Half Past Awesome

Aging With Panache

It’s just so easy to get complacent.

When you’ve accepted that, yes, we are all indeed lurching towards our inevitable demise, you tend to let some things go.

Some things being defined as: joining a band and hitting the road to sold out arenas, a shot in professional sports, sleeping through the night without having to get up to take a piss.

We stave off the reaper in various ways, and often they include memberships to various gyms and Pilates gangs or signing up for a 5k suffer-fest. For me, a foray into the world of CrossFit Springfield is my own personal attempt to keep the dogs of arthritis at bay.

Even so, when grey hairs decide to make an appearance on my noggin, I take a little comfort in the fact that The Wife says “oh no, honey, grey hairs make you look distinguished. In fact damn you as a gender, men get better looking as they age while women tend to look like hell.” This adds up to a contest between us as to who is aging with less grace and nobody wins. So yeah, I can handle that part.

But this morning I made a startling and disturbing discovery:

Some grey chest hair.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

This grim visage made me clutch my chest, thereby adding to the image of an old man suffering his daily chest pains. What’s next? Will the never-as-yet-chiseled body begin to resemble melting candle wax? Will I start paying more attention to Wilford Brimley ads concerning “the diabeetus”? Is is time to contact the Office On Aging and figure out how to make my home less prone to being a danger to my hips?

Yes, I do realize that compared to childhood cancer, malnutrition issues around the world and the decision to financially reward the knuckledraggers  from “Jersey Shore”, some snow on the side of the shed is really no big deal. And it isn’t, except as a harbinger of our slow march towards being referred to in the past tense. Don’t you start railing on me about being concerned about petty crap until you, too, have kinky hair coming off your ear lobes and at least one random hair growing under your eyelid. In so many respects, getting older is such a relief: being comfortable with who you really are as opposed to who you think you should be, not having to worry about fake ID’s, a slightly better perspective on a few things and better rates on car insurance, all good.

But grey hairs on the chest?

This just won’t stand.

The only logical and reasonable response to this unchecked aggression is to counter in the age-old tradition of European men and seniors down in Florida: I must begin to wear many heavy gold chains around my neck, thereby allowing me the chance to display my wares in a most manly fashion. Combine that with an ill-fitting Speedo swimsuit in the summertime, and that, my friends is a surefire recipe for aging with style.

Damn the naysayers, I shall NOT fear the Reaper.

Just how bad-ass are you? Probably pretty tough, right? I mean, at least in theory, and when you’re telling tales among friends wherein you came that close to beating the holy hell out of some guy who cut you off in traffic, you’re not someone to be trifled with, not in the least. I hear a lot of people who talk a lot of game when there are no consequences, and I count myself among them. One area where you can’t get away with any of that noise is in the mixed marital arts field. As fate would have it, ThunderChicken, my favorite target of abuse at CrossFit Springfield, is not only a trainer of weaklings like me at the gym, he’s also some sort of chop-socky tough guy in his spare time.

One of his latest posts on Facebook was congratulating a co-fighter of his from the Springfield Fight Club who had recently been cast on the Ultimate Fighter (like number 47 or something) television show. When asked, ThunderClucker had nothing but high praise for his friend who, in his words, possesses “a game day mentality. (He) gets thru practice, then kicks ass on game day”. My game day mentality consists nervously puking before hockey games of any consequence and fighting the urge to urinate every second I’m on the ice.

This got me to thinking: if I could be in any sort of confrontational sport (outside of hockey) and be even mildly successful, I think it would have to be one of my own invention – The Ultimate Slapper. The entire sport/television show theme would involve some trash talk (in the same style as mentioned at the beginning of this post) and then the players just getting up and slapping the ever loving bejeezus out of their opponent. Old school style, with gloves off and in one hand, or just with the back of the hand like a pimp from Pomona, there are infinite variations on the theme you could employ.

I told Thunderchicken of this bold idea, and he immediately threatened me. After he condescendingly stated he might watch such a show, I told him no, you’d be on the show, my first opponent. He said I’d be his first victim. Trash talk right out of the box….kid’s gonna be a star. I informed him that despite the threats, there’s no way he could withstand my blistering backhands and cat-like clawing. I would slap with passion. With verve. With hysterical screaming and wild gestures.

