A few years ago, I announced my retirement from competitive sports. My wife was pleased with this, as she was tired of having a husband who would wake up in the morning and asked to be carried down the stairs.
So it had been a few years since I played sports on a regular basis, unless you count front-yard wiffle ball with children.
I had been telling my wife for a while that I wanted to get back into some sort of regular physical activity, so when the opportunity to play flag football arose, I thought it was a perfect fit.
I was quite excited when I told my wife.
“Are you nuts?” was her response.
She then began to remind me of the very long list of ailments and injuries directly attributable to my career in flag football: Pulled muscles, broken ribs, shredded knees, crushed toes, black eyes.
I assured her that I was older and wiser. She agreed with half of the statement.
I promised her that I would (a) stretch a ton before each game, ensuring that I would not injure myself while playing and (b) I would not take it so seriously that a loss would put a dark cloud over the next few days.
When I went out for the first game, I was somewhat concerned what several years’ hiatus had done to me. Had I lost a step? Could I still catch the ball? Have they come up with the next generation forward pass?
I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I could still run and catch. I was also pleased to find out that I was less out of shape than I thought.
I came to realize that, although I thought I had been inactive for the past seven years, I had actually been engaging in a fairly intensive workout. It involved:
1. Wind sprints: “Parker, get back in the cart and put down the cantaloupe — WE ARE IN A GROCERY STORE!!!”
2. Overhead presses: “Fine, touch the ceiling once more and then it’s bedtime.”
3. Leg lifts: “OK, one more airplane ride. And then Daddy has to collapse for a few minutes.”
4. Intense cardio: Also known as the “Just stepped on a Thomas the Tank hop”
Basically, unbeknownst to me, I was in some of the best shape of my life. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration. But I was far off from where I thought I would be, which was a good sign. The next day I was sore, but it was a good sore.
And you can guess how long that joy ride lasted. The next time we practiced, I made the egregious error of attempting to punt the ball, something that my leg decided was not going to happen.
I felt a sharp pull on the inside of my thigh. I tried to run a few times, and my leg informed me that if I continued to try that, it would make me fall on the ground.
A pulled muscle, I figured. Those happen. I’ll rest it and wrap it really tight for the next game. Sure enough, a few days later I was game ready again.
I stretched like crazy, wrapped up my leg tight as a drum, and was having a banner, pain-free day. Joy ride 2, prepare for your screeching halt.
There was a play across the middle, and a guy near me caught the ball.
I was a few yards away and tried to make up some ground and grab his flag. I’m not really sure how I did this, but I ended up planting my knee firmly in the ground and twisting my entire body to the left. I hobbled to the side, my knee throbbing in pain. After a few plays, I was able to come back in, thinking I was no worse for wear.
Let’s fast forward to the next morning, when I made the ridiculous mistake of trying to get out of bed.
The scream and subsequent roll off of the bed onto the floor let my wife know that something might be a tad wrong. I apparently pulled a muscle in my chest or rib cage. And if you are not familiar with those kinds of pulls, I recommend that every time you go to take breath, you stab yourself in the side with a steak knife.
Here we are a week later, and I appear to be on the mend. (I can actually brush my teeth without crying!) I haven’t set foot back on the field yet, but I am hoping to be there soon.
After all, I was in far better shape than I realized. And surely these were just freak accidents that could have happened to anyone.
I am sure the next game will be fine. I just hope my wife will carry me downstairs the next morning.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Fly guy
So there I was, staring down my enemy, prepared for combat. We were locked in a fight of epic proportions. Two entered the cage. Only one would emerge. Then, I heard the door open.
ALLIE: Daddy! I need to go! Get out of the bathroom!
ME: (slamming the door shut) YOU’LL LET THE FLY OUT!
ALLIE: Daaaa-ddy!
ME: There are two other bathrooms. I’M AT WAR HERE!!!!
And so goes my insane fascination with hunting down flies when they enter my house. I refer to myself as a warrior. My wife has several other terms, none quite so noble.
