Hurricanes, Go AWAY!

It must have been the first of September in 1996 when Lisa’s grandmother, Tutu, called to see if she and Papa could stay with us.  Hurricane Fran was on her way.  The grandfolks were living in a very nice retirement community in Wilmington.  The place was evacuating.

I loved Tutu and Papa.  She was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, she called me Mr. Wonderful.  And he, he was just a very good man.

Fran left us without power for over a week.  The devastation was significant in eastern and central North Carolina.

Toward the end of their stay, Tutu called a friend who had evacuated with the other residents of the retirement community on chartered buses.

“How was the armory?” Tutu asked.

“We didn’t stay at an armory!  We stayed at the Omni.  The nicest hotel I’ve ever been to!”

While Tutu and Papa had been roughing it out in an unairconditioned home, brewing coffee on the backyard grill, their friends had been hooting it up at a five star hotel in Chapel Hill, NC, one city over!  Apparently, they didn’t clearly catch the evacuation plan.

For Florence, my workplace had an extensive, well thought out plan.  One slight glitch:  I was assigned to check on our corporate office in the event of significant damage.  Made sense.  I live nearby.  The conference call for preparations went something like this:

We may take the servers down on Thursday afternoon.  If we do, we will just need someone to bring them back online when the weather clears.

I heard a few snickers on the line.

Someone asked, “Didn’t you say Danny was the primary contact for the corporate office?”  My name was emphasized like when Scotty Cannon didn’t pick me for the kickball team in elementary school – “I don’t want Danny on my team.”

More snickers.

I knew what they were implying.  I’m not that technical.  My mind is just not made that way.  But I am very adept at talking, something not every IT genius excels at.

I jumped in the conversation:  Hey, hey.  I know what you’re implying.  Don’t you worry.  Those little servers are in very good hands!  I got it.  By the way, where are the servers and will they have food?

I knew that’s not the sort of server they were talking about, but it was fun to envision the head IT guy squirm a bit.  I’m still frustrated that my Google Chrome keeps cutting off for no reason what-SO-EVER!

I am thankful that, for the most part, my family and friends were sparred the worst from the storm.  I am, however, very sad that so many people are suffering.  And often it seems like those who get the most damage are the ones with the least financial resources.  My heart goes out to them.  Perhaps we can all find a way to contribute to the recovery effort.

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Roll Call

Last week, at Elon’s orientation, Julie and I were with a group of parents and were asked how many kids we have.  It’s sort of complicated, I thought to myself, but at the time, the word “five” just rolled off my tongue.  The other females in the group looked at Julie like she had lost her mind because y’all, that is a lot of kids!  Like more than two is a great plenty.  But FIVE?  Had she birthed them all she would have been pregnant for half a decade.

Three are in college.  One in DC, one at the University of Georgia and one in Burlington, NC, at Elon University.  Julie and her youngest are in Charlotte.  Michelle and I are in Raleigh.  We span five cities and three states.  If you speak to various members of this new tribe, you can often piece together a picture of what’s going on with each family member.  I secretly love it when siblings know something about each other that I’m unaware of.  It means they might talk to each other and be kind in the long term future.  A nice change from “You wore MY DRESS without MY permission????”

Keeping up with the crew is becoming increasingly difficult.  I believe it was DJ who started the first family Roll Call.  One kid sends a text to the entire family group:  Roll Call.  The appropriate response is a photo.  A come as you are, right then, right now pic sent back to the group as soon as possible.  This was our last call from earlier this summer.

Bailey

Child #1

Will

Child #2

Lucy

Child #3

lizzie

Child #4

Annie

Child #5

When Julie and I sent our picture, Michelle was shook!

“I cannot believe that the kids all sent pictures from our bunks at camp, with boxes of Cheez-It’s, hair in towels, unshaven, looking all regular and you and Julie sent this!”

Bruce and Julie

“I mean seriously?  Julie’s all in a long dress, and you’re wearing pants!  Probably just finished a glass of wine or something.  Are –  you –  KIDDING?  Is this how it is going to be?  We sit at home eating Cheez-It’s while y’all go out to fancy dinners?  We want in on that action!”

Truth be told, this crew would probably prefer the Shake Shack to grilled salmon and Nike shorts to pants with a button any day of the week.  Regardless, a little Roll Call every now and then is a good way to see your kids’ faces – which is nice when they are not coming in your door on the daily.