It must’ve worked, because his status immediately went from “chat” to “offline”. Round 1: Slaphappy Uli TKO over Muscled Chicken.

Round 2 promises to be a doozy, since I’m supposed to attend his class at 5am tomorrow. I can only hope he abides by the rules. My rules.

Coach G & ThunderChicken play firemen

Today’s workout at CrossFit Springfield consisted of a position called The Plank. It’s a basic push-up position, except your elbows are on the ground, and the goal is to maintain a rigid pose or something. Not too hard in theory, it is stupid-crazy to maintain for more than about 10 seconds. Eventually your knees sag, your ass begins to raise up in protest and you find yourself within tongues distance from the floor, stupidly debating ideas like what the floor might actually taste like. From what I understand, this exercise is supposed to work your abs. My fat gut begs to differ.

I thought I was really hitting it well. It felt like I was ramrod straight, what with all the burning and stuff I was feeling and the sore elbows. (Man…..out of context that last statement is really, really, well, you know….but it’s not, so stop thinking it.) Meanwhile, as I was hanging out in the plank position for a virtual lifetime, I hear screeched from one corner of the gym “ULI! DROP THAT BUTT! NOW! NOW!” That tone and timbre could only be produced by one person I know: ThunderChicken.

Yeah, we’re back to meeting up at his 5am classes. He’s positively thrilled that I am gracing his training once again, since I bring the kind of workout ethic that he likes to highlight as “What Not To Do”. The other morning, I actually finished the warmup run first. FIRST. In no way does that mean anything, since I usually finish the actual workouts last, but I’m in dire need to shed something like 37 pounds in the next three weeks (got that 10k and a hockey tournament). His response to my run? “What are YOU doing coming in first?” That’s the sort of motivational speech I like in a trainer. If I hadn’t been experiencing a mild cardiac episode, I mighta punched him, thereby breaking my knuckles across his jaw. That’s the kind of chemistry you just can’t fake.

So he keeps howling that I need to drop my ass. He’s letting all kinds of shit slide with other people, the other 31 sufferers all coming up with ways to endure the pain. I’m cheating like mad, and he’s busting my chops with each infraction. The penalty for dropping a knee is a round of burpees, yet another sadistic exercise. I keep earning rounds and rounds of them, oblivious to his harassment.

Finally, he can’t take it. His screaming is going unheard. His pleas, unanswered. He grabs some weight plates and puts them on my backside area in an attempt to get me saggin’. I was having none of it. I fought the workout; I lost. And then it hit me as I fell to the floor yet again: the man is obsessed. Is it my copious capability to sweat? My ability to have my stomach drag the floor in a full push-up position? Was it the sweet odor of failure I was emitting with each collapse? My God, the man’s become a stalker. I should by all rights be creeped out, but honestly I’m a little flattered.

Deny it all he wants, he’s got man-crush issues. I can’t say I blame him. The only way I’m gonna break him of that is to punch him right in the face. And as soon as my knuckles are tough enough? I just may try it. But I better keep training in the running department, because I’m gonna need to be fast.

One Motivated MoFo

Foolishly, I’ve signed up for a 10k race with The Dirtbag, to be held in September in Portland, Oregon (read about it here). As I slide down the backside towards 40, it’s occurred to me that some sort of training is in order. Regimen details are boring, so I’ll spare you, but it began in earnest two days ago. It was a day I’ll remember for at least a week, since I think it’s the first time in recorded history that I’ve gone into major organ failure. And, along with my lungs throwing a rod, I felt my will to push the throttle diminishing with each slow revolution of the feet. More depressing than the lack of capability to run three miles without walking was the knowledge that last year I’d worked it on up to seven miles before a knee issue (compounded by sheer tonnage) sidelined my last attempt to train for a race.

Intimidation and fear of failure are powerful self-loathing tools, indeed.

What in THE HELL am I thinking? There’s a reason that the average lifespan of the American male in 1800 was 35 years; it’s the same reason there aren’t too many professional athletes my age. We’re physically ready to die, and building up a resistance to that is going to be an uphill fight from here on out. And most days, that stupid hill seems like more effort than it’s worth.

