A public service announcement

Attention single men--a close woman-friend recently shared a nugget of wisdom with me, and it's something that all eligible men need to know about.

As I've gotten older, it seems that the single women of the world are less interested in dating rock stars and more interested in marrying them and having a few kids. In fact, I'll even admit that I've had some (poor) encounters over the past two years where I've felt like no more than a penis that just happens to have a person attached to it.

Clocks are ticking... I understand.

So I brought this up with a [pregnant] friend of mine recently, and this is what she told me:

Most single women in their thirties don't want to have a kid tomorrow, but they know it takes 4-5 years to meet someone, date, get married, and then start talking about having kids. And sometimes the thought of going through all of that can seem a little disheartening because it emphasizes the importance in meeting the right person soon. And that's when they can start to panic and freak out a little.

It's important to not feed off their apparent panic if you happen to witness some strange behavior. Know that they don't want a kid tomorrow, and they really do care about starting a relationship. If they didn't, they'd be at the sperm bank.


Since she told me this, I've done a tiny amount of field testing on her advice, and it's been very well-received. The person that I spoke with was relieved to find someone who understood how she felt, and I was relieved to hear that she really doesn't want to have kids tomorrow.

Everyone was a winner.

The chance encounter

One of my favorite things about meeting people are the casual encounters that provide an in-depth look at a tiny portion of their lives.

Usually, these meetings happen at parties, where alcohol and other evening spirits produce stories that are funny, intimate, and poignant. However, they can also happen at the grocery store.


I was standing in the checkout line when I sensed that someone was behind me. She slowly placed a 12 pack of Fresca and a jug of sangria on the conveyor belt behind my groceries, pointed, and asked, 'Is this line closed?'

She was pointing at the cashier's lane number '12', which was unlit.

I said to her, 'The cashier didn't say anything to me about being closed. But if she is, we can both look foolish together when she kicks us out of this line,' and then I turned back around.

The store happened to be selling Venus Fly Traps on top of the gum rack, and I noticed that she had chosen one and placed it on top of the Fresca.

The conveyor belt advanced by one set of groceries.

I turned back around to face her, pointed at the plant, and said--looking left-to-right as if I was telling her a secret--'I'd be careful with that: I've heard their diet expands beyond flies after they've had a few drinks. I'd keep it away from the sangria, just to be safe.'

She laughed and said, 'Actually, I came here to buy sangria for a bug problem. Fruit flies have taken over my bathroom, and someone told me that I could pour sangria in a cup and the flies would fly into it and drown.

'But now I'm just going to buy this plant and drink the sangria, instead.'


This is why people make me so happy. Someone with fruit flies shows up at the grocery store on a mission to buy sangria, but then discovers a better solution at the checkout line. And I was there to witness it.

She shared a small piece of her life with me--a complete stranger--but the story was full of drama and humor. And this is one of the true joys in life: sharing an intimate yet fleeting moment with a stranger.

Dating lessons from Seinfeld

Seinfeld has been off the air for nearly ten years now, but I'm always amazed that the show has always found new ways to make me laugh as I get older.

When I was younger, I laughed at Kramer's physical comedy. Then I laughed at Jerry's subtle commentaries on the crazy things that we do as a society. ('Why should I take you to dinner when you offered to give me the Armani suit for free?') And later--much later--I laughed at the fact that they were laughing at themselves.


As we get older, we start getting a little... 'crusty', as someone said the other day: you get set in your ways. And things that wouldn't have bothered you in the past suddenly become deal-breakers--ending a relationship with someone because she cuts her peas in half, for example.

As Jerry got older, so did the myriad of excuses that he came up with for breaking up with his girlfriends. It was a funny way of poking fun at what happens to single people as they get older: they get a little crazy.


I once dated a girl who's level of physical beauty depended on the ambient lighting.

It was my first Internet experience, in fact. It was in 2003, and I was living in Tucson. She picked me out of the list and we started talking over email. After spending an afternoon on the phone, we decided to meet at a quiet wine bar in the foothills. I knew what she looked like, of course, and when I saw her I thought she was very pretty. In fact, I spent the next two hours thinking that I'd be very interested in making out with her. However, it was my policy at the time to not make any physical advances on the first date, so I asked if we could get together again.

The next date was during the day, and this time the lighting was much different: I no longer found her attractive. I don't remember what we did, but we did end up at her apartment. I remember giving her a head massage in an effort to avoid any lip contact before deciding it was time to leave. For good.

