge to exert, to compete, to win.  It’s in your biology.  You’re genetically wired to move, to resist, to fight, to run.  You don’t have a choice in the matter.  You must continue to pursue those moments of clarity that let you know why you’re alive.  For the rush, for the freedom, for the glory.

You live for the hard days.

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