Monthly Archives: October 2011

When you're 30 and a parent, making it rain isn't what it used to be.

Lately, I’ve felt very lonely, but it’s not a loneliness of solitude. I have many people in my life–my wife, friends, so many colleagues (I hate that word, but “homies” doesn’t seem quite appropriate.)–and most days my only time alone is spent in the bathroom, moments I savor more than you may even know. We live in a world of connectivity. You may be reading this because you saw that I posted about feeling lonely on Facebook, and you care enough that you want to know why and want me to feel better. Having nobody around is a welcome rarity, usually spent writing or listening to rap music at a volume that would make moms upset.

Part of this feeling of loneliness is because next week I am turning thirty, and as much as I’ve said to myself–and so many others–that I’m excited about it, the combination of becoming a parent and officially becoming “an adult” (For everyone who says thirty is the new twenty, I think my days of snorting prescription pills until sunrise while writing a term paper and then getting drunk after turning it in are long over.) makes me feel old–no, not just “old,” mortal. Some day my kid won’t have me around to dole out sage wisdom (“Snitches get stitches” and “Mo’ money, mo’ problems” are two axioms I intend on introducing to Baby Mac early in his life.), offer him relationship advice or let him cry on my shoulder, and although that’s a long time from now, especially if I keep on running, my own mortality becomes realer when I realize I’m no longer living for myself. Soon there will be a crying bomb of love Baby Bjorned to my chest depending on me and his mama to keep his belly full and butt clean, and keeping him alive, happy and on a path that doesn’t end in a facial tattoo are goals I must keep in mind when making any life decisions.

I don't care what you say: His parents fucked up.

Preparing to have a child is kind of like preparing to go camping for the rest of your life: you go through a process to gather everything and inevitably you’ll forget something (and you’ll smell like smoke and have to shit in the woods), but it won’t matter, you’ll make do, and really if you don’t get eaten by a bear, it’ll all be okay. That’s basically what it’s like having a kid. Mistakes will happen. Jaime and I won’t have or know everything we should. But if that kid doesn’t die because of our negligence or have more mugshots than yearbook pictures–doesn’t get metaphorically, or literally, eaten by a bear–we’ve had a good camping trip. It’s my number goal as a parent. (Number two being raising my son to be ambidextrous. I am so serious.)

Officially becoming an adult, on the other hand, has been more challenging. I’ve spent most of my 20s surprising people when I show up at events, meetings or readings in my Yankee hat and Nike hoody looking like a high school student. At 30, I will no longer be the “whiz kid” as The Stranger called me a couple of years ago. I’m just another thirty-something trying to make it in the world–with a kid, a wife, two dogs and a mortgage to pay, things I like to call #grownfolksproblems. As my position at work and in the writing community changes, so do the expectations, whether they’re my own or others’. When you’re 24 and curating the best reading series in the city, people think you’re a “whiz,” but when you’re 30, you’re just doing what you’re supposed to do–being an adult making your way in the world. Adults don’t get their hands held or deserve trophies for working their asses off, grinding to put food on the table and turning a passion into a career. You just do it, sometimes alone and sometimes with the support of loved ones who threaten to punch fictional characters in the dick, and the only one you can blame for not doing what you want to do is yourself. I was telling all of this to a friend in his 30s who, if you live in Seattle, I’m sure you probably know of, and his advice was simple, yet hit me right where it needed to: “There’s no shame in doing what you’re supposed to be doing, and if you do it long enough and well enough, you build a meaningful career, which is way more impressive than a single achievement.” Whenever I think about the young bucks in the writing community who’ll go on to be the new twenty-something-Brians, I block out the thoughts of being old–and of being one of the old folks who told me I was too young to do whatever I was trying to do (Youngings, you won’t hear that from me!)–and remember this advice. If becoming a parent is like camping, becoming a successful adult is like childbirth, you just have to keep pushing until you get there, even if getting “there” is a little painful and covered in amniotic goo.

We haven't spoken in years, but she's still my mom.

But my strongest feelings of loneliness come up when I think about what little family my son will have once he’s born. My grandparents played a big role in my upbringing. My mother was a single-mother and relied heavily on them to take care of me when I was a kid. From Grandma, I learned to love, to always be on time, to dominate in board games, and from Grandpa, I learned old school virtues of manhood, like taking care of the women in my life, turning my shortcomings into my best weapons and always kicking ass. It makes me sad to think my son won’t have any grandfathers in his life and will only have one grandma unless my mother GPS’s her heart and decides to be part of my life again. Of course, people have raised children with far less, though when thinking about my own mortality, I’m a worst-case scenario kind of guy (Remember I’m training to fight a goat, people!) and worry who will be there for my son should I lose that goat battle royale and help him avenge my death, like Inigo Montoya in “The Princess Bride.”