However, as I was getting up, I thought, 'oh, what the hell... you were curious', so I kissed her.

At that moment, I wished I could have put my life on five-second delay, just like they do on live TV when someone says a naughty word. Her lips parted, and I suddenly found myself having to deal with a rather unruly tongue. Meanwhile, her left hand was frantically running up and down my back, as if it was an unmanned, high pressure fire hose.

Perhaps you can imagine the scene: she, with her eyes closed, enjoying a tender moment, and me, with my eyes wide open and a panic-y look quickly taking over my face.

Eventually, I broke free of her grip and politely showed myself the door. I thought of Jerry, and I laughed as I walked back to my car. At least he had the good sense to break it off with his lighting girl before making out with her.

This story, however, did have a happy ending:

The day before the Tongue and Hand Incident, a non-Internet girl in my life asked me out, and she later turned out to be an excellent kisser.

iMet: Try this at home

Attention iDaters(TM): instead of asking the mundane questions ('so where are you from?'), why not try something that shows you have a little imagination?

One of my personal favorites is to ask someone if they'd be willing to date a superhero.

And think twice before you answer.

Sure, there's plenty of benefits: the superhuman strength, the can-do attitude, and the well-appointed hideout. I'm also willing to bet that showing up late to the symphony because of traffic would be a thing of the past.

But what happens when he uses his X-ray vision at an inappropriate moment during the first date? How about the fact that he keeps running off to fight fires right after sex?


I've asked this question to a bunch of people, but they rarely bite on it. It's too bad, too, because it's a much easier conversation starter than talking about where you both went for college.

Recently, someone did answer. Her choice: Robin, of Batman and Robin. Not a bad one, either--logistically or conversationally--because here's the response she got from me:

'I've been thinking about it, and Robin seems like he'd be a good choice for a relationship partner. If you could get past the fact that his idea of 'business casual' means that he wears the _nice_ pair of skin-colored tights, I think he'd have a lot to offer. He's probably good at sharing the conversation, and he'd be supportive during hard times (like remember that time you were kidnapped by Dr. Scurvy and no one was able to free you from that ridiculous contraption with the comically-large saw?). Most important, I bet he can parallel park like nobody's business.'

Silly conversations like this are often more revealing than me telling you where I went to college or what I like to do on the weekends.

So, next time, try this one on for size: what's your super power?

The Idea

Like most big ideas, it seemed like a good one at the time.

It all started when I began to notice a pattern. I've been in several relationships over the past two years, and all of them have wandered down the same path--I'd get a little excited about them, and we'd start making out after date three or four. At date eight or nine, I'd realize that maybe this wasn't the relationship for me. But, by then, I was committed: most likely, we'd spent some Nakedtime(TM) together and were definitely a couple.

An uncomfortable breakup would inevitably follow.

The Big Idea was hatched in an effort to avoid a repeat of this scenario. It went something like this: in the future, avoid physical contact all together until date eight or nine. The concept seemed beautifully ambiguous--

Without the physical relationship, we aren't really dating... or are we?


Enter Susan. We met at a party where she was leafing through a book that contained photographs of men and their love dolls. The conversation starter was a no-brainer.

Several dates followed, but I wasn't sure how I felt about her, so I put the Idea into action. I did everything one should do while getting to know someone: I was flirty and I was engaged in our conversations, but I did not initiate any physical contact.

After our fifth date together, I was beginning to realize that this wasn't going to be a love connection. Our phone conversations were particularly tedious, and I started to avoid my line that doesn't have caller ID. Whatever our relationship was considered, I wasn't interested in continuing it.

This is when it hit me: we were just friends. But what kind of asshole breaks up with a friend?

It suddenly occurred to me that I might have to sleep with her in order to break up with her.


Ironically, I've learned that you break up with a friend in much the same way that you would with someone you've kissed once or twice: you just don't return their calls.

So, in the end, the Big Idea was a bust. I have absolutely no idea what I'll do next time, but I'm comforted by the fact that I'll only have two options:

We'll either make out or we won't.


Real names will never be used this season.

Introducing iMet

Would-be Internet daters, take note:

It's a jungle out there, and you need to be equipped with a sharp wit to clear a path and get yourself noticed. Finding a date on the Internet takes a slightly different skill set than finding one in person.

The good news is that--unlike cocktail parties--you have time to prepare and rehearse your strategy. And, once learned, your new skills will make you even more effective when you meet people in person.