I HATE Snakes!

black_snake_l1

About two years ago, my fiancé, Julie, sent me a frantic text.  It was afternoon.  I was sitting at my desk.

I’ve been bitten by a snake. 

Julie has a large natural area in the front of her house.  She walks her dog down to the mailbox most afternoons.  On this particular day, the coiled up viper saw her.  He was jaywalking across her driveway.  Unfortunately, she didn’t see him.

Ever since, I’ve been leery of walking outdoors in Charlotte, NC.  I DON’T LIKE SNAKES, and apparently on that side of our state they are rampant!

Therefore, I was rather taken aback two weeks ago when I walked into Julie’s kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning at 10.  It was hazy outside – thus not real bright inside the house.  I glanced down at the floor and saw a long, black, squiggly rope half way under the fridge.

I stopped.

It was still.

I turned on the light.

It was still still.

I took a step forward wondering if it could be rubber foam from underneath her appliance that had fallen off.

As I approached, the squiggle wiggled.

“JULIE!  COME HERE!  NOW!  There’s a SNAKE in the KITCHEN!”

By the time she entered, homeboy had slid all the way under.

I don’t care if a snake is black, white or polka dot.  Poisonous?  Doesn’t matter.  As a friend says, I don’t trust nothing that ain’t got shoulders.

Julie called Critter Control.  He said they didn’t have a technician on hand and that it was the weekend.  They’d charge an awful lot to come get him.

“I’ll pitch in!”  I yelled.

I love my money, but I hate snakes more.

He told her to call 311, it’s a city number.  And to tell them the snake was distressing her.  That would not have been a lie.

What the heck is 311?  It sounds like a place that you put people who flunk out of the Police Academy.

I told Julie to watch the refrigerator – not to let the snake out of her sight while I went to get a weapon.

When I came back in, Julie was chatting it up with the 311 operator while she stood on the other side of the dining room.  Julie tends to stroll around when she’s talking on the phone.

“You’re not watching the snake!!!!”

But she and the operator were having a lovely conversation.

It was clear that this job was not going to be taken care of by a professional.  No.  It was going to be taken care of by me.

We called Joe, a neighbor.  Joe too dislikes snakes, but perhaps less than I.

Joe asked, “Danny, do you want to pull the refrigerator out from the wall, or do you want to kill the snake.”

That’s like asking “Do you want a hand full of cash or a rectal exam?”  But it was my fiancé’s house, I had to offer.

“You pick Joe!  I’ll do either.”

I’m sure he could sense fear.

“I’ve never killed a snake before.  This’ll be a great story for my wife.”

I love Joe.

He got the spade. I grabbed the appliance.  As I started shifting it forward, Joe informed me that our friend was headed my way.  I jumped ten feet in the air grabbing my flat shovel in the process.  He squirmed along the baseboard with his mouth wide open.  His fangs were enormous (or maybe incisors, I couldn’t really tell).  I pinned him against the wall as he squirmed for his life.  Joe got his tool near his head.  Victory was ours.

The next day the critter man did come out.  He checked for entry points.  Nothing.  I’m guessing he came in through the door just like the rest of us.

The only unanswered question I have from this incident is “Why would someone work for Critter Control?”  I just don’t get it.

Running Late

Amtrak owes me $15.83.

Being engaged and living in two cities has its advantages and disadvantages.  The disadvantages are clear:  time, miles on the road, a goopy longing for one another, hours on the phone… yada yada yada – I know, it could be worse.  The advantage is I can give you a full rundown of every Starbucks and Chic-Fill-A between Raleigh and Charlotte.  Want a latte?  Burlington.  The one near the outlet mall.  Just a cup-o-joe?  Salisbury is best.  Fresh chicken sandwich, skip I-85 exit 41.  Plus it is way too crowded.

With a multi-layered travel week ahead of me, I decided that perhaps Michelle and I would train down to Charlotte on July 2, I’d train back to work on the 5th and then drive back down for the weekend.  Get a little work done while someone else chauffeured.  Michelle and Julie had yoga/shopping plans for Thursday and Friday, so it made sense for me to get the heck out of the way and return to a light half-week at work.

I waited to buy my Amtrak tix – I have travel transportation commitment issues.  What if I change my mind?  Plus, Michelle was babysitting for a family friend supposedly until 5 PM, and the train departed at 5:16.  We’d be cutting it close.