For some reason, when a fly enters the house, I absolutely lose it. I have a set strategy for killing them, which starts with ordering everyone out of the room. I shut off all of the lights, save for the one in the bathroom near the kitchen. Often, I taunt the flies. In short order, they buzz on into the bathroom. Then it is Go time. For the record, I am undefeated. No fly escapes on my watch. With my trusty fly swatter, The Big Green Death Machine, I have vanquished many a fly foe. I even have different strategies. Sometimes, I lie in wait. Other times, I am the aggressor. And other times, I opt for style points, only attempting to take the fly out of midair.
You may think that I am somewhat odd for this ritualistic fly killing I take part in. You would be wrong. For one thing, I have found that several other people – including a certain president of a certain United States of America – are also avid fly hunters. Doubt me? Would U.S. News or Newsweek or Globe or wherever it was I read it lie to you?
But I also have found that it is possibly genetic. I was over at my parents’ house this summer, and we noted an inordinate number of flies zooming around out back. (This may or may not have had anything to do with the beached whale carcass.) Over several visits, we had been fending off flies the old-fashioned way – fans turned on high, newspapers rolled up, and repeatedly pawing at the air while trying to stifle your comments lest the 4-year-old hear them and repeat them.
Eventually, we took the logical step. What’s that you say – did we go inside? Oh, no. That is not the logical step. That is the coward’s step! We went on the offensive. We went shopping. And we armed ourselves with the Big Blue, Yellow and Pink Death Machines. Bring it on, flies.
At first, we simply kept the swatters handy for standard swatting. Fly lands, fly dies. You don’t want to rush into a big fly hunt production until you’re sure everyone is on board. But after a while, it became evident that this was not just for utility purposes. And how did this become evident? Probably when my dad said, “You’re sister’s got more than you.” When you start keeping tabs, it is officially on.
From then on, we became consumed with the flies. Once we had wiped out the flies (or they had gotten the message, as I prefer to think), we actually found ourselves wishing more flies would arrive, which I have to say is a weird place to arrive at.
After a few sessions, simply stalking the flies was not enough. We began to develop rules. Among them:
– Flies on someone’s head are fair game.
– Rule 1 does not apply if Mom is the someone.
– Double points if you hit a fly on your own person.
– Fly on a drink? Just shoo it away (that lesson learned the hard way).
We even began to try trick shots and developed fly-killing jargon. At one point, I was sitting there and one landed on my swatter. I simply said to my dad, “High five.” And he immediately knew what I was talking about. In a flash of blue plastic – WHAP! Fly sandwich. To completely go off the deep end, I have even designed my ultimate fly swatter. (Viking inspired, made from skulls, and shooting fire. It will so rock.)
And in case you were wondering – yes, my wife does sigh. A lot.
Oh, during this very grown-up process, we learned one interesting thing about my son: he can catch flies. We were complaining that there were no flies to sway, and Parker said he’d go get us one. He ran away and came back about 15 seconds later, fist clenched. He opened his hand, and sure enough – out it flew. He did it several more times. Not sure how he did it. I am guessing he picked them off the whale.
ALLIE: Daddy! I need to go! Get out of the bathroom!
ME: (slamming the door shut) YOU’LL LET THE FLY OUT!
ALLIE: Daaaa-ddy!
ME: There are two other bathrooms. I’M AT WAR HERE!!!!
And so goes my insane fascination with hunting down flies when they enter my house. I refer to myself as a warrior. My wife has several other terms, none quite so noble.
For some reason, when a fly enters the house, I absolutely lose it. I have a set strategy for killing them, which starts with ordering everyone out of the room. I shut off all of the lights, save for the one in the bathroom near the kitchen. Often, I taunt the flies. In short order, they buzz on into the bathroom. Then it is Go time. For the record, I am undefeated. No fly escapes on my watch. With my trusty fly swatter, The Big Green Death Machine, I have vanquished many a fly foe. I even have different strategies. Sometimes, I lie in wait. Other times, I am the aggressor. And other times, I opt for style points, only attempting to take the fly out of midair.
You may think that I am somewhat odd for this ritualistic fly killing I take part in. You would be wrong. For one thing, I have found that several other people – including a certain president of a certain United States of America – are also avid fly hunters. Doubt me? Would U.S. News or Newsweek or Globe or wherever it was I read it lie to you?
