My mom texted me the other day. She wanted
to know why I haven’t blogged in a while. “Are you mad at me?” she asked. Yes, Mom. I haven’t been blogging the last several weeks because I’m mad at you. You
got me. Smiley face.
If you read this blog, you know I hit a
wall twice a year: about six weeks before the end of each semester. It’s when I
like to think that I’m forcing myself to “buckle down” and focus on school,
when really it’s the semester caving in on me.
But these last two months have been different
than the previous times. I’ve been reassessing what it is at 36 I want out of
life. Is going to school to pursue a writing career really in my best interest,
in my family’s best interest?
As many of you may also know, I spent
several weeks training for the Warrior Dash. By training, I mean that I ate less
pizza and snacked on fewer cookies. I tried to add a jogging regimen to my
workout routine. Said routine wanted no part of that, outsiders aren’t welcome.
But thanks to an Internet call-out by my baby sister’s husband, I had to man-up…or
at least try.
My brother-in-law Jeremy raved of the
warrior-sized obstacle course we’d attempt to conquer. He promised the finish
line would be waiting with a warrior-sized turkey leg to reward my efforts. There
was talk of a warrior-sized beer to wash down my warrior-like feast. All that
was missing was a wench to satisfy my warrior-like needs - he’d said I could
bring my wife; he was bringing my sister. Yuck.
He’d said that upon completing The Dash there’d
be warrior-sized stories to tell my family and friends. I could tell the truth
or exaggerate my warrior-sized accomplishments. The choice was mine. So this is
where I tell you, my fledgling peons, that I conquered the race in the fastest
time ran by any man, woman, and superhero, and despite what the photos-for-purchase
that were taken at various points of the course might show, I didn’t walk at
all. Not. One. Step. This is where I don’t tell you that my chariot to the
Warrior Dash was my mom’s mini-van, because mini-vans aren’t warrior-like…despite
the heroic antics of Flynn Rider in the movie Tangled playing for the kids in the back seat.
If I’m being honest, I didn’t think I
was anywhere near ready to commit to something I thought was so challenging.
Mentally, I wasn’t ready to do the work, so I didn’t do the work – not really.
But as I ran to the first obstacle, I found my inner monologue telling my
overactive brain to settle down, just have fun. So I did.
We finished the race in 47 minutes. Not
great; not horrible. But being that Jeremy and I were running in the very last
heat of the two-day race, my only real goal was to not be lapped by the
volunteers cleaning up trash on the trail before calling it a weekend.
Despite as much psyching myself up and
psyching myself out that occurred in the weeks leading up to the Warrior Dash,
once the race was over, I’d forgotten about everything I’d previously feared. You
see, after races like these there’s an option to donate your shoes to charity –
they’ll be cleaned and shipped across seas to people in countries where used shoes
are better than no shoes. The shoes I’d left behind that day were shoes I didn’t
want to let go of. I know, you’re thinking I’m crazy for being so sentimental
about a pair of Nike Shox that were nearly four years old. You probably think I’m
crazy for spending the three weeks prior to the race questioning my decision to
give up those Nike Shox, and instead wondering if buying a new pair of cheaper
shoes to run in and then donate would be a better option. But something inside
of me, no matter how much I tried to rationalize my reasoning for why I’d miss those
shoes, wouldn’t let me run in anything else. So I ran. I walked. I waded
through water. I crawled through mud. I crossed the finish line. Then I
donated. That’s when it hit me: those Nikes had been with me when I’d experienced
some of the most memorable moments of my life.
Those shoes were there when I’d finally
gotten to watch a baseball game at Fenway Park. They’d been to famed Dodger
Stadium, where Kirk Gibson became a legend, and John Cusack made out with a girl on the hood of a 1967 Camaro that was parked at home plate. They saw Derek Jeter collect his 3000th hit in front of the home crowd in The Bronx. They’d seen
Mickey and Minnie and all of their friends at Disneyland. They were there the
day I took my first steps as a grown man and enrolled in classes at a university
full of teenagers, and then again the day I almost backed out of going to my
first class, a writing class. Those shoes walked down Hollywood Boulevard, and
took part as I had my photo taken as I crouched next to Tom Selleck’s star on
the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Those $140 Nike Shox that had been purchased one hot
Texas July evening in 2008 saw Big Ben tower over London, waited patiently
outside the Blue Mosque in Istanbul for me but were later allowed to step
inside the Hagia Sophia. A few days afterwards, they walked
in the rain through Paris at night as my wife and I looked for the perfect souvenirs in
shops scattered on various streets at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Those shoes
had seen more in four years then some people will ever see in a lifetime – more
than I thought I’d ever see in mine. I loved those Nikes, as if they were an extension of my soul. And as I took them off and placed them in
the pile of other participants’ memories, I knew they’d soon see a different
part of the world without me. I found comfort, not regret.
Donating my tennis shoes that day was
just the beginning though, there was a dumpster for unwanted race clothes as
well. I’d run the Warrior Dash in a blue T-shirt that on the front read Her
Living Room Hero. My Twitter address was on the back. I let it go too. Only
fitting that something that represented my entire family and supported some random thoughts and anicdotes on an Internet page read in over thirty countries around the globe should
make its way into the world too, apart from us. Somewhere, somebody owns the
very first Her Living Room Hero souvenir. Sorry, Mom. I promise I’m really not
mad at you.
So today, I write. I’m doing the
work – something I’ve started waking up and telling myself every day. I keep
those words on an index card, tacked to a corkboard by my desk. A reminder that
nothing comes free, that everything requires some level of sacrifice. That
effort might lead to frustration and even heartache, but it’s the only thing
that’s going to make life happen – not just happen by default, but really
happen. If I want to be a writer, I have to write – no excuses. I have to do the work. I want my kids
to know that. Kacie turned 14 today. She has eleven days left before the summer
that will lead her into her new life in high school begins. I especially want her to know that.
Do whatever makes you happy, baby girl. Be who you want to be. Dream of the impossible if that's what you want. But do the work. You won’t get where it is you really want to go if
you don’t, no matter how awesome your shoes might be.