As part of season two, I'm going to run a blog-within-a-blog on the adventures of online dating. I'll refer to these posts by Metrospective's online-dating alter ego, iMet.

My qualifications? I've done two dating tours of duty on the Internet, and--while I am admittedly still single--I've learned a great deal about what it takes to make it work. And, of course, I have plenty of interesting stories to share.


In the online world, the written profile is the real-world equivalent of your clothes: it's the only other thing besides your smiling face that helps convey a first impression of yourself to others. More important, it also serves as a menu for conversation starters. (And, while it's certainly possible to don an outfit that will serve as a conversation starter, this is generally not recommended.)

So, instead of just writing something simple ('People first notice my sense of humor.'), write something that begs a playful question ('People first notice that I have a freckle in a conspicuous location.')

A good profile gives people plenty to work with.

Instead of saying that you spend your leisure time 'traveling, going to the gym, and meeting with friends', say that you 'love traveling to great vistas of the American west, watching Sex in the City reruns while doing the Stairmaster at the gym, and drinking mojitos with friends and singing Frank Sinatra at the top of your lungs'.

The added details are all potential hooks that will serve to catch the people who like going to Canyonlands, feel like they are related to Miranda, or are Rat Pack wannabes.

Who says computers don't have feelings?

I arrived at work yesterday morning and starting tapping out an email response to someone. I had finished writing it and my hand was hovering above the mouse, ready to push the send button.

Then suddenly everything went dark.

When the Dell logos reappeared on my monitors, I realized that the machine had rebooted itself without giving any warning. I figured that I had accidentally tapped the power strip with my foot, and I started retyping the email a second time.

Then it happened again.

After the fifth time, I picked up the phone and called IT. When the IT guy arrived, he crawled under my desk, opened the workstation's case, and said, 'Oh yeah, your capacitors are swollen.'

'What!?'

I spend a good part of the workday trying to deny having any knowledge of physics or electrical engineering, but I took enough analog electronics classes in college to know that capacitors shouldn't change size.

He pointed at several rows of small black cylinders on the computer's motherboard. 'I've never seen it happen on one of these machines before, but look--they've grown so large that they're trying to push one another out of the way.'

I peered in and saw that he was right. Then I noticed that some of them had a rusty-orange goo oozing out of the top.

My computer was bleeding.

'Is she going to make it?', I asked.

'Oh sure. I'll order a new motherboard, and you'll be back in business on Thursday.' Apparently hemorrhaging computers are easier to fix than their human counterparts.

However, this experience has given me a new perspective on the machines that have become such an important part of our lives. As they become more sophisticated, they appear to take on more human qualities.

I took advantage of the long holiday to run a complicated calculation. The building isn't air conditioned on the weekends, and my computer made it clear that the working conditions are unacceptable. So, I'll need to make some concessions next time by either avoiding the long weekend runs or buying an extra fan or two.

Dinner and a movie, however, is out of the question.

Back in time for the fall

Welcome back to the second season of Metrospective.

In case you're joining me for the first time, take a look at the links on the right to find out what needed to be said during the first season. A central theme throughout was the search for personal happiness, and it eventually came to an end because I simply ran out of things to say.

It happens.

This season is going to be centered on dating and the culture that surrounds it. I've been spending a lot of time lately thinking about this, and I've started to notice some interesting trends and disturbing behaviors. I'm not sure where any of this will lead, but I can promise one thing:

Met's season two won't end with Keifer Sutherland's death.

Tomato love

My first tomato of the season is starting to turn red.

Soon, dinner will begin every night with a grazing session out in the back yard. And then, some time in late June, I'll have enough excess that I'll be willing to share. (Although, admittedly, the greatest pleasure in tomato growing comes in sharing them with others.)

Last year's growing experience read like a theatrical review: I laughed, I cried, I experienced blossom rot. However, I learned that there are two big tricks in growing tomatoes.

First, tomatoes need to be aggressively staked early and often. Somehow, the plant knows where it's been staked down, and it sends out a new branch at each of these points. Frequent staking during the early months results in big, bushy plants with large tomato yields.

The second trick: Miracle Gro tomato food.

I don't know if a miracle is really involved, but the tomatoes taste better than anything you'll find at the store. And, that's close enough for me.

The 12th step isn't to buy another orchid

I once had an unhealthy addiction.