It got me to thinking: what’s the measure of a good firefighter? Besides an ability to clean toilets without complaint, a tolerance for bureaucracy, and a deep and abiding love for irregular sleep patterns, I’ve boiled it down to one admirable trait: an ability to persevere when conditions are rapidly deteriorating around you.  Of course, this is the hallmark of not only good firefighters, but professionals of every stripe. And when it comes down to athletics, or finding love after your spouse dies in a cruise ship wreck, or being a quadriplegic dog trying to win the Iditarod, there’s no shortage of movies with stirring music that focus on the will of the winner. And despite having an iPod cranking out the very motivational Dropkick Murphys while I try and run three miles, there is no heroic soundtrack that pushes me through the pain. There is no Chariots Of Fire playing while I lithely high step like a gazelle around the gravel track; in fact the only thing comparable is that my full speed could be construed as the right cadence for the slow-mo scenes.

It was hot, it was sweaty and I’m pretty sure I sounded like a musk-ox in its death-throes as I drunkenly weaved around, lap after lap, getting more pissed by the meter. I wish I could’ve told you the moment when I gritted my teeth and dug deep into my well of endurance and sand and machismo, but it never happened. It was a wheezing painful experience from start to finish, one I never enjoyed. Aches were compounded with the acrid scent of shame as I was getting passed and lapped by the fit people, who no doubt felt pretty good about themselves as they floated by me. When I looked into my mental locker of tools to deal with difficult situations, all I came up with was blinding rage, an abundance of apathy and an unhealthy relationship with bourbon and bacon. Hardly the keys to a winning career in distance running. I leaned heavily on self-loathing and rage at the weather to sustain me that last 2.9 miles. Use what tools you own, I suppose. And in a grouchy, sweaty disjointed heap, I stumbled across mile 3 in what seemed like several hours.

And that was the on the first day. It’s gonna be a long couple of months.

Smacking The Dirtbag

On September 12, 2010 two middle-aged heaping sacks of sluggishness will square off in Portland, Oregon for the Pints To Pasta 10k race. The Dirtbag and I are said heaping sacks of man-fat, and the event promises to be one in slow-motion, with me employing every dirty tactic I can come up with to sabotage my best friend. I’ll dump ExLax in his coffee, I’ll employ some kung-fu kicks to his throat at the starting line, I’ll get into his head by talking about how hot his wife is (he’s jealous and he hates it when I do this). He may be a man of honor and valor and Church and all that, but I’m a sneaky rat bastard. If I’m gonna fly all the way across the country, I’m gonna want to see blood.

Why bring this up?

Because along with being a sneaky rat bastard, I am also highly unmotivated. So unmotivated, I might try and weasel out of this commitment with sleazy tactics, like faking a pregnancy. I figure if I declare it publicly, I’ll have no choice but to enter or else face additional ridicule by you. And that won’t stand.

So, the training has begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I ran a mile today on a completely unrelated note. The crazy unhinged leader of CrossFit Springfield decided that a good way to end up the workout was to run 1.2 miles in conditions that rival the surface of the sun. With humidity. After getting tossed around the gym like a two-dollar hooker on dollar day, I stumbled outside, plugged in some kill-your-landlord Celticskapunk and began the plod.

It could have gone worse. No death, no near-death, and only mild heat stroke. If sweating truly is liquid fat leaving the body, then I should be looking a little less John Candy and a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme in no time. It’s as though gallons of Guinness and several hogs’ worth of bacon came cascading out today, even if the scale refuses to acknowledge it. 1.2 miles is a bit off from a 10k, but it’s all about baby steps.

And when the baby-steps mutate into awkward teenage lumbering? I’m coming after you, Dirtbag.

It’ll be ugly, it’ll be chaotic and it’ll be embarrassing on my part. But it’ll be ON!

Heart attack to follow.

Who Took My Weights?