But I also have found that it is possibly genetic. I was over at my parents’ house this summer, and we noted an inordinate number of flies zooming around out back. (This may or may not have had anything to do with the beached whale carcass.) Over several visits, we had been fending off flies the old-fashioned way – fans turned on high, newspapers rolled up, and repeatedly pawing at the air while trying to stifle your comments lest the 4-year-old hear them and repeat them.
Eventually, we took the logical step. What’s that you say – did we go inside? Oh, no. That is not the logical step. That is the coward’s step! We went on the offensive. We went shopping. And we armed ourselves with the Big Blue, Yellow and Pink Death Machines. Bring it on, flies.
At first, we simply kept the swatters handy for standard swatting. Fly lands, fly dies. You don’t want to rush into a big fly hunt production until you’re sure everyone is on board. But after a while, it became evident that this was not just for utility purposes. And how did this become evident? Probably when my dad said, “You’re sister’s got more than you.” When you start keeping tabs, it is officially on.
From then on, we became consumed with the flies. Once we had wiped out the flies (or they had gotten the message, as I prefer to think), we actually found ourselves wishing more flies would arrive, which I have to say is a weird place to arrive at.
After a few sessions, simply stalking the flies was not enough. We began to develop rules. Among them:
– Flies on someone’s head are fair game.
– Rule 1 does not apply if Mom is the someone.
– Double points if you hit a fly on your own person.
– Fly on a drink? Just shoo it away (that lesson learned the hard way).
We even began to try trick shots and developed fly-killing jargon. At one point, I was sitting there and one landed on my swatter. I simply said to my dad, “High five.” And he immediately knew what I was talking about. In a flash of blue plastic – WHAP! Fly sandwich. To completely go off the deep end, I have even designed my ultimate fly swatter. (Viking inspired, made from skulls, and shooting fire. It will so rock.)
And in case you were wondering – yes, my wife does sigh. A lot.
Oh, during this very grown-up process, we learned one interesting thing about my son: he can catch flies. We were complaining that there were no flies to sway, and Parker said he’d go get us one. He ran away and came back about 15 seconds later, fist clenched. He opened his hand, and sure enough – out it flew. He did it several more times. Not sure how he did it. I am guessing he picked them off the whale.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
A-maze-ing
We were lost. I was willing to admit it, especially when I saw my daughter, Allie, drawing the words “HELP US” in huge letters in the dirt. Dire times.
But my wife was not going to take defeat. “This way,” she said. “And Parker, don’t pick the corn.”
Yes, we were well into a corn maze, which is far bigger than you think it will be. A reader sent me information on this particular maze, located in Gilbert, just off I-20 exit 51. (I am not positive, but I got the sense the reader felt confident that I would lose at least one if not two kids if I went.)
My wife and I had pitched around the idea of going for a while, and when a Saturday morning came free with nothing on the agenda, we decided it was time to take the challenge. We loaded up the kids and were there in no time. This particular corn maze is part of Maize Quest, a rather sprawling network of corn mazes around the country. From what I can gather from the website, if you have the land, they will come and build you a big ol’ corn maze just for you. Of course, you don’t have to stick with corn. As they tell you, “Fence mazes, rope mazes, stone mazes, cornfield mazes, labyrinths, mist mazes, bamboo mazes, hedge mazes, hybrid mazes.” In fact, at the farm in Gilbert, they also have a tire maze and a “marshmallow” maze, which I believe was comprised of bails of hay wrapped in white plastic. Or giant marshmallows, which if true is probably quite a sight after a heavy rain.
Anywho, the corn maze sprawls over eight acres. To give you an idea how big eight acres is, it is twice the size of a four-acre plot of land. The maze boasts three miles of pathways, which means you will, without a doubt, be carrying at least one child by the end of it.
This particular maze had a pirate theme, and from an aerial shot you could see that detailed pirate scene that had been carved out of the giant field of corn. In the middle of the corn were two observation decks, and a third, taller deck was at the perimeter. Each deck was staffed with people whose job it was to get you out of the maze should you become hopelessly lost. They arm you with a big flag that you wave when you are ready to quit. Or about to wet your pants. They offer different colors of flags, but I think they should just stick with white surrender flags.