Ultimately, this loneliness is really a fear of the unknown, of taking on the responsibilities of adulthood, transitioning from cheap-wine swilling poet boy to sportscoat-wearing program director to dad–and mere mortal–without a parent in my life to be there for me, to listen to my fears, to be proud of me. No matter how old you are everyone always wants their parents’ approval, and when you don’t have that, the world is more cavernous, a place where you feel less protected, like anything could happen and you won’t be ready and all you want is your mom or dad to say, “It’s all going to be okay.”

It’s something my son will hear whenever he needs us.

Now imagine this was fueled by boogers.

Snot rockets are inevitable when you run. The wind, whether it’s warm or chilly, hits the nasal cavity and combined with the increased blood flow causes the downpour of mucous, which can only come out in two ways, through the mouth or the nose.

Ever since I began running, I have prided myself on being a discreet snot rocketer. I wouldn’t be one of those runners defiantly snotting on street corners as if cool people don’t plank there. If I had too much snot, I would dispose of it privately with a quick wipe while batting the sweat from my brow or by firing a short burst of snot while running down a side street.

But Seattle’s fall weather, as beautiful as the natives think it is (I’m tired of all you Northwesterners telling me fall is your favorite season.), is not kind to runners. I don’t care what you tell me about how beautiful the leaves are (Just a slip-and-fall in the making) or how crisp the air is (Believe me–I know!). The change in seasons has turned my nose into a snot grotto (Snotto, anyone?), but I’m not hiding it anymore. After getting covered in forty five minutes’ worth of pouring rain and almost eating it nasty running downhill in the mud, a booger bazooka (I’m trying to expand the horizons of mucous puns.) in broad daylight on a busy street isn’t so bad.

But the extra snot isn’t the only drawback. The fall chill makes my face fucking burn! So bad some days I swear I’m Darkman. That’s why my beard has been more Zach Galifianakis than George Clooney recently. The fur is a face warmer. It isn’t just the weather though: the fall has meant more traffic on the streets, more ice on the concrete in the early morning and after work, and more school-aged kids in my way.

Just wait until winter, I keep telling myself. It’ll only be worse.

Come say that to my face, goat! What!

Goat attack, disarming a prisoner wielding a shank, preparing for Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” to actually happen–when people ask me what motivated me to lose all the weight, I usually respond with one of these three reasons, all absolutely ridiculous but completely true.

I first began thinking about how to survive a goat attack about a year ago when I heard about a man who was gored to death by one in the Olympic National Forest while on a hike with his wife. “I’ll fuck a goat up,” I pledged to Jaime as she rolled her eyes and continued telling me what happened, how the goat unprovoked grew aggressive and attacked. Jaime had been wanting to get goats, so she could make cheese with the milk, showing me so many YouTube videos of goats doing cute shit, like this one here and here (Admittedly, pretty damn cute.), in order to convince me of their potential contributions to our home and our mental well-being.

By telling me the goat attack story though, Jaime had inadvertently given me another reason why I would not allow goats in my home, as if eating garbage, peeing in their own mouths and always having to be on top of everything wasn’t enough. Not only would goats be banished from our home, but figuring out how to beat the shit out of one if it happened to attack me became a slight obsession.

So naturally, I went back to YouTube in search of “goat attack” videos, a search term that earns a surprising number of results, about 2,000. Some of these are drunks play fighting with goats, all fun and games until someone gets gored and can’t stop the bleeding because of all that PBR, or dumbasses fucking with goats (These people deserve a horn in the ass.), and then there are the actual attacks, like my favorite video called Kid Owned by Petting Zoo Goat, which I’ve both “liked” and “disliked” and viewed several hundred times.

This video, like disarming a prisoner (Come on–you’ve watched at least one episode of “Oz,” right?) or readying for the end of the world, whether it’s how Cormac McCarthy or Harold Camping see it, comes to mind often when I’m exercising and more so since we found out Jaime has a tater-tot-loving baby beast developing in her uterus. When I’m at the end of my run or a vigorous bout of weightlifting, the “I Am a Champion” speech blaring through my headphones, I think about that goat and that little boy and think, “If a goat has beef with my kid, I’m going to beat its ass.” Same goes for shank-wielding prisoners and the end.