I drag my ass into “the box” (which is the cute vernacular used to identify the CrossFit Springfield gym) this morning after work. I’m late, and that’s nothing new in the least. The workout lined out for the day seems particularly brutal and completely out of attainable range (if you want to see it, look here. I won’t bore you with trying to describe the various gyrations). Lately, the ol’ relationship with the gym has been tenuous at best, despite several proclamations that it starts TODAY. TODAY is when I get back in the groove. TODAY is when I look the temptation that is bacon and beer in the eye and shoot it the bird. TODAY I stop being such a lazy fatass. Well, okay, maybe tomorrow.

See the dilemma? No?

It’s about self-loathing. It’s about the inflexible schedule known as “being a parent with kids out of school who  demand things like your ‘attention’”. But mostly, it’s about being lazy.

So what was a daily ritual of going to “the box” has become more like a recreational hobby. And, when the time came to saunter on over to The Wife’s 20 yr. high school reunion, the tragicomic results of treating it like a hobby came into laser-beam focus. I was thankful that I only knew one other person there, since it saved me the inevitable “MY GOD, you haven’t been missing many meals, have you?” conversation that take fun and awkward to a whole new level. To those people, their poor classmate simply married another fan of the Chinese buffet; to me, it was just another excuse to drink around strangers.

But I’m getting distracted here.

Today, like most days in the gym, I planned on doing the workout “non-prescribed”. What that means is, the masochists who run the joint make up a certain weight amount or form to use that they label “prescribed”. For example, the workout may call for 60 pull-ups (rx). I am good for maybe two pull-ups and then I fake it the rest of the way, using bands to assist or just crying in a puddle of shame and sweat. The prescribed version of a workout is generally reserved for the varsity level athletes, and one of the nice things about Crossfit is that they “scale” down the workouts so that someone in just about any condition can jump in and break a nasty sweat. Having never really lifted weights and having no desire to blow out a knee and toss my cookies simultaneously, I pace myself in terms of weight and form. And the truth of the matter is, I often cheat myself.

So it comes down to do you focus on quality or quantity? The workouts are generally timed, so you can post a great time if you just mash your hips into the floor and scream out and call that a push-up. Or you can take the slow train and do it right. And right there, glaring on a white board is your name, your time and if you rx’d it. No one really cares what your time is, they care what their time is, especially as compared to the group. I like to make up obnoxious times with weights that are physically impossible, just to see if trainers like ThunderChicken notice. He always does.

For reasons unknown, I stopped caring about the time component today. Maybe it was the extra pot of coffee. Maybe my brain was short circuiting in the humidity, but somewhere along the line, I decided to do the workout with prescribed weights. And it damn well killed me.

As the rest of the class was finishing up, making pretty little sweat angels on the floor, high-5-ing and heaving in labored wheezes, I wasn’t even close to done. There was no sense of grit or sand or raw determination pushing me. No “Eye Of The Tiger” playing in the background. I just wanted to do it for real. My back was shrieking as though it’d been tasered, my knees wobbled like I was trying not to crap my shorts and I was leaking sweat in reportable quantities, but I decided to truck on through. Finally, one guy was left on the floor with me, and I was using him as motivation, unbeknownst to him. Each lift he did, I was just copying him. I actually grunted like a choking troll, but was too wiped out to be embarrassed.

Finally, sweet release came as the weights smacked the floor one last time. I did it. DEAD LAST IN CLASS.

29 minutes and 50 seconds later, and with eyeballs drowning in sweat it was over. I was more than 10 minutes behind the leader, and I couldn’t have cared less. For one, glorious, heave-free moment, doubled over in front of a fan, I felt the satisfaction of doing it right

Tomorrow? There’s no telling about then. I might slip back into a more casual relationship with this whole fitness business or maybe I push myself like a lunatic again. But that moment back there, all alone in a pile of accomplished sweat stains, that was pretty awesome. And that calls for a cocktail.

Do You Know What Nemesis Means?