You are given a map to start with, but you can only see the map when you hold it under red transparency. (It’s kinda like those fast food game pieces, only in this instance, you don’t win a Big Mac, but rather your freedom from a corn maze.) There are five stations throughout the maze that have map readers. So, if you can make it to the station, you can put your map under the reader and chart out the path to the next station, which leads to this conversation:
MY WIFE: OK, left, second right, third right, left, left, third right, double back, over the bridge, left, right, second right.
ME: Uh...
MY WIFE: Put down the flag.
Somehow, my wife managed to get us from station to station. She is a far better map reader than I am, so I took the role of chief distracter during map reads. My wife would be plotting our course, and I would be saying one of two things:
1. “Allie, it’s a grasshopper. It’s not going to ‘get you.’”
2. “Parker, it’s a grasshopper. Leave it alone.”
If you have a fear of grasshoppers, I would recommend against a corn maze. Grasshoppers love corn. Or mazes. But there are plenty of them.
When we got to the fifth and final station, my wife told me we were almost at the end. (And made me erase Allie’s “Help Us” sign.) Sure enough, following her lead, we soon saw the exit. After a little more than an hour, the kids sprinted out of the exit victorious. One of the workers the main observation deck announces via loudspeaker when you complete the maze, which the kids found very cool.
I highly recommend a day at the corn maze with your family. If I can go and not only complete the maze but also return with the same two children I entered the maze with, surely you can do this as well. They also let you do it at night, using flashlights. Yeah, no chance I don’t lose a kid that way. If you go, just remember to follow the map, work as a team and, most importantly, remember — the grasshoppers are not going to get you.
For more information, visit www.cornmaze.com.
But my wife was not going to take defeat. “This way,” she said. “And Parker, don’t pick the corn.”
Yes, we were well into a corn maze, which is far bigger than you think it will be. A reader sent me information on this particular maze, located in Gilbert, just off I-20 exit 51. (I am not positive, but I got the sense the reader felt confident that I would lose at least one if not two kids if I went.)
My wife and I had pitched around the idea of going for a while, and when a Saturday morning came free with nothing on the agenda, we decided it was time to take the challenge. We loaded up the kids and were there in no time. This particular corn maze is part of Maize Quest, a rather sprawling network of corn mazes around the country. From what I can gather from the website, if you have the land, they will come and build you a big ol’ corn maze just for you. Of course, you don’t have to stick with corn. As they tell you, “Fence mazes, rope mazes, stone mazes, cornfield mazes, labyrinths, mist mazes, bamboo mazes, hedge mazes, hybrid mazes.” In fact, at the farm in Gilbert, they also have a tire maze and a “marshmallow” maze, which I believe was comprised of bails of hay wrapped in white plastic. Or giant marshmallows, which if true is probably quite a sight after a heavy rain.
Anywho, the corn maze sprawls over eight acres. To give you an idea how big eight acres is, it is twice the size of a four-acre plot of land. The maze boasts three miles of pathways, which means you will, without a doubt, be carrying at least one child by the end of it.
This particular maze had a pirate theme, and from an aerial shot you could see that detailed pirate scene that had been carved out of the giant field of corn. In the middle of the corn were two observation decks, and a third, taller deck was at the perimeter. Each deck was staffed with people whose job it was to get you out of the maze should you become hopelessly lost. They arm you with a big flag that you wave when you are ready to quit. Or about to wet your pants. They offer different colors of flags, but I think they should just stick with white surrender flags.
You are given a map to start with, but you can only see the map when you hold it under red transparency. (It’s kinda like those fast food game pieces, only in this instance, you don’t win a Big Mac, but rather your freedom from a corn maze.) There are five stations throughout the maze that have map readers. So, if you can make it to the station, you can put your map under the reader and chart out the path to the next station, which leads to this conversation:
MY WIFE: OK, left, second right, third right, left, left, third right, double back, over the bridge, left, right, second right.
ME: Uh...
MY WIFE: Put down the flag.
