Sir Limpalot

This machine will break down. 

This morning I got up way too early and pounded the pavement. It was the longest run in the last few years. I make myself do it three times a week at the least. The guilt is overwhelming if I can't carve some time to go running that often. The sad thing is I feel guilty even when I do hit the self prescribed minimum. Despite forcing myself from the comfort of bed when it's still dark, injecting relentless tunes into my skull and working up to a decent pace around a conveniently close-to-home loop, I feel guilty that I'm not doing more. My knees crack and my hips pop. I'm wearing through another pair of shoes. Still, there's a nagging feeling that I'm not doing enough. 

This machine is relentless. 

I chug on and on, huffing and puffing away for no discernible reason other than my own unending drive for more. More what? Punishment? I'm not trying to lose weight. I'm not training for a marathon. I'm not training for the military. It's as though there's some invisible meter in my body that builds up energy over time and I feel this urge to discharge it. When I finish, gasping as I punch in the code to raise the garage door, it feels like a pressure valve has been opened over the previous hour. It vents anxiety and frustration. I can feel the pressures of life easing as I run laps around the mile and a half loop in my neighborhood. 

This machine is working for me. 

The pressures on my mind ease as the wear and tear increases on my body. It's a tipping of scales. I used to take the amazing mechanics of my body for granted. I'd sit on the couch doing nothing, gorging on poison without a second thought. The tide turned a few years ago and now I'm bound and determined to run this thing right into the ground. I realized soon after the practice became habit that there was an energy exchange occurring. The higher the mental energy, the more I could burn while running. Stressed? Overwhelmed? Hard day? Give me an hour and my shoes and it's gone. It takes the starch out. It bleeds the poison from my mind as I wear out the joints and beams. It was made over the course of thousands and thousands of years of evolution and is the most elegant, efficient system we could have. I'm already wearing it out. 

This machine won't last forever. 

I'm already having to hack the system. I'm using a brace on one knee, and I can feel the other starting to creak. Special foods and recipes designed to make the most of the fuel burning process. Doing all the necessary stretches. Utilizing BPM tracking on music to push me. Running in loops around my home in case my bad knee suddenly locks up on me, out of the blue. My better half tries to find opportunities to talk me out of wearing myself down, finding reasons to sneak me a cookie or experiment with homemade ice cream. Telling me to sleep in, to take days off. She knows I'm running the machine too hard, too often. I hope she doesn't worry, but that probably won't stop me. 

I'm going to run this whole contraption right into the ground. Sooner or later, something will give. A ligament tearing. Heatstroke in the summer. Slipping on the ice in winter. Dodging distracted drivers at intersections. Maybe I'll trip over one of the countless startled rabbits that don't expect me at that ungodly hour. Back pains. Bad knees. I can't run forever. As long as the machine works, though, I'm not stopping. 

Donor Card

I donated some blood the other day. 

Not a lot. Just a pint. 

I know there's a certain squick factor here, but I rather enjoy the whole bizarre process. Being fortunate enough not to have a fear of needles, that's reason enough. I also happen to be the picture of health - no diseases, allergies, pre-existing conditions of any sort. I've never even broken a bone. So the least I can do is make good use of a healthy specimen and donate some blood to someone who might need it. Does it alleviate the guilt of having all the advantages I do and not doing much to make the world a better place? No. But, it does a small bit of good. Someone needs it. I guess it goes bad after a while, so fresh, healthy stock is needed. So why not?

It's a weird process. The more you think about it, the more unusual it becomes. There's this viscous goo inside us that we donate, and you feel really dopey and light headed afterword. Any other time you lose blood like that, you're probably terribly injured and at least a little traumatized. This time, you're okay, just have a cookie and relax for a minute. People can joke about oil and being a pint low and all that, but really - that there's this operating substance in us that can be siphoned out is so bizarre. It makes you reexamine your sense of self - there you are, draining out of your arm into a bag. It is both marvelous and humbling. We are a sum of parts, yet so much more.

Additionally, there are health benefits to donating as well. Apparently most Americans (possibly others, but I can only speak for my country of carnivores) have diets that are much too high in iron. These iron particulates, when unabsorbed in the bloodstream, behave as free-radicals, which are rarely a good thing. There is a saturation point at which our bodies fail to process all of the excess iron and it can build up to a detrimental level. Donating blood both removes some of this excess as well as allows the body to freely generate and replace the missing pint with its own fresh supply, thus redistributing the remaining amounts. 

So I probably sound like as ghoul, dissecting all this. Eh. It's a fascinating thing, one that more people should do if they're up for it. Gives me a break in the day and makes me appreciate the wonder of a functioning, healthy body. Good gravy, how's that for a glimpse under the hood, eh? #NoVamps #Twitterjoke 

On Growing Up

Hey gang.

It's gotten way too serious around here, as of late. So in the interest of lightening the mood while still getting personal, how about I share with you some of the insights I've had in the transition from being a confused adolescent to a functioning adult? Sound good? Let's go! Brace yourself, it's about to get all self-aggrandizing in here. Without further ado, I present to you some of the things that I enjoy about growing older:

-Being in the best damn shape of my life. Just getting this one out of the way. I already covered this one in depth.

-Dressing better. I've learned enough about fashion versus style in the slow development of my taste that I feel pretty confident that I dress well for a young man. You don't want to be showy, you want to be timeless.

-Realizing all religions are equally arbitrary and based on the same basic principles. Hey, I'm not raining on anyone's parade but it took a lot of anxiety out of the equation once I realized they're all as valid as the others, and whatever you choose is your choice. I don't care.

-Understanding why I save and invest so much. Not going broke? Sounds great. Having savings? Even better. Understanding why that's important is the crucial difference, though.

-Being happy with my significant other. I'm still fascinated and saddened that people stay in unhealthy relationships and I am so thankful to have found someone who loves me for who I am and vice versa.

-Having a clean, organized and well lit home. Seriously, there's a difference between kitsch and clutter. I like knowing where my things are and knowing there are no bugs crawling around on an inch of dust. That makes me an old man? I'll take it.

-Not having to put up with people I don't care for. For real. You're a dick? Leave. Or apologize. I've learned you don't have to take guff from someone in this life. Ever. Treat people with respect and they more often than not give it back. If not, they're not worth the hassle.

-Sleeping well and understanding why it helps. Oh man. I wish I understood this in college. Waking up and not hating the world for being exhausted was a game changer. I love that sense of recharge I get from a solid 7+ hours. Screw bars if they get in the way of it.

-Eating healthy food and knowing I'm not poisoning myself. Again, been there and done that. Lots of veggies, less meat. Little to no chemicals. Basically, go with as few ingredients as possible. Feels great and tastes even better.

-Not feeling like a damn child. I don't walk into a room and feel as outgunned, socially, anymore. I get tons of anxiety about normal any situation, for sure. But I don't feel like I'm fresh out of college and wearing a rumpled suit that smells like smoke. All these little things have a cumulative effect.

-Enjoying rational reasonable debate. Particularly over a meal or drinks. I know, don't discuss money, politics or religion. But that still leaves stuff to really gnaw on. I love a good, passionate debate, one where you really sell your idea and maybe learn a thing or two in the process. Maybe you even find yourself giving ground.

-Enjoying silent contemplation. Now I really sound old, huh? I love silence, a brief reprieve from the mad world we live in. Just a small quiet space wherein I hear nothing of car horns, shouting, Kardashians and breaking news. Bliss.

-Stronger BS detector. Through experience or whatever else, you just get a better sense of lies as you get older. Including your own, which leads to lots and lots of honesty. Which is always the best policy.


Sounds pretty pretentious, huh? Yeah, I know. What it all boils down to is the simple fact that I like my own little piece of the world to inhabit, a small place with my better half in which to contemplate the day and reflect on our lives. I like getting older with her. I look forward to being an old man. Years downs the line, of course.

Good Quitting

Humblebrag time, kids. 

I was a smoker for a long time. I'm not proud of that. At all. What I am proud of is the fact that, with surprisingly little fuss, I was able to walk away from such a damaging and draining habit. If you happen to have fallen victim to the same bad habit, I strongly encourage you to do the same. 

Funny thing is, when I look back at why I started, it was absolutely for the stereotypical reasons. When you get down to the honest truth...it felt good and I thought it made me look cool. Sad, huh? I was a misguided, self-assured teenager with self-esteem issues. Also, it gave me something to do with my hands and afforded me an out in a lot of social situations. It was really stupid but I simply did not care about the repercussions at the time. Again, I'm not proud of it but it does help me understand the folly of youth. 