At 4 PM, I called her, “Baby, if Mr. Hill gets home by 4:40, I think we will take the train.  There seem to still be seats left.  If not, we’ll drive.  Let me know as soon as he pulls up.”

At 4:43, she rang.  “He’s here.  Can you come get me?”

“Ask him if he can drop you at our house.  It’s only 3 minutes away.  I’ll call Uber and carry the luggage to the street.”

The plan was in motion.  A click of the Uber App and five bags later, (one carrying a homemade ice cream churn – you gotta have homemade ice cream on July 4th) I was poised to depart waiting on Dellwood Drive.

Our Uber was there in a flash.  With an already full trunk, I crammed four bags in the front seat of his car and put the churn in the back with me.  Still no Michelle.  I called.

“Baby – are you on the way?”

“Almost,” she said sweetly.

“Hurry!”

“We’re coming!”

I hated to make the driver wait any longer so I told him he could leave and opened the passenger door to begin unpacking.  About that time Mr. Hill’s truck rounded the corner.

“Jump in Michelle!  Hurry!”

Our driver took off, and I quickly booked the tickets on my phone.

Raleigh has a brand new train station which is incredibly exciting.  I had read in the paper that the station was opening on the very day we were leaving.  We’d be on the inaugural 5:16 train.

We drove up to the station.  It was empty.  The signage was sparse and not one single passenger was inside.

“I swear I read it opened today,” I explained to the driver.

“I read that too,” he assured me.

I walked up to the door – it was 5:03 PM.  A guy in a uniform was inside.  He sauntered to the door.

“You looking for the train?”

“Yeah.”

“We open next Tuesday.”

“The paper said today.”

“Yeah – they got it wrong.”

ERRR.

I ran back to the car, and we sped out to the Cabarrus Street station only a couple of blocks away.

As we neared our destination, I got a text:  Your train is delayed by an hour and 8 minutes.

I guess that’s not all bad, I thought.  At least we won’t miss it.

We unloaded our goods and headed inside the hot, cramped room.  Michelle purchased a drink from the vending machine and used the decades old bathroom.

About five minutes later, I received another text.  Your train has been delayed another 34 minutes.

Had I driven, I could have been over half way to Charlotte by the time the train left the station.  I went up to the counter.

“Can I get a refund?” I inquired.

“Yep.  This train is out of New York.  It’s always late.  Probably be delayed again.  They’re working on the tracks in Maryland.”

Good lord have mercy.

$15.83 cents for the round trip Uber and an hour later we arrived home.  Just in time to repack and leave again… in my car.

Incidentally, I checked.  We made it to Charlotte an hour and forty-five minutes before the train.  I think we made the right call.

Somethin’ going down in the Dais

AT Speaker of the House

What do you do with a 15-year-old in the summer?  I’m not sure what Michelle would choose – maybe 13 weeks of watching The Office reruns on Netflix.

Nah.  Not in the Tanner house!  She can do that on the weekends.  I have her fanny busy Monday – Friday, and she is actually enjoying the activity.

Week 1 was exciting!  She served as a Page in the NC House of Representatives.  It was not an easy feat getting into that program.  Apparently it is fairly competitive.  But she’s a cool kid with a lot to offer.  I’m not surprised she got in!

One day she was helping two younger legislative staff members prep one of the committee rooms for the day’s meetings.  It was budget time in North Carolina so the work was abundant that week.  As they were prepping, Michelle asked the staff members if there was anything else she could do to help.  They said, with very serious faces, “Yes.  We need someone to open the meeting with the Star Spangled Banner.  Do you sing?”

“Seriously?” She inquired thinking they really should have considered this earlier.

“Yep.  It’s House protocol.”

She asked if she could practice.  After belting it out, rather strongly I would imagine – she has a very good voice – they informed her they were kidding.

At least something fun is happening in our government.

On the last day of her service, she spent the day in the House Chambers as the Representatives debated the budget bill.  She told me that she felt sorry for the Democrats because they knew they were going to lose, but, she explained, “they just kept talking.”

Apparently, the Speaker of the House, several staff members and two Pages are situated in the front of the room in an area called the Dais.  it is a large desk structure elevated, sort of like where a judge sits.  Michelle’s peer, Allison, was assigned to the Dais that morning.  According to my daughter, Allison is VERY southern.  She is form a small town in eastern North Carolina, and her accent is rich.

At lunch break, the Pages gathered to eat.  As they sat down at a table, Allison ran out of the House about to bust with the news:

“Y’all,” Allison exclaimed in her country accent.  “Someone farted in the Dais.”

Now I’m not sure of the culprit, most likely the male Page standing on the opposite side from Allison.  But the prospect of the Speaker of the House stinkin’ up the Dais during budget negotiations for the State of North Carolina brings me a little chuckle.  Michelle says it sounds like something I’d do at a Y Board meeting.

She’s probably right.

 

You-Haul

Last time I rented a U-Haul was around 1999.  Actually, my dad rented it to close down my grandparent’s house. My father, my brother and I drove the truck the two hours from Fayetteville, NC, where my parents live, to Florence, SC, where my grand folks lived.

Grand mama and Granddaddy Tanner lived in this house for a very long time and had accumulated A LOT of stuff.  I used to wonder how that could happen, how you could end up with so much junk.  Now, I know.  I have cans of green beans that are older than DJ not to mention rugs, tables, lamps and my dad’s Army uniform that I couldn’t button around my waist if I spent six years in abdominal cool sculpting.

We rented the largest vehicle in the U-Haul fleet knowing there would be a great deal of wares to disseminated between the three of us.  It was sort of like driving a wide YMCA bus sans the windows and sweaty kids.

If I recall, we had a refrigerator, washer and dryer, dressers, queen mattress sets, a china cabinet, tables… I wonder why we didn’t take table cloths and candle holders.  Nah.  We went BIG.  If you made a list of the heaviest items in your house, they were the ones we choose to hang onto.

The three of us packed all day and strategically placed the items in the truck based on delivery location.  We’d leave Florence late afternoon and hit my brother’s house two hours away, unload then repeat at my parent’s house that night.  The next day we would drive to Raleigh to unload my booty and return the truck.

Because my arms are the size of cooking skewers, I was tired by the time we finished packing the truck.  I mean I lift weights at the Y, but I seldom lift dishwashers.  And my brother… weakling (I really hope he read this.)  My dad, however, used to be quite a task master.  Once he started a job, he plowed through.  It didn’t matter how late it was, how tired you were or if you had a wedding to attend that night.  The job would be done in the time frame set in his head.  I’m sort of surprised he didn’t make us repaint the house before we left that day.

About an hour into our return trip headed north toward home, the U-Haul engine began to sputter.  We made it off the main highway before it completely died.  There we sat in the gravel parking lot of Ennis’ Auto Sales.  Thankfully we had all the necessary items to cook, clean and sleep as needed.

U-Haul was great.  They brought us a new truck within a couple of hours so that we could unload the one we had and reload the new one.  Yes, we pulled EVERY SINGLE item out into Ennis’ parking lot and strategically put it all back in the truck.

I’m not sure how old my dad was when he directed, yes he was in charge, my six house moves and the closure of two grandparent houses, but if he was over 52, it was too old.  I recently moved DJ into her first apartment in DC.  She moved into a brownstone on a very skinny street a couple of blocks over from Trump’s place.  I was confident we could get her bed up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom but the dresser and the couch were another story.

You know what’s great about daughters?  They often have guy friends.  A little after we arrived, DJ made a plea for help via social media and two ROTC hunks were at our door within minutes.  Like these dudes are going to flight school next fall.  A couch was child’s play to them.

As I was pondering how to begin navigating the skinny stairway up to the den with couch in tow, Biff and Rocky picked up the couch, passed me in the hallway and carried it to it’s final destination – all within about 10 seconds.  They then asked if there was anything else I needed help with.  I felt so old, so useless.  Was I now solely the truck driver?  Was my toolkit not needed?  Was I not going to have the opportunity to put to use the years and years of dumbbell work I’d stored at the Y?

I am thankful for Biff and Rocky.  Taking a large couch up a small flight of stairs would have been a beast on my own, although I’m sure I could have done it.  But I will say those dudes stripped away a little bit of my manhood that day.

She’s Home

Ten Ways You Know Your College Student Has Returned:

10.  La Croix in da house! (the diet Coke of Millennials)

La Croix

9.  Tennis shoes in da house!  (the kitchen floor to be exact)

sneakers

8.  Dirty dishes in da house!

Dad:  “DJ, could you PLEASE clean up the dishes you use while I am at work?”

DJ:  “I clean up some of them.  Just not the hard ones.”

dirty dishes

7.  The stained shirt returns.

Phone call September 2017:

DJ:  “Dad, I got a stain on that white blouse.  Do you think you can get it out?”

Dad:  “Probably.  Just bring it home.”

May 2018:  It returns.

blouse

6.  A lone sweet potato, just hanging around.

sweet potato

5.  Tupperware filled with unidentifiable things.

tupperware

4.  Plugs, plugs, all kinds of plugs –

plugs

3.  Empty drawers.

Drawer

2.  Cluttered floors.

floors

1. The annual bathing suit blowout.

bathing suit

It’s so fun to have them back.  Right??

 

 

Huey at the Bar

I am definitely an extrovert.  I feed off others’ energy.  I’m pretty good at connecting with folks at a work function or a social gathering, asking questions of friends or acquaintances.  And yet, I sometimes work to avoid strangers – it’s just hard to invest in people I’ll likely never see again.

My fiance, Julie, apparently has a different mentality.

Last week we were in New Orleans.  We walked into a restaurant with the intent of grabbing some appetizers at the bar.  I headed to the bathroom while Julie scoped out seats.  Although there were four, I repeat FOUR, open stools at the end of the long counter, she chose to perch square in the middle of the bar between a younger couple and a middle aged loner.  In my mind, I questioned her decision, and she could tell by my facial expression:

There are many, many seats at the end of the bar.

I could also read her response:  Yes, but these seemed more interesting.

And indeed they were.

It didn’t take long for Huey, the loner, to strike up a conversation.  In short order we discovered that:

*He lives in Manhattan

*He is an only child

*His father has a horse farm in Pinehurst, NC

*His family owns a four generation furniture store in New York

*He owns a small flat in Spain that he purchased for only $34,000

And he eats a lot (he didn’t tell me that but he killed double the amount of food that Julie and I ate together.)

By 10:45 PM, he had made suggestions about our menu options, he comes to that bar every time he is in town (he chose well); he offered to go out with me to hear music if Julie wanted was too tired to hit the scene; and he and I (NOT Julie) had become Facebook friends.  When he passed her the phone to friend him, she handed it to me.  He also mentioned something about tattoos, but I think I zoned out during that portion of the conversation.

And sure enough, when I checked my Facebook feed the next morning, there was Huey, shirtless, with a tattoo of a jazz musician covering his right shoulder.

hughie

Our time with Huey is not a novelty.  Last year in San Diego we met Victoria and Ozo, a very fit couple our age, when Julie asked if we could sit by them at a courtyard bar.  It was cold, and they were near the fire.  Ozo and Victoria had merged families and wanted to meet the next day to coach us on life as stepparents.  Together they had six kids.  We met.  They coached.

In Spain we spent time with Sandra who hauled us to her apartment where we met Hugo from South America and learned to flamenco dance on her ground floor outdoor patio.  At the time, Sandra was dating a Frenchman ten years her junior.  They didn’t speak the same language.  I told her it was never going to work.  But we will never know because she is a stranger who lives in Spain.

Although this excessive interaction is uncomfortable for me, I’ll have to say it is interesting.  It’s sort of like adding a little spicy pepper to fettuccine Alfredo.  It’s good on it’s own, but the occasional flavor adds an unexpected zing.  I anticipate A LOT of zing coming my way.

To Pee Or Not To Pee, that is the question…

I think that one day I might implode.

There are times that I’m juggling so many things, I strategically have to ponder how I will get them all completed.

The other morning, I decided I could make it to Super Cuts for a quick trim before heading to school to see Stephanie receive a Senior Dance Award.  It was 10:38 AM and the Awards Assembly started at 11:20.

I walked in the door, and the one employee shared that two folks were in front of me.  I asked how long that would take.  She estimated she would have me in the chair by 11:00.  I did the math – that’s about 11 minutes a cut.  If I got in the chair by 11, I’d be done by 11:11.  I figured the drive to school was about 7 minutes so I assumed I’d arrive with sixty seconds to spare.

As 11 approached, I had the urge to pee.  Super Cuts does not have a public bathroom.  Hmm.  I didn’t plan for that in the schedule.

At 11:02, she was sweeping the gray hair off the floor from the gentleman who had preceded me.

Sweep faster!  I thought.

She called me over at 11:04.  I sat.  She snapped the hug bib around my neck.  The store phone rang.  She walked away.

Dag gone…

I pondered leaving.  But I’d invested nearly 30 minutes of my life to this point, and I was looking pre-tty scraggly.  I then questioned how long I could hold my bladder off.

I could skip the haircut, drive to school, pee and easily make it to the assembly by 11:20.  Or, I could go for the cut, hold it in until she was recognized, and then take a leak.  And even then, I might be late.

This Is not an unusual dance in my mind.  I am constantly working to pack as much in as humanly possible, often to the detriment of the tasks I am to accomplish and to my own mental wellbeing!

She walked back over.  I had to decide.

“I’m in a hurry, please just trim it up.  I’m trying to get to my kid’s award’s assembly.”

I figured if she cut less hair, it would take less time.

I estimated I could control my bladder until 11:45.  Certainly by then she would have had her moment on stage.

At the end of the cut, the stylist offered to get a warm towel to wipe off my neck.  I LOVE a warm towel on my neck!  But I refused it.  I also refused the receipt, which I never do.

I bolted out to my car, ran through two yellow lights, and pulled into St. Mary’s school on two wheels.

I walked into assembly and the dance teacher was speaking.  As soon as I took my seat, she invited Stephanie on stage.

I clapped, then peed, then sighed in relief.

Damn, I must be living right!

The Fit Family

Occasionally I write an article for Carolina Parent.  It is a magazine and web site with great resources for parents.  Visit the site to find a plethora of resources.

When I was a kid, my mom put us in the yard at 8 AM in the summer, and we didn’t return until dinnertime.  During the school year, it was 3 – 6 PM.  If it was cold, there were coats.  If it was hot, shirts were optional.

We ran around the cul-de-sac at the end of Birkshire Road in Fayetteville, NC, for hours on end.  We’d play tag, hide-and-seek, or a game my brother made up called Boy-Land.  That was when the boys chased the girls.  Tracy McDonnell insisted on equal billing so we sometimes acquiesced and played Girl-Land which was actually just as fun.  It was one of the few times in my life that a female actually showed interest in catching me.

When I was a kid, we would sometimes just stand in the front yard and spin around in circles.  Our lives were centered around physicality.  We’d come home sweaty and tired – likely burning more calories than my mom could shove into us, and she shoved a lot!

That is not the case today.  My three daughters would rather watch Netflix than breathe.  A nine season show is nothing to conquer over a five day school break.  That’s like 90 hours of TV!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the most athletic person in the world.  I don’t know the difference between a football and a hockey stick, and I have the coordination of David Hasselhoff (Dancing with the Stars, Season 11).  But I exercise four or five times a week.  I like to move.

I try to encourage activity with my girls.  I promote the possibility of good weather:  “it’s going to be 75 tomorrow. Nice day to spend outside!”  Typically I get no takers.  Internet reception is spotty beyond the walls of our house, and jogging with a laptop can be cumbersome.

I try to beat them at their own game finding activities they can do while watching a screen:  “I found a great exercise video online.  It’s Zumba!  I think you’d enjoy it.”  They disagree.  Unless Phoebe from Friends is the instructor, they have no interest.

The only way I have found slight success in getting my teenagers to sweat is to hit the gym as a family.  They seem to revel in watching me plunder through a group fitness class.

Once we landed in Sports Conditioning.  I thought it would be a good fit for a rhythm-less fifty-year-old.  I was wrong.  Apparently part of conditioning for sports includes straddling a “stair” and crossing it in sync with music.  Who walks upstairs to a beat?  It is not a practical exercise.

Once my youngest daughter and I took Pilates.  As the class began, the teacher announced to all that in her class participants generally removed their shoes.  I thought it was nice that she was informing the masses.  As I untied my New Balance, I realized I was the only one without bare feet.  Why didn’t she just come tell me?

We all took Yoga.  I believe the woman on the mat in front of me could have stuck her head through her legs and licked her own back.  I, on the other hand, can’t touch my feet, unless I’m sitting with my legs crossed.

At the gym we jog together, ride bikes together and workout our abs.  I’ve even taken my teens through my rigorous weight lifting routine (well, it’s rigorous for me).  But they always keep it real.  “Dad, these are big weights.  You’re pretty strong.  Why do you look so scrawny?”  They seem to delight in my misery.  And I find joy that they’re doing something besides watching inappropriate clips from Saturday Night Live.

At my house, exercising together brings happiness to all, or at least to me!