Somehow, my wife managed to get us from station to station. She is a far better map reader than I am, so I took the role of chief distracter during map reads. My wife would be plotting our course, and I would be saying one of two things:
1. “Allie, it’s a grasshopper. It’s not going to ‘get you.’”
2. “Parker, it’s a grasshopper. Leave it alone.”
If you have a fear of grasshoppers, I would recommend against a corn maze. Grasshoppers love corn. Or mazes. But there are plenty of them.
When we got to the fifth and final station, my wife told me we were almost at the end. (And made me erase Allie’s “Help Us” sign.) Sure enough, following her lead, we soon saw the exit. After a little more than an hour, the kids sprinted out of the exit victorious. One of the workers the main observation deck announces via loudspeaker when you complete the maze, which the kids found very cool.
I highly recommend a day at the corn maze with your family. If I can go and not only complete the maze but also return with the same two children I entered the maze with, surely you can do this as well. They also let you do it at night, using flashlights. Yeah, no chance I don’t lose a kid that way. If you go, just remember to follow the map, work as a team and, most importantly, remember — the grasshoppers are not going to get you.
For more information, visit www.cornmaze.com.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Aging out
It’s official: I’m old.
Granted, I don’t FEEL old, but the folks in product marketing and advertising have decided I am no longer young, as they have kicked me out of their coveted 18-34 demographic, simply because I made the decision to turn 35.
When I was a kid, 35 was WAY old. Like as old as my parents. I now realize that my parents were actually younger than this when I was born.
Being able to wrap your arms around the fact that your parents were once – gasp – younger is a disturbing concept.
So since we are so focused on number when it comes to age, I will focus on some important numbers during my 35 years logged here on Earth:
5: Number of places I have lived. The bulk of my years are here in Aiken (including my first ones). My second longest tenure was in college at Alabama. Throw in a year in Michigan, a year in D.C. and a year in Orlando and I have just enough experience in life to know that I would rather live deep in a well than in a big city.
2: The number of children I have.
4: The number of children my parents had.
Countless: The number of times I have questioned how, as the fourth child, I made it here. Don’t get me wrong: Love my two children. I just couldn’t imagine leaving man-to-man coverage and playing a zone defense.
11: The number of ways my children think babies come to the planet.
0: Number of children that will be produced in those ways, which include shaving baby monkeys, alien landings, and finding “baby nests” in trees.
8: The number of pet dogs I have had.
3: The number of pet opossums I have had.
1: The number of pet raccoons I have had.
0: The number of pet manatees I have had, due to unfair laws and unreasonable spouses.
4: The number of cars I have owned my life.
1: The number of new cars I have owned in my life.
13: The number of years I drove that new car before selling it last year.
20: The average number of new cars most of my friends seem to have owned since college.
59: Cost, in cents, of a gallon of gas when I got my driver’s license.
11: Age I looked when I got my license.
3: Times I got pulled over because a police officer thought I was some sixth grader out on a joy ride in mom’s car.
240: Length, in feet, of my mother’s Mercury Grand Marquis, which made me look even more diminutive.
5: Years my wife and I dated before getting married.
9: Years we have been married.
52: Years my wife feels like we have been together.
11: Milliseconds it took me to accept my first job offer out of college.
3: Number of times the person offering the job told me to stop accepting the position before I knew the salary, location, etc.
15,900: My annual salary out of college.
7: An hourly wage I thought was AWESOME when in college.
10: Cents the Tooth Fairy paid out when I was a kid.
3: Dollars the Tooth Fairy now pays out, which seems to be outpacing inflation.
0: The number of times I have been called for jury duty.
1: The number of times I have been a Nielsen viewer.
2: Seconds it takes you to realize there is a flaw when people are getting asked to record their viewing habits more often than to determine their fellow citizens’ guilt or innocence.
6: Minutes that we shot for in running a mile when I played high school soccer.
6: Minutes that, I guarantee you, will not be even attempted when running a mile unless a bear is chasing me.
4: Number of football National Championships Alabama has won in football in my lifetime.
20: Number of football National Championships that Alabama fans, including myself, expect Nick Saban to win over the next 20 years (after this year, of course, which is a warm-up).