This was at a time when you could still smoke indoors. I recall the fondness for a specific restaurant in college that not only was open late but had a smoking section. There was some concern among fellow smokers when the smoking ban was first passed, but even at the time I knew it made sense. I had worked in  bars and restaurants prior to the ban. After my shift would be over, I would very badly want a cigarette but my lungs burned badly enough from second hand smoke that it would actually be unpleasant to light up. That may have been the first sign that maybe this wasn't the best thing for me to be doing. 

I was, for the entire duration as a smoker, a young person in reasonably decent health. That is, until I hit a tipping point. I mentioned in my last piece about dealing with a prescription that caused some excessive weight gain. When you add the smoking and weight gain on to a typical amount of collegiate imbibing, what was once a healthy young athlete's body was quickly transformed into the worst version of myself. I was a fat mess. Straight up. I ate terribly and felt terrible. All of these bad habits were suddenly catching up with me very fast. I vividly recall the stinging humiliation I felt when a friend of mine audibly noticed (in the middle of a party, to my horror) that I looked pregnant. I had, seemingly out of nowhere, acquired a huge gut. Rather than face my lifestyle choices, I instead chose to disarm any observance of poor health with self-disparaging jokes. I was the first one to point out my poor physique, as if my joking about it would grant acceptance or somehow overcome the fact that I looked and felt like a big sack of gross. 

The slow, steady turn around all started with my better half and my instinct to make a promise before I determine whether or not I can keep it. 

She hated my smoking, and I can not fault her at all for doing so. The simple fact that she dated me while I did so speaks volumes for her patience and ability to see the best in everyone. As New Year's Eve approached one year, I was once again asked about when I would quit. I dismissively remarked "...after New Year's, I guess." I just assumed I'd try and see how it went. It was less than a week away and I hadn't really planned for it. I got the patch and the gum and just kind of....stopped. I remember having my last one and thinking "Ok, no more." That was it. No big moment, just deciding I wasn't going to do it anymore. The patch and gum made me feel sick, so I stopped leaning on them. In a matter of days, I was essentially cold turkey.

Sure, the first couple days sucked. I was crabby and felt terrible. Worse than before. I remember peeling the label off of every bottle of beer around me. But then I rounded the corner. Suddenly food tasted amazing. Turns out your sense of smell and taste are so dulled by smoking that you forget what they are really capable of. Strangely enough, I didn't have any temptation to start back up. It was a bad habit I was just walking away from, for which I felt incredibly lucky. Not everyone experiences the same quitting process, but to anyone wired similar to me - it is completely possible to stop, if you really want to. I've never really wanted another one, to be honest. I miss having something to do with my hands in social situations, but hey - smart phones are a fantastic replacement. 

Once I was done smoking, everything else tumbled into place. I slowly realized I could change myself. Looking in the mirror after stepping on a scale, I vowed to change myself. I decided I didn't want to be fat for the rest of my life. I wanted to be the thin, healthy person I used to be. I wanted to be able to go outside without sweating and buy clothes without sacrificing my dignity to pants that wouldn't button. As a dude, I didn't want to have boobs. Yeah. I had some moobs. 

So, like quitting smoking, one day I decided I was going to get fit again. 

I stopped eating fast food and started bringing salads to the office. I stopped drinking soda altogether (sidebar - you want caffeine? Stop with soda, coffee has way more in it). Much like when Homer Simpson started working out, I began running in the early morning, when no one would point and laugh and see me jiggle. The weight peeled right off. It might be infuriating for some people to read this, but please - know that it's not bragging. It's me sharing how I got my life back in order after years of unhealthy living. I just wanted it bad enough to stick with it. I absolutely would indulge every now and then. Having a better half who is a phenomenal cook necessitates the occasional treat. Apple crisp in the fall. The Greek yogurt with honey. I have a serious sweet tooth. I had to learn moderation and self control.


From highest high to lowest low (which I had to back off from, after getting too skeletal towards the bottom) I dropped somewhere around 90lbs. It's been years and it's all stayed off. A former coworker once snidely told me she expected me to slowly let the weight creep back on after I got married, just like her husband. I remember how mad and hurt I was. Other peoples failures had no impact on me. Like I said, it's been years and I still look better than I did when I graduated from college.


It takes constant maintenance, but it has absolutely been worth the effort. I enjoy my life so much more, now, as a healthy person. It hasn't been a life ruining change - food is awesome, and what I eat now is so much more delicious than anything I ate when I was out of shape. It's just exercising and eating right. 


And not smoking. That stuff will kill you.