“But this time…
…I do want him to go down in the fourth.
And I DO mean it, this time.” -’BrickTop’ in the movie “Snatch”

TODAY it began in earnest. We left for our trip out west somewhere around April 15th, returned somewhere around the 25th and I’ve been to precisely two (2) workout sessions from then til this morning. That’s almost a month. One month is more than enough time to re-animate all the latent laziness and idling lard-assedness in my system. One month of crappy food. One month of getting sweetened up shit-laden coffee as opposed to the standard black fare. One month of the jump rope in the rolled up position and the gut in the horizontal extension mode. It’s as though I’ve gone back beyond square one and am now looking upwards out of this hole wondering just how the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s the thing about gyms: I hate ‘em. Even the highly-touted CrossFit Springfield intimidates and annoys me at times, and this is because I feel so far behind the 8-ball that the path of surrender seems much more inviting. Give in. Order some Sesame Chicken and a gallon of beer and talk about how you might’ve turned out, if only. Slip the belt out a notch and begin to justify the acquisition of multiple chins. What the hell, grow a goatee like every other man out here over thirty in an attempt to cover up said chins. I watch people get stronger and faster at the gym and I remain annoyed at my u-shaped biceps and catastrophic wheezing sessions. Here are three reasons I feel behind said 8-ball:

ThunderChicken Goes Nuts

Jeremy Skips To His Loo

G. Gets Freaktastic

You know about “Ryan” aka ThunderChicken.(no? well there’s a post here and here to catch you up. ) The other two are owner/trainers of our CrossFit gym and yes, this is how they go about their daily lives. These boys mean business. It’s amazing to watch the transformations these people can inspire in others who work out there. I am not one of those people who has had an amazing transformation, and I blame no one but me. I’ll see a little drop in weight or belt size, get cocky and wipe out 32 Guinnesses to congratulate myself. This does not lend itself to being in the kind of shape these guys are sporting. In fact, a more accurate picture of the look I’m cultivating goes a little something like this:

And deep down, I’ve been in a superfunk for the last three weeks. Not super-funky ala Rick James, I mean SuperFunk as in bummed and I can’t nail down why. Family is good, friends are fine, life’s trucking by at a reasonable pace. And then, this morning it hit me:

I’ve been missing the pain.

I’ve been missing the self-inflicted humiliation.

I’m depressed about avoiding the place that depresses me.

So I went in, and I wish I could say I suffered greatly. I wish I could say I was putting up weights that would make lesser men quiver in fear. The reality is nowhere near that. In actuality, I lifted barely above the weight of three pints of Guinness, and I gotta be honest, it felt great. It was pitiful enough that G (pictured above) made sure to mention: “Well, Uli, sometimes less is more, I guess”. So nice of him to try and find the positive – he’s a great coach, and well intentioned and all, but the truth is, I welcome the humiliation. Feeling like I have nowhere to go but up is somewhat inspirational. It’s as though each day I’m starting anew, like my body has low-grade Alzheimer’s. And I’ve been missing that feeling.

So today I started at the gym. And I do mean it, this time.

Abs To Envy

The other day, I saw a tee shirt on a fellow member of CrossFit that boldly stated

“Run Faster Than A Lifter, Lift More Than A Runner” (or something to that effect).

I kinda liked it, in that it seemed to cover several disciplines with one cutting remark. The only problem with sporting one of several types of tee shirts and shorts and other paraphernalia offered in the CrossFit world is my own personal hangup:

It never pays to boast or threaten when you can’t follow through yourself.

Since I can’t, at this juncture, run faster than lifters and I can’t lift more than a second grader, to wear a shirt declaring these attributes seems to be the acme of posing. And I just can’t tolerate posing or posers (poseurs? It seems like posing to spell it like that. I dunno).

But I digress. Some people are so immersed in singularity of purpose, everyone else looks like pikers. Take, for example, another brother of mine who goes by “Nan” around here. Here is a video of him squatting 1000lbs. or more (look for it around minute 4); this is a kid that was a rail thin teen survivor of cancer who, after completing several turns in the sands of Iraq for the Marine Corps, came back and began efforts to become insanely strong. Granted he looks like a tick and his thighs make pretty music when he walks, but the mofo is freak-strong. I might be able to out-run him but that’s cause he may well have a cardiac event beyond 20 yards. On the other hand, both Dirtbag and RoJo are committed runners, but I doubt I could outlift them. This is because Dirtbag is strong and fueled by rage, while RoJo is short, angry and a cop, thereby giving him unlimited potential to get pissed off and lift a lot of weight in a short amount of time. There’s no way I could outrun either of them, not unless I knee-capped them first.