575: Number of “Mike’s Life” columns I estimate that I have written.
500ish: Number of times someone has asked, “Does your wife get mad about your columns?”
0: Number of times she has gotten mad about a column.
1: Number of times I have been called a “parasite” as a result of a column.
So there you have it. A very random sampling of key numbers OTHER than 35.
Frankly, getting older doesn’t bother me that much, even if I have been kicked out of the cool kids’ demographic.
But I am sure my new club – the 35-55 demographic – can be a happening club, too.
After all, we are the ones who can really make a difference in this world. First order – I’m getting a manatee.
Granted, I don’t FEEL old, but the folks in product marketing and advertising have decided I am no longer young, as they have kicked me out of their coveted 18-34 demographic, simply because I made the decision to turn 35.
When I was a kid, 35 was WAY old. Like as old as my parents. I now realize that my parents were actually younger than this when I was born.
Being able to wrap your arms around the fact that your parents were once – gasp – younger is a disturbing concept.
So since we are so focused on number when it comes to age, I will focus on some important numbers during my 35 years logged here on Earth:
5: Number of places I have lived. The bulk of my years are here in Aiken (including my first ones). My second longest tenure was in college at Alabama. Throw in a year in Michigan, a year in D.C. and a year in Orlando and I have just enough experience in life to know that I would rather live deep in a well than in a big city.
2: The number of children I have.
4: The number of children my parents had.
Countless: The number of times I have questioned how, as the fourth child, I made it here. Don’t get me wrong: Love my two children. I just couldn’t imagine leaving man-to-man coverage and playing a zone defense.
11: The number of ways my children think babies come to the planet.
0: Number of children that will be produced in those ways, which include shaving baby monkeys, alien landings, and finding “baby nests” in trees.
8: The number of pet dogs I have had.
3: The number of pet opossums I have had.
1: The number of pet raccoons I have had.
0: The number of pet manatees I have had, due to unfair laws and unreasonable spouses.
4: The number of cars I have owned my life.
1: The number of new cars I have owned in my life.
13: The number of years I drove that new car before selling it last year.
20: The average number of new cars most of my friends seem to have owned since college.
59: Cost, in cents, of a gallon of gas when I got my driver’s license.
11: Age I looked when I got my license.
3: Times I got pulled over because a police officer thought I was some sixth grader out on a joy ride in mom’s car.
240: Length, in feet, of my mother’s Mercury Grand Marquis, which made me look even more diminutive.
5: Years my wife and I dated before getting married.
9: Years we have been married.
52: Years my wife feels like we have been together.
11: Milliseconds it took me to accept my first job offer out of college.
3: Number of times the person offering the job told me to stop accepting the position before I knew the salary, location, etc.
15,900: My annual salary out of college.
7: An hourly wage I thought was AWESOME when in college.
10: Cents the Tooth Fairy paid out when I was a kid.
3: Dollars the Tooth Fairy now pays out, which seems to be outpacing inflation.
0: The number of times I have been called for jury duty.
1: The number of times I have been a Nielsen viewer.
2: Seconds it takes you to realize there is a flaw when people are getting asked to record their viewing habits more often than to determine their fellow citizens’ guilt or innocence.
6: Minutes that we shot for in running a mile when I played high school soccer.
6: Minutes that, I guarantee you, will not be even attempted when running a mile unless a bear is chasing me.
4: Number of football National Championships Alabama has won in football in my lifetime.
20: Number of football National Championships that Alabama fans, including myself, expect Nick Saban to win over the next 20 years (after this year, of course, which is a warm-up).
575: Number of “Mike’s Life” columns I estimate that I have written.
500ish: Number of times someone has asked, “Does your wife get mad about your columns?”
0: Number of times she has gotten mad about a column.
1: Number of times I have been called a “parasite” as a result of a column.
So there you have it. A very random sampling of key numbers OTHER than 35.
Frankly, getting older doesn’t bother me that much, even if I have been kicked out of the cool kids’ demographic.
But I am sure my new club – the 35-55 demographic – can be a happening club, too.
After all, we are the ones who can really make a difference in this world. First order – I’m getting a manatee.
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