These feelings of aggression aren’t necessarily new to me. I have been in a few fights during my school years and a couple of almost fights at various sporting events as an adult (Something about being a Yankee fan inspires full-grown adults to spit on or throw things at me.) But the difference between this feeling and your run-of-the-mill bro-style aggression is that it’s not about defending my honor or trying to be a tough guy–it’s about protecting my kid and his mama, as instinctual as the wanderlust that forces goats to climb to the highest heights they can find.

Goats, beware.

Knowing I’m in the best possible shape when that goat comes goring gives me a sense of relief, and understanding exactly what I’d do in that situation–either hop on that goat’s back and deliver an MMA-style choke-out or drop a swift kick between its goaty eyes–makes me feel at ease. So when that chance encounter comes, I’ll be ready to drop that diaper bag and get all Bruce Leroy on that goat’s ass.

Now about the end of the world…

[Please note: No goats were harmed during the writing of this post.]

"You ate how many slices of pizza!?!?!?!?"

One hundred and fifteen miles–that’s about how much I have run since completing the Swedish 5K two months ago. That’s more than four full marathons, though admittedly I’ve run this distance at a 3.6-mile clip four days a week for the last eight weeks, far more manageable than taking on a 26-mile run in one shot. (Let’s be honest here: I would more than shit myself if I had to run a marathon right now.)

Since that morning at the end of July, not only have I run more than I have in my entire life, but my approach to exercise and eating has changed, too. I’m less worried about the number on the scale when I step on and look down, hoping–praying even, despite my complete lack of faith in a higher power–that it’s less than last time. My unhealthy obsession with that one number has made me get all Bobby Knight on my body, yelling and cursing at myself when I haven’t done as well as I could have–should have–even when I was trying as hard as I could. There were times when I’d stare at myself in the mirror and wish for another body, a little Ray Lewis in the shoulders, a little Tyson Beckford in the abs, a touch of Hulk Hogan in the biceps and triceps. But slowly, what looks back at me in the mirror has changed, and seeing this progress means I’ve been less hard on myself, becoming more Coach K than Bobby Knight, learning from my decisions rather than getting mad and throwing a chair at a referee.

Then about a month ago, I decided to stop weighing myself everyday entirely, pledging that I’d obsess less and work more–running, lifting weights, walking, continuing to prove to myself that I can do things physically I’ve never been able to do. I wouldn’t beat myself up; instead, I’d be encouraging, staring into the mirror and telling myself, “You are a champion” even when some days I wanted to say, “You are a fat fuck”  or “You really shouldn’t have eaten that.” Obsessing less has helped me understand that some days I’ll slip up and eat a little bit more than I should or throw down on a dessert, (When you live with a pregnant woman, dessert is considered an entree.) but I can’t hold these choices against myself–I just have to learn from it and move on, run harder or bench more next time and let the self-hate go.

Don't listen to this asshole. I'm fighting every day.

More than the weight loss and the muscle, running has empowered me to not hate myself, to not stand in front of that mirror and wish I had someone else’s body parts, or was someone else entirely. Running the 5k proved I could do something I never imagined, and continuing to run several days a week since has caused my confidence to soar to levels normally only achieved through hard liquor. For all too long, I lived a life of self-doubt and anger, regularly allowing fear of failure to prevent me from taking on a challenge and then being mad at myself for quitting or not even trying, but when I take my first step up the steep hill about a mile into my 3.6-mile jaunt, doubt drips away like the sweat from my forehead.

Don’t get me wrong though–this isn’t George Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” speech. Honestly, the war is far from over, though now I’d characterize my weight loss as less of a war and more of a stand-off where I’m armed with low-fat mayo instead of a gun. I’m still 18 lbs. from my goal and considered obese by BMI standards (I’d have to lose another 40 lbs. to be in the normal range for BMI.), but I can say something that I don’t think I’ve ever been able to say in my life: I am finally happy, and despite the excessive sweating, huffing and wheezing, the complete exhaustion and the bloody nipples, I’m happiest after running, when I come home red-faced and worn, my arm hair wind-blown and bursting out from my tank top, and look at my wife, her stomach full of love and our future (Ice cream and tater tots, too!) and think, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

And then I remember I actually do.