This brings me into the class of people who like to loudly profess, “Well, I’m a jack of all trades and master of none”, as though that were something to be proud of. That’s like saying you don’t always wash your hands after using the toilet, but you usually get your underwear back up over your shins before you leave the bathroom. Great.

And so the struggle continues. I go to CrossFit most days, have what looks to be multiple seizures as I struggle through the workouts, and there have been some small gains. I’ve learned how to badger Thunderchicken without him turning on me and crushing me like a grape. I’ve learned how to properly lift for the first time in my life, even if it involves using PVC pipe instead of weighted bars. I run (let’s be honest here, I jog) up to 2 miles for different workouts, and have yet to have a major stroke – plus my two mile time is under 45 minutes, so there’s that. Best of all for the first time in many years, I’m not completely embarrassed to look in the mirror. I should be, but I’m not.

You probably won’t catch me in a trash-talking CrossFit tee shirt just yet, though.

I should probably be able to do more than two pullups first.

Morning Face

4:02 am – Alarm begins its relentless attack. Self-loathing is the first conscious thought. Smash the snooze.

4:07 am - Litany of excuses for NOT working out begin to stream into consciousness. Excuses make sense. Smash snooze.

4:12 am – The Wife shares her feelings: “Get your ass outta bed and get to the gym. I love you. Now, go.” Stumble around blindly. Smash toe on kids toy. Mumble curses under morning breath.

4:13 am – A glance into the mirror confirms it – God, I’m an ugly mofo first thing in the morning, and it ain’t gonna get any better throughout the day. Self-loathing begins to reach critical levels as I catch a whiff of my own breath.

4:16 am – Vigorous brushing, face splashing and cracking of joints do nothing to improve appearance. Shrug and accept lot in life, all the while pining for a wasted youth. Thoughts of coffee begin to dominate and overwhelm as I realize I really don’t care how I look.

4:17 am – Attack first pot of  coffee and begin mad dash for gym, but realize am walking out the door without shorts on. Stop for a moment to appreciate the enormity of consequences if I show up without pants. Hilarity? Restraining order?

4:20 am – First of the acceptance that this is really happening. No going back to bed. Vow to go to bed by 7pm tonight.

4:21 am – Gaze longingly at house, knowing that warm bed is 106′ away. Double check to make sure I’m wearing shorts.

4:22 am – Plug iPod into Toyota’s stereo. Decide to crank music to “11“ to punish those sleeping in the house.

4:22:30 am – Realize they can’t hear it in the house. Curse violently at steering wheel, take another shot of coffee.

4:25 am – Pull out of driveway, realize that I’m too old to headbang without getting a severe concussion. Seethe inwardly.

4:30 am – Pot #1 of coffee begins to kick in and I begin silently hoping for a deer to jump into my path, just to add some spice to my morning commute to the gym.

4:35 am – Why spice it up when I can swerve all over the road trying to find the perfect song to scream along with?

4:40 am – Realize I’m glad it’s dark out, so I can conduct full conversations with myself, complete with sweeping hand gestures, without other drivers staring at me. Congratulate myself on such stealth. Out loud.

4:43 am – Take too long staring at heavy equipment on highway lit up by floodlights. Road chaos, followed by road rage, followed by cursing of indeterminate origin.

4:44 am – Start alternating shots of coffee with hits off the water bottle. You know, cause I believe in hydration. Plus, too many coffee stains on t-shirt this early in the morning just adds to peoples perceptions of my mental stability.

4:46 am – Think to self: “screw what people think. I love coffee and I’ll wear some if I feel like it”. Kidneys begin to quiver in protest.

4:50 am – Wrap up conversation with self with a loud and violent debate over whether I’ll make it in time to 5am class.

4:53 am – Start up another round of yelling at traffic engineers for their idiotic placement of stop lights. Begin to mull over merits of blasting through red lights. Unable to go full outlaw, I decide to obey the rules, but fume on the inside. Consider writing a very stern letter to City’s Traffic Engineering Department. Get more irate as I realize nothing will change. Damn you, bureaucracy. Damn you.

4:55 am – Slide in to parking lot of gym. Quick glance in mirror confirms suspicion that I look like a homicidal maniac. Pleased with self. Guzzle one last swig of coffee and tumble out of truck, tripping on non-existent obstacle in parking lot.

4:59 am - Shoot fellow CrossFit member curious look when he asks if I “am always this ‘up‘ this early?” Consider ramifications. New cycle of self doubt and self loathing begins.

4:59:30 am – Realize today’s workout consists of 2 mile run. Begin to experience chest pains upon realization.

5:00 am – Seizing (or seizure) of the day begins.

Somehow a chicken drinking beer seemed right

Sometimes those closest to us make choices that, at the very least, are hard to understand. When they do, it’s never easy to shake the funk that follows. I recently found myself in such a funk.

And here’s where the beauty of the fire station kicks in: your co-workers are forced to spend 24 hours with you, and as such, we all become de-facto therapists for one another, unwilling to leave any stone unturned in our search to humiliate each other. JoBoo and I were soaking up the last of the suns’ rays yesterday evening out in the engine bay, keeping an eye on the barbecue grill as the flames were licking the walls of the firehouse, each of us wondering who would get up first and deal with it. We were discussing such issues, waiting for dinner and lazily noodling out ideas for improving our lot in life. As I sat there unloading my burdens on him, it struck me that what we really needed was a good house fire.

Now, let me be clear: I do not wish for someone’s home to burn down. It’s just a given fact that fires are going to happen, and if they’re inevitable, I’d just as soon they happen on my shift in our district. There’s nothing like a good worker to remind you why you signed up for this gig, why you spend a third of your life away from home, subjecting yourself to the whims and fantastic bureaucracy of local government.

When we finally sat down to eat, The Wife decided to make an appearance, coffee and kids in hand, knowing I could use a little uplifting. The boys were climbing all over the ladder truck when the tones struck for a house fire. This part was cool, since my boys aren’t at the station too often anymore, and what can beat tearing out of the firehouse, lights blazing and siren wailing – especially if you’re six. What I didn’t know was that she decided to follow the howl of the wind-up sirens and the column of smoke in the sky to the scene. And, as we rolled up and got to work, heavy smoke pouring out of the basement windows, The Heathens got to witness just what it is I do when I leave every third day. Chaos, smoke, flames and a cacophony of noises and smells and sights. After we had the initial attack set up and I was tooling around the pump panel, I finally noticed my family standing behind me. The look on their faces was enough to make all the other bullshit seem pretty irrelevant; I was never more stoked to be their dad than in that moment. No matter what my job on the fire ground was, I was part of something big in their eyes, and, when you realize how important you are as a parent to them, it’s pretty humbling. Heathen 1 came up to me, hugged my leg and said “Daddy, please be careful”. No worries, son…. I’ve got half a dozen jackass co-workers who keep me in line, even when I can’t. When we sat down to dinner at 9:15 pm, I realized that all things considered, this life is pretty damn fantastic.

I considered that victory #1 in my defeat of the funk.

Victory #2 came tonight.

The folks at CrossFit Springfield decided to host a social night with everyone toting in side dishes while a man named Jay smoked enough meat for a small army to consume in the snowing sleet-rain-crap we call weather in Missouri. It was nice enough to not have people see me in all my sweaty, nasty glory for once, but rather, showered, shaved and slightly less stinky. But, and this is important, it got my pitiful ass out of the house and surrounded by folks who are upbeat, positive and generally in a same mental reference in terms of getting slightly less fat. There was a copious amount of beer flowing, families mingling and, in the middle of it all, “Ryan” The Sadist, holding court and telling tall tales. A couple of other firemen were there as well, and, as ever, we gravitated to one another and immediately began regaling one another with bullshit and laughter. As each Guinness was cracked and another plate of delicious food was passed around, I could feel the mood lifting. These? These are the moments when we’re glad to have the friendships we do, and I’d be well served to remember these facts. Whether shooting the bull with JoBoo behind the rigs while sunning like lazy cats or in a group of one hundred, those moments we get when we’re in the company of good people? Yeah, that’s good stuff, and moments we need to treasure.

I might lose sight of that fact from time to time, but I hope you know this: I’m a grateful mo-fo for all that you bring to the table.

Thanks, amigos.