Several years ago, someone told me a story about “discovering your grateful heart.” So, I decided to work on that. Over the course of the next year, I sent one thank-you letter each week to a different person who had positively influenced the trajectory of my life. These were people from many phases of my life – family members, co-workers, even a former girlfriend – who had helped me in some way or taught me a valuable life lesson.
But it occurs to me, there are still two individuals I’ve never sent a special thank-you letter to – my daughters. It’s way overdue, because they’re both grown up now (23 and 22) and have moved away, embarking on their own life journeys.
There is so much I would want to tell them. I’d probably start by thanking them for choosing their mom and me as their “forever” parents, as we call it in adoption circles. When they were infants in two different Chinese orphanages, what are the odds they’d somehow get paired with us? Some people say children who are adopted are “lucky.” I say Michele and I are the lucky ones.
I’d thank my daughters for the many evenings they snuggled on either side of me at bedtime as I read them Goodnight Moon, Harold and the Purple Crayon, Nancy Drew, and countless other books.
I’d for sure express my appreciation for all the handmade Father’s Day gifts, from their cement handprints to their macaroni likenesses of me. And how can I forget to mention the special breakfast in bed they prepared one year. Burnt toast, Raisin Bran, gummy bears, and maple syrup never tasted so yummy.
I’d thank them for all the times during elementary school they would make me laugh out loud as I chased them around the playground, chanting, “Must get Emmy” before suddenly changing direction and shouting, “Must get Rachel,” which always made them squeal with delight.
I’d proudly acknowledge Rachel’s efforts to help her younger sister with her spelling by quizzing her – like the time we were driving past our local grocery store (officially called Quality Food Center, but whose sign only goes by its initials, QFC) and Rachel posed the challenging question, “Emmy, how do you spell QFC? Don’t look at the sign!!”
That is actually Barack Obama behind me. We’re working out together… well, not together, but in the same fitness center at the same time. I think he’s taking a photo of me, Tim Jones, the famous Humor Blogger. It took all my willpower to resist hugging him and crying that I missed him. So, I settled for a kiss.
People routinely accuse me of telling over-the-top fabricated stories in this column. They make these outrageously unfair accusations just because I may bend the truth a tiny bit occasionally – and by occasionally, I mean not more than 80% of the time. (The other 20% I’m telling the truth, although, admittedly, that’s usually by accident.)
But this time, I swear I’m writing with utter veracity. Recently I had a private workout with Barack Obama – the 44th president of the United States. I was in San Diego for an industry conference. Obama was the keynote speaker. I wasn’t able to attend his address because it started at 8:00 am, and that was just way too early to rise and shine – even for my favorite President.
I was staying at a nearby Hilton. The day following his speech, I was working out in the hotel’s fitness center, doing my usual exercise routine of pretending to pedal on a stationary bike, while watching an episode of Parks and Recreation on my iPad.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear but the 44th prez with two bodyguards near.
There he was, not ten feet from me, pumping barbells and doing pushups. There were only eight of us in this rather large room, plus Obama and his two-man secret service detail, who were stoically standing at attention in the far corner of the room.
My brain was spinning way faster than I was pedaling at the sudden realization that the former president (my hero) and I were, in essence, working out together! There was no metal detector, no security pat-down or any effort to detain me from entering the gym. Thank God they didn’t check to see I’m a humor writer who makes fun of politicians, or else I’d probably be sitting in a Guantanamo cell right now.
Outwardly, I continued to remain calm. But inwardly I was freaking out. I could not take my eyes off him – even though the Parks and Recreation episode was a particularly good one.
In my head, my brain was buzzing with things I wanted to say if Obama came near me:
Mr. President, I miss you so much!!! [after which I would commence sobbing] … Or (more…)
Thank you for choosing High Anxiety Tours(HAT) to arrange your trip. We’ll take care of everything. Take a deep breath and relax. We understand that as a first-time international traveler, you may be a tad nervous about venturing into the unknown. At HAT, our mission is to ensure you have a 100% stress-free experience.
So, this is your first visit to Colombia. As travel experts, trust us when we say there is (almost) nothing to worry about. Word has it that the Colombian drug lords have no documented plans to kidnap or torture American tourists in the foreseeable future. Of course, their plans are subject to change without notice.
Before you leave for the airport, remember to go through a departure checklist so you can R-E-L-A-X while away. Did you …
Bring your passport?
Pack sunscreen?
Turn off the stove?
Get a sitter for your cats?
Refill your Xanax?
Are you 100% sure you turned off the stove?
You are now ready for a calm, peaceful holiday in tranquil Colombia– that is, if you make your flight. It is imperative to be at the airport a minimum of four hours before departure, in case of unforeseen glitches such as highway construction or a wildcat strike by baggage handlers. In rare instances, flights do take off a day or so early, to adjust for the time differences. The odds TSA Security will mistake your traveler’s trepidation for drug-smuggling jitters are 3-1, at best. So, don’t sweat. No, seriously, do NOT sweat! If they see you sweat, they’ll get suspicious and probably conduct a full body cavity search.
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…)
I belong to a men’s doubles racquetball league of 13 seniors. Okay, when I say “league” that sounds a bit more serious than it really is. It’s actually more like a “club.” No, that’s not quite it either. “Herd.” Yeah, it’s more like a herd – as in cattle, because some of us play the game about as well as a spry Holstein. We meet every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings at 8am sharp – unless it’s Christmas. Then we play at 11.
Not to toot my own horn, but out of this Baker’s Dozen of racquetballers, I routinely rank among the top 15. As I see it, the only thing separating my game from my teammates’ is my lack of speed, power, accuracy, court awareness, and peripheral vision. Oh, and ability. Yeah, I’m sort of lacking in that department, too. And yet, despite how consistently inconsistent I am, they still let me play. My theory is that I make them all look like pros by comparison.
At 63, I am one of the youngest players. The ages range from 54 to 80. Jerry is eighty years young. He’s right-handed, but due to a shoulder injury, he now plays lefty. And he still cleans my clock on the court. Now, I’ve only been doing racquetball for forty years – whereas Jerry started playing during the Garfield administration. And as a relative rookie, I’m still learning the subtleties of this sport. For example, just last week I was informed that it’s legal to play the ball off the back wall. Thanks for finally telling me, guys. That’s a game changer.
Not long ago we accepted a woman into our men’s club. Kate is extremely talented – better than most of the guys – so, I always graciously invite her to be my partner. That’s because I am a gentleman and want her to feel comfortable and accepted in our group. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that with Kate as my partner, I might actually stand a chance of being on the winning side for a change.
Several years ago, someone told me a story about “discovering your grateful heart.” So, I decided to work on that. Over the course of the next year, I sent one thank-you letter each week to a different person who had positively influenced the trajectory of my life. These were people from many phases of my life – family members, co-workers, even a former girlfriend – who had helped me in some way or taught me a valuable life lesson.
