This is a recent photo of me. For 70 years of age, I guess I look okay. My teeth are a little crooked, My hairline is receding, both my knees have been replaced, and I still could use to lose 20 pounds. This old body is slowly falling apart. Nowadays, I’m just above average. And that’s okay with me.
Of the first ten numbers in our counting system (if you don’t count zero) 7 is my favorite number. When I was a kid and more superstitious than I am now, 7 was my Lucky Number. Many great athletes wore that number: Mickey Mantle, “Pistol” Pete Maravich, soccer legend Cristiano Ronaldo, not to mention Tony McElhenny of the Binghamton (NY) Rumble Ponies minor league baseball team. Tony played short stop for one season before the Rumble Ponies released him – which is why I should have followed my own advice “not to mention” him.
There are seven days of the week, Seven Wonders of the World, Seven Colors of the Rainbow, and Seven Harry Potter books. The night before my wedding, my then-fiancée and I hosted a “night at the races” pre-wedding party at a local horse racing track outside of Philadelphia. The seventh horse in the seventh race was named “Michele du Nord” (Michele of the North). I placed a bet on it to win. And it did! I saw this as a promising omen for our future life together since my wife is not only named Michele, but also, being from Canada, she was literally Michele of the North.
I feel like I have strayed off from the point I was trying to make. Where was I going, anyway? Oh, right. My point is that in many ways, my life on a 1-to-10 scale has also been like the number 7. Not a perfect 10, but far from a 1 or 2. So many aspects about my life, my experiences, and my capabilities could be ranked as a 7, in other words, Above Average.
You can call me Mr. Above Average – because in most things, that’s where I tend to land – unless it’s knowing how to build or fix ANYTHING on my own. Then I’m an absolute zero. I love sports of all kinds: tennis, racquetball, pickleball, golf, you name it. How good am I? I’m slightly above average in almost all of these sports, about a 7. People who excel at sports love to play me because they are all but assured of winning and feeling better about their athletic prowess afterwards.
It’s been this way most of my adult life – except when it came to the joys and struggles of parenting – in which case I routinely felt like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth from a joyful 10 to an exasperated 3 (or a lower number during their teenage years). Parenting is an extreme sport.
I’ll admit I’m no 10 in the looks department. In my heyday, nobody ever compared me to Brad Pitt or Paul Newman. Although once someone said I looked like I could be John Lithgow’s brother for some reason. (I was never sure whether that was a compliment or an insult.) As for my wife, I’d have to say in terms of the 1-to-10 scale of physical perfection, she is probably a.. um…Perfect 10! (Every once in a while, she reads this column, so why take chances?)
Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve loved sports of all kinds. I play tennis, golf, pickleball, basketball, skiing, and many others. The one thing all these sports have in common is that I’m not great at any of them. I’m just okay, slightly above average really. Pretty much like most things I set my mind to in life.
I have come to terms with the fact that I don’t really excel at most things in life. (That said, I can microwave a “perfect 10” frosted cinnamon pop tart, but I’m not sure that’s worth bragging about.) I envy people with remarkable talents, like my wife’s incredible skill as a portrait artist. Many of my closest friends have exceptional skills like my friend Jerry who built his own home. It seems that most people who live in my community are extremely artistically gifted. That’s why I’ve unfriended most of them on Facebook.
I have long ago decided that for most things in my life good enough is, well, good enough – except when it comes to pizza, in which case, good enough simply won’t do. When I have a serious pizza craving, I refuse to cut corners. (I’m talking to you, Dominos.)
I don’t feel bad that I can’t afford the fanciest new car. I don’t beat myself up that I lack the ability to create stunning works of artlike my life partner or play the piano like a prodigy. I’m content to live an above average life, take an above average hike in the woods, relax on the couch patting our above average cats while watching an above average detective series on Netflix. And a couple times a week, I will go to the local pickleball courts to lose several games to older players who are much more above average than I am.
As I looked over this week’s column, I have to say, it’s not one of my best. But it’s not one of my worst. I’d say it’s above average. And that’s okay with me.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
My wife complains we have way too much stuff. That’s so silly. She thinks that I should give away my boom box just because I haven’t turned it on since 2004. But what if cassette tapes make a comeback? Then what will I have to play my 1970’s Roy Orbison tapes on? Did she ever think about that?