Like all bad habits, it started small: a single orchid, purchased from Hausermann's outside Chicago.

Orchids are arguably the world's most diverse and technology advanced flowering plant. They have evolved a dizzying array of reproductive methods. Some smell like rotting flesh so they can attract flies for pollination. Others have ingenious geometries that require the right size bug to land in the right spot so a mechanism can flip down and rub pollen on the bug's behind.

Orchids are found on every continent except Antarctica. One place where you won't find native orchids is in the Sonoran Desert of southwest Arizona, which is where I happened to be living when the addiction struck five years ago.

So why didn't I cultivate the natural talents that I seemed to possess for growing aloe instead?

I don't know, and it would have saved me a lot of money and heartbreak. At one point, I was up to 22 plants. That's 22 plants that never flowered, despite my (often) elaborate attempts to convert my Tucson apartment into a tropical rain forest.

Looking back, I can see what I was doing wrong: there wasn't enough natural light, moving air, or humidity.

Maybe you can already see where this is headed: I now live in a house with plenty of skylights, and the swamp cooler pushes thousands of cubic feet of cool, moist air through the house every day.

So, when I saw that Trader Joe's was giving away orchids for $7.99 this past weekend, I bought two. I'd like to think that there's been a lot of personal growth over the past five years and that I've adopted a tough 'throw-em-out-after-they-flower' stance, but I can't guarantee that's going to happen.

Especially if TJ's is still selling them for $7.99 this weekend.

Green envy

Here at Casa Metrospective, I've been dealing with some gardening challenges over the past few weeks.

The problem really stems from my neighbors: they're making me look bad. I'm flanked on either side by some very inviting backyards. The yard to the west has elegant stonework, a fountain, and the greenest patch of lawn you've ever seen. The yard to the east has several vegetable beds and two or three fruit trees.

I have a lawn made of dead thyme.

When I peek over the walls to my neighbors' backyards, I experience a horrible sense of guilt and embarrassment. The neighbors, in turn, send their cat over to crap in my yard because--in their eyes--they're living next to a giant box of kitty litter.

There is hope, however. Last night, I took a good look under all of that dead thyme, and I found thousands of little green thyme seedlings sprouting out of the ground. I've also been comparing rosemary bushes, and mine blows theirs out of their well-manicured backyards.

I look at my neighbor's yards and see an oasis. They look at mine and see mise en place for roast chicken.

But, it's still early in the season: summer is six weeks away, after all. There's plenty of time for me to get my act together. We'll see how the neighbors feel when I'm overrun with vegetables in early August, and I have to start coming up with creative uses for hundreds of cherry tomatoes.

Single again

I'm in a bad relationship.

Yes, all the tell-tale signs are there. Every time we get together, I feel like we're just going through the motions. In the beginning we would always be excited to see each other, and we'd enjoy experimenting with new styles and ideas. My opinions and feelings used to matter. Now, I'm just another client.

I'm talking about my hair guy, of course.

Those close to the Metrospective universe know that I leave a lot of hair guys in my wake. I could be accused of being fickle and afraid to commit, yes. But is it too much to ask that a hair guy be able to continue to provide good haircuts after the stylist honeymoon is over? (Alas, I do think I found The One when I was living in Tucson, but I moved to New Mexico five months later.)

In my defense, I handled the present circumstances much more maturely than my previous hair relationships. I told him about my concerns: if only he could pay a little more attention while cutting the hair above my sideburns. Perhaps he could spend a few extra seconds making sure there aren't any funny hair lines on my head.

I wanted to make it work.

But he didn't listen to me and leaves me with no choice but to find another hair guy. And so I'm a swinging single again, on the lookout for an upgrade from my last relationship.

The only problem is that there's a short fuse on this search. Unlike the search for life partners--where one has the luxury of looking around for years--I've got about 30 days before the top of my head starts to resemble a wild bush.

No resume necessary

What would happen if you woke up tomorrow morning to discover that you had a new job: the perfect job? A job that made the most of your skillset & talents and provided the highest level of happiness?

Where would it be? What would you be doing?

I might find myself en route to Television City to host a game show. (I won't be so presumptuous as to say that it would involve pricing games and fabulous prizes, but ye old Barker's gotta go some day.)

A game show would take advantage of my humor, charm, and need for an audience. The challenge would come from having to cultivate a public persona: when I'm at home, I enjoy a good deal of privacy. On the upside, I would always know if I was getting ripped off on denture cream or Preparation-H.


