Disclosure: I was compensated by BikeBandit in exchange for this blog post.
It’s a milestone. Not of the stratosphere of 50, where Over the Hill decorations and black balloons lurk. My kids have rounded up to 50 for my age since I was 40. At 16, a man yearns to be 18. At 18, 21 becomes the benchmark. No man yearns or benchmarks for 45.
What does a man on the precipice of a non-milestone milestone age do?
Especially if he hasn’t the gumption – or American Express card – for a full-on midlife crisis? He dreams. Not just of Dana Perino and Hope Solo, but of a personal sea change. Of a regimen of situps and planks, early-morning disc golf, keeping up with his kids.
He imagines choosing the garden salad over the Caesar salad, rather than expect a medal and keys to the city for even having picked the Caesar salad over a can of Pringles. (I did this today.)
An uncomfortable, unshowered, unshaven, ball-cap-covered crossroads. In the middle of a conference room, at work, among the showered, shaven, and non-ball-cap covered. Smart, pretty people.
Important words, by important people, were being said about a project my team poured tons of work into.
Should I stand, and speak, risking the scrutiny of colleagues – some of whom I promised I’d even wear a dress shirt to this meeting – and possibly the question of “did Eli sleep on a park bench last night?”
Passport awareness to me means knowing where the dreaded thing is.
It’s a viable fear, losing my passport in another country. Not that I jet-set. Were it not for Red Ventures’ annual company trip, the extent of my worldly travel could be summed up in a drive down Charlotte’s Central Avenue, with its Mexican bakeries and Mediterranean restaurants.
I compile a monthly post called “6 Words.”
Ernest Hemingway inspired it when he said any story can be told in six words. I ask bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt. September was National Passport Awareness Month.
Take the week that was. I met deadlines, commitments. I found myself at midnight, ready to write and read, yet short on midnight oil. One can’t burn what one doesn’t have. The writing mind kept sentinel, though, when my waking mind could not.
Strife swirled all around.
My city caught fire. Fellow citizens rose up and spoke out. Those of us who didn’t, wanted to. We felt, perhaps, shame in our voice. Undeserved shame. All voices warrant value. I held words in and wore my Broncos cap and saw connections between strife and tension.
When I tossed out this month’s prompt for 6 Words, I felt sure someone would include a little blue language. A dammit or a hell at the least. A !@#$! at most. But – no. Can you believe it? This crowd? (Two of you did mention farts, though.)
Every month, I compile a post called 6 Words. Ernest Hemingway inspired it when he said any story can be told in a six-word sentence. I ask bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt.
November is Families Stories Month. What would the title of your family story be, in six words? Think serious, silly, sad, sarcastic … any mood, as long as it’s six words!
The holidays are here, and just as I found that spirit coursing through my veins – was it the bowl of sugar-cookie dough chilling in the fridge? My admission that I’d definitely split a pizza with Jan from the Toyota commercials? – I get horse-collar-tackled by a rogue virus.
A Santa makes his rounds, I find myself with Vapo Rub on my chest, fever rousing me before it’s time to make the donuts, and the realization that the fam might have to do it without me today.
I’m happy to share on this very Christmas morning our latest edition of 6 Words. It’s the Christmas special. I’m not talking the Full Houseor Growing Pains Christmas specials – I mean the Hemingway-prodded means of getting you all to condense the season.
We’re all about culture up in here, at Coach Daddy.
Toby writes a blog called Dumbass News. No, it’s not the detroit red wings fan newsletter. It has a very distinctive symbol and news that you’d find disturbing and amusing. Or, just disturbing, if it happens to be about you.
He’s here at Coach Daddy today to talk about a refined cultural event that takes place in his home state.
Check out his pages, too, where the language has a few more crayons in its array then we do around here (unless you count all of Kathy’s submissions from Kissing The Frog. She has Toby-esque license, apparently.)
No, not the Colorado Rockies’ postseason chances, although those are gone now, too. I mean, the summer. Technically, we have a few more weeks of it, but the focus has shifted from “when can we go to the pool?” to “which one is the carpool lane at school again?”