For the past several years, my wife Michele and I have had a running debate about how much stuff to hold onto and whether or not to give away (or in some cases, throw away) some of the rarely used excess items lying around the house.
Michele has a long list of what she considers to be totally unnecessary items that are no longer being used, just taking up space, and should be given away. I’m cautiously optimistic to report that as of this writing, I am not one of the items on that list. But I suspect I’m on the bubble.
I totally agree with my wife that we have too much crap. It’s just that we can’t quite agree on whose crap needs to be jettisoned. For example, we have an entire freezer filled to the brim with frozen broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cauliflower. I assure you, I will NEVER EVER eat any of these, so if it were my call, I would give all of these away to a needy broccoli-loving home.
But my wife, for reasons unfathomable to me, seems to be under the misguided notion that I’m the far guiltier party when it comes to holding onto things we don’t need. The example she often cites is the fact that I have taken up one full closet to stash memorabilia from my childhood. It consists of barely 25 boxes of papers, photos, art projects and other keepsakes dating back to first grade and continuing through graduate school. It includes important relics like a clay sculpture I made in first grade that looks like a rat but was supposed to be an elephant, my fourth grade social studies report on Uruguay, several high school term papers, and three boxes of letters from college ex-girlfriends.
My wife lamely brings up the minor detail that technically I have not opened up any of these boxes once in the past 30 years. That may be true, but I was planning on getting around to reviewing one box a month very soon – by which I mean whenever I have completely run out of ideas for other things to do in my life.
My wife rightly points out that I have literally dozens of shirts and pants filling up our bedroom closet that I haven’t worn in years (mainly because I can’t fit into any of them at the moment). But I’m planning on losing 40 pounds, and when I finally get down to my college weight, I’ll be so glad I held onto that lime green Nehru jacket and those lavender bell-bottom corduroy slacks for all these years.
This is a small sampling of my collection of novelty hats. I bought them to use in my VFTB YouTube channel videos. My wife points out that I never wear them after the video is done. But I say, you never know when you might need a Viking helmet or a Canadian Mountie hat. I want to be properly attired if the prime ministers of Norway or Canada ever stop by for a visit. It’s good to be prepared.
Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I’m seriously into sports of all kinds. The fact that I suck at most of them is beside the point. So, over the years, I’ve accumulated a large assortment of sporting equipment – some of which I actually have used. She pointed out that we never use our badminton set or our croquet set. “And why are you holding onto a second set of golf clubs?,” she rudely intoned the other day. “Because,” I reminded her, “what do I do if Barack Obama – who is a close personal friend of mine ever since we worked out together– came to visit and wanted to play golf?” You never know when you may need a backup set of clubs.
The list of items my wife wants me to give away is getting longer by the day. It includes such precious heirlooms as my Rock’em Sock’em Robots set which I got for Christmas in 4th grade (the red boxer still works). She also questions why I’m still holding onto my extensive assortment of 1980s movies on VHS – since we haven’t had a VHS player for years. But I will have you know I still have every Ace Ventura, Pet Detective movie Jim Carrey ever made.. And I’m sure you’d agree that my Director’s Cut VHS edition of Patrick Swayze’s cult classic Road House alone will be worth a small fortune someday.
For reasons I still don’t grok, my wife also feels there is no reason to keep my 1992 Casio keyboard. It’s true that I can’t remember the last time I played it. But now that I’m retired, I was planning on taking up piano again. I explained to my wife that it’s never too late to start a music career. I reminded her that Willie Nelson didn’t even take up singing until he was 58 years old. Imagine that! Okay, so technically that’s a lie, but my wife didn’t know that. And I needed this statistic to bolster my case to let me hold onto my Casio player.
This is CHOMPERS, my guard T-Rex that sits next to my desk in my office. For some insane reason I can’t fathom, my wife feels it’s ridiculous for a man my age to have a giant stuffed animal in my office. She says we should get rid of it. But I pointed out that if we gave away Chompers, how would I protect myself from deadly rhinoceros sneak attacks while I’m writing?
She keeps harping about all the items she feels we should get rid of. But the door swings both ways. There are several items she still clings onto, like her voluminous inventory of art supplies – not to mention her closet full of dresses, blouses and jewelry – none of which I have worn in years. But you don’t see me telling her to throw out her cherished possessions. Because I am a considerate spouse.
I’m willing to meet my wife halfway. I’m open to compromise. Heck, I long ago stopped complaining when she kept putting the toilet paper rolls on the wrong way (under instead of over). I no longer bring up the fact that she still doesn’t know how to properly load the dishwasher. So, don’t tell me I’m not willing to be reasonable and accommodating.
But there’s a line in the sand my wife had better not cross. If she thinks for one second I’m going to let her throw out my three-feet-long stuffed animal whale named Maybe Dick that I got for my birthday in second grade, then she’s in for an ugly fight. I’d no sooner part with Maybe Dick than I’d let go of my priceless collection of life-size Simpsons action figures. My daughters will thank me someday.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Most days, I try to live up to that inspirational Nike slogan: Just Do It! I answer my email. I do the chores – sometimes with only a few irreparable mistakes. I even exercise. Today, however, was not one of those inspired days. Today was a Just DON’T Do It kind of day.
I started with the best of intentions. Last night I wrote my goals for today – because I read somewhere that people who write down their goals are far more likely to accomplish them, succeed in life, bear attractive children and win the Nobel Prize than people who don’t. I had visions of forsaking watching The View and powering through my To Do list, even making dinner for my wife. Then I woke up.
Below is my original action plan for today, followed by the results I achieved. Well, maybe “achieved” is overstating it a bit. Let’s just say that my Nobel Prize is looking increasingly out of reach.
PLAN: 6:00: Out of bed. Shower, shave, brush teeth, etc.
REALITY: Turns out the snooze button taps out at 10 smacks. Skipped shower, shaving, etc. Rationalized that good hygiene is overrated – plus, saved on my water bill.
PLAN: 6:30: Make a healthy breakfast of fruit and low-fat yogurt. Maybe a kale shake.
REALITY: Maybe NOT a kale shake. Way behind schedule. (I blame Westclox, inventor of the snooze clock, circa 1959). Healthy breakfast preempted by a need to Google “Inventor of snooze alarm.” Scarfed down a frosted apple-cinnamon pop tart and a slice of cold pineapple-topped pizza. On the positive side, met my daily fruit requirement.
PLAN: 7:00: 45 minutes on the elliptical. Lift weights. (more…)
Did you know that on a deep-water oil rig, the crew cements casings between drillings and that when the rock cuttings reveal the oil sand from the reservoir rock, they then remove the drilling apparatus from the hole and perform a logging test to retrieve a core sampling before lowering a perforating gun into the well to set off explosive charges in order to create holes in the casing through which the oil can flow? Neither did I – that is, until this past Tuesday, when I stopped at my local dry cleaner to drop off a pair of pants.
It was a routine trip to my local dry cleaners. All I wanted was to get my trousers pressed. In and out in three minutes, right? Not quite. The owner, an elderly Korean man, was feeling particularly chatty, so it took me almost a half hour to get out of there – and I was the only victim, I mean, customer. This is the honest (significantly abbreviated) retelling of the day time stood still.
As I was wrapping things up, the proprietor, Mr. Ho, asked me my name – so he could write it down on the claim check. In retrospect, revealing that information was an egregious error.
Mr. Ho: You name Jones? You know Keith Jones?
Me: No, can’t say that I do. Who is Keith Jones?
Mr. Ho: He very nice man. He live London, England.
Me: You don’t say? And to think we’ve never met.
Mr. Ho: He very smart. He manage oil rigs all over world.
Me: Very impressive. Well, thank you. Have a nice day.
Mr. Ho: He in charge of oil rigs in Africa and Asia. But not South America.
Me: Fascinating. So, you say my pants will be ready on Friday afternoon? See you then.
Mr. Ho: Keith Jones. He Welsh. You Welsh?
Me: Um, yeah, I have Welsh ancestors – and Scottish and German.
Mr. Ho: Keith no German. He Welsh. He very smart. Was my boss. He work in oil business for years. Manage rigs. I work on rigs for career.
Now I SHOULD have just ignored that last comment, smiled, turned and marched out the door. But No! I had to be polite and ask, So, you worked on an oil rig, you say? I immediately paid for this blunder.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