So what would happen if we all woke up to having a new job tomorrow? Would there be particular positions that would be seriously over or under-staffed?

Would all of the world's trash collectors get reassigned as environmentalists? Would all the local weathermen have to move to Reno to start tending bar at Harrah's?

On the other hand, I've spent 30 years of my life preparing for the problems that I'm going to solve at work tomorrow. So maybe I am the best one to deal with the project managers who ask me to bend the laws of physics.

Not that I know how to do that, of course.

But perhaps I could interest you in what's behind door number two?

Wanted

When I was in high school, my father gave me some sage advice. He said, 'Find your passion and live it.'

I've spent the past six months re-thinking my own feelings about passion, but I've been particularly cognizant of this over the past few weeks as I've watched five people I know quit their jobs.

All of these people were living perfectly comfortable lifestyles, but none of them were pursuing their true passion. One of these people wants to devote two years of her life to the visual arts. Another has always dreamed of opening up a stationery shop that serves pastries. A third is tired of using her Superpower to benefit everyone but herself.

And one wants to become a rock star.


It strikes me that changing careers is a lot like getting out of a long-term relationship.

At first, it's disorienting because a major piece of life's infrastructure has suddenly gone missing. This may lead to a few weeks of brooding (or, in my case: pouting), but then the newly-granted liberties start to sink in. Choices that were not available previously suddenly become an option once again. The loss in intimacy and stability comes with exciting new possibilities.

Most important, because there's a big gaping hole, we can be more receptive to change and new experiences. We accept offers that we wouldn't have considered previously. And these offers ultimately lead us to the next big thing.

Personally speaking, I'm happy that I participated in all of my previous relationships, and I'm even happier that I'm no longer in them. I'm a happier, stronger, and more dynamic person because of my past.

I hope the same holds true for everyone about to embark on their next career.

Call now for personal happiness

Let's talk about Stephen Covey.

He wrote the book The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and, since then, has leveraged his success to build the mother of all self-help empires. He's like the Ron Popeil or the Jake Steinfeld of personal discipline.

In fact, this brings me to an interesting point: as I sat watching him (via snippets of DVD video) last week, I couldn't help but feel like I was watching an infomercial.

Infomercials have always fascinated me. The good ones combine a compelling story line with engaging product demonstrations, and at the center is a gifted salesperson who possesses a combination of enthusiasm, technical expertise, and charm. (My favorite part is when they say, 'Now, let's take a look at the science behind this exciting new product!')

During day one's afternoon session of the Seven Habits class, I found that I was having the same reaction towards Covey as I do when I watch Chef Tony: I was smiling and entertained, but I knew that I would never buy the product.

Even if I do call now to get the free steak knives.

Covey's shortcoming--at least for me--is that his Seven Habits are intertwined with a monster commercial empire. In order to Effectively practice his habits, I'd need to start with a FranklinCovey planner. The price--how'd you guess?--$49.95.

Also, there's a creepy institutional component inherent in the Habits: we were taught that an important part of the Seven Habits is that we should tell them to friends and co-workers. Where else have I heard this? (If you promise to tell a friend, we'll send you a second Magic Bullet for free. Or: we're having a party at my church this weekend. Would you like to come?)

So, no: in the end, I did not buy into Covey's message or his method. There were some effective strategies, yes, but there are other ways to get great abs besides buying a Total Gym.


By the way, the Seven Habits are easily distilled down to three: strive to be a better person, play well with others, and don't procrastinate.

And call your mother once in a while. After all, she's the reason you knew all of this before you entered grade school.

Please, no more flip charts

Over the past week, I've taken leave from my regular day job to engage in some professional development.

Last week, I participated in a two-day workshop on social styles (think: Myers-Briggs where your co-workers fill out your questionnaire), and this week it's Stephen Covey's 'Seven Habits of Highly Effective People'.

I have some posts waiting in the queue that will deal with the actual content of these classes in a serious light, but, for the time being, I am tired of self-help in the workplace.

I'm tired of listing my shortcomings and then having to discuss them with my classroom neighbor. I'm tired of over-enthusiastic instructors who thank me for 'sharing' and speak in sentences that have blanks. ("If we manage our time better, we can become more ... ... anyone? ... yes, effective people."). And, I'm really tired of listening to the class do-gooder tell us how she feels about everything we learn.

I also don't want to spend anymore time with the class nutