From Hedonistic to Holistic

I didn't go on my drive.

And there were many factors in the universe that joined together this past weekend to ensure that sad fact. My favorite of which was when my colon decided to open its own franchise water-slide park. Yes, might I suggest envisioning a field of sunflowers at this moment, or perhaps the gentle lap of a tired ocean wave to help you forget what the real imagery entails.

No, the real sad fact is that had I wanted to go on my drive, I would have. You know, if I'd truly WANTED it, I would have taken it. But I didn't. Nothing in the world can so easily thwart a man as himself.

Now this isn't to say that the weekend wasn't fun. Aside from the waterpark episode, it was frackin' amazing. Good times, good friends, LOTS of Strongbow, and the best "wake" ever held for someone who hasn't yet left us. My wingman Keaton isn't overly fond of birthdays. Frankly, he hates them. Doesn't even enjoy the concept, whereas I will dedicate an entire weekend of festivities on unto myself in celebration of the glorious day when I was welcomed into existence—but hey, to each his own.

Since a birthday party—short of a wormhole ripping through the fabric of space/time and depositing an alternate-reality version of Keaton in our midst—wasn't going to happen, a more delightfully morbid theme emerged. Keaton's Wake. I made t-shirts.

Not even kidding.

A while back he was looking at photos of me and my family. We (the people in the pics) were laughing, smiling, having an apparently fantastic time. And we were all impeccably dressed. He was a little surprised that all the pictures were from wakes. They're fun, I explained, once you've gotten past the whole funeral bit preceding it. Really—that's how I was raised. The wake was the place you finally let go of the painful grief. You never forget those lost. You remember them. Very fondly. You laugh at their stories. You relive the best times you ever spent with them. And you do all this with a bunch of people who all just want to remember the best bits.

So that's what we did. We had a wake for Keaton's 35th year. On the eve of his birthday, we gathered the usual suspects (and a few extras just because) and we had one hell of a party. There was good food, great beer, friends (the kind that define the word), singing—strike that—amazing singing (thank you General Capcom Walt), and there was even a trench coat once we'd made it past the witching hour (for those missing this subtle reference, there will be more information later on Trench Coat & Lingerie Day in a later posting, I'm sure). Yes, it was truly a wake to remember. Slept like the dead. Didn't wake up until one-thirty in the afternoon the next day. Good party.

And now let us flip to the complete opposite of that. Me. Getting up this morning at 4:45 a.m. to be at a gym (yes, the place where people exercise voluntarily) to—yes, workout! I know, right?! And then using the remaining time before work everyday to write. It'll add four or more hours a week to my writing schedule, which has been pretty pathetic as of late.

See, I've been talking about working out and getting in shape for some time now... like a decade. So after making excuses that just showed how much I didn't really want this before—because if you really want something, you go after it no matter the cost—I decided I do want to get in shape. I want to feel healthy. Now, to clarify for those that don't know me, when I say get in shape, I mean put on muscle. Some bulk. Some... something more than the skin and soft muscle adorning my skeletal frame. And, happily, many people have been supportive of this new endeavor.

Was just writing an email today to a good friend who I don't get to hang with as nearly as often as we should, and I was going on about the sudden shift. This upheaval of lifestyle, where one day I'm tossing back Strongbows and slamming on really tasty, yet really bad-for-me food, to the next where I'm working out four times a week (before the sun wakes up), packing my lunch (not to mention my insane decision to potentially give up pop—zut alors!), and really hitting the dedication hard on this one.

Side bar: I just wrote "zut alors!". Haven't said or heard that phrase in years. I had an awesome writing prof who used it repeatedly.

Of course there have been some who simply responded to my great announcement of change with some skepticism or some other equally deflating sentiment. First hint to all who read this: when your friend embarks on a new, healthy phase in his life, don't question it. Support it. Now on both sides, there are those who ask "why", and this is a valid and wonderful question.

There are many reasons. Some I know, some I don't. Finally doing something about fitness after many years of ignoring it... it was just time. Creeping up on thirty (yeah, yeah, I've got some time, cry my elders) and I'm told this doesn't get easier. Wanting to look the part for a play (theater makes you do crazy things—I mean, did you see what I did to my hair for "Ballyhoo"?). But I guess one of the reasons (one I don't really like to think about), is self-reliance. I want to know that I can handle myself. My life is, quite fortunately, a good one. But our world doesn't always take that into account. Things happen. Bad things. And I want to be ready to face them, should they knock on my door. And while taking the step to prepare myself for unimaginable scenarios seems like a morbid way of life, it's one that in today's culture is a necessary one.

Or maybe it's something that we used to do but we don't anymore. People just used to do something, didn't they? They banded together in rough times. They fought for what was theirs. They pushed back invasions. Fought evil and tyranny because it was their duty. Yes, people still do that now, but it's not something we hear about all that often. Wouldn't it be nice if the news reminded us about that in an uplifting way? They only seem to speak of heroes after a tragedy.

Natural disasters, accidents, acts of war and terror—how would you handle yourself? After last week's attack at Virginia Tech, I was talking to another friend and the discussion brought up that basic question. What would I have done in that situation. I honestly didn't know. I like to think I would have done something. Something smart. Something heroic. Something more than nothing. But I don't know. Couldn't tell you. That rattled me a bit.

So maybe my new workout thing is me trying to control something in an uncontrollable world? Maybe it's stemming from inspiration. The push of a friend who never lets you forget your potential. Maybe it's the need to make time for me, to figure out what I want. I often find I don't have the time to do the things I want to do even when I know what they are. And so I made the time. Stole it from my slumber, which in turn gets me to bed at a "reasonable" hour and effectively means I'm taking time out of my hectic night today to control things tomorrow.

But it's more than that. I want to get in shape. I want to finish several writing projects. I want to start skiing again. Maybe work on my balance and coordination so that I can play basketball with Zubov and not suck. I want to run a mile. And make good time. I want to take some martial arts training. I want to learn to shoot. Arrows. And bullets. I don't even like guns, per se, but I think I should know how to handle one so that I'm not afraid of them. Saw someone wield one once, very close to me (thankfully not at me) during a random robbery, and it's not a memory I recall with fondness.

That was one of those "unimaginable" moments for me—the first time that the reality of the world had breached the protective walls of my sheltered life. And I can tell you that I did absolutely nothing.

So now I'm doing something. Living deliberately. One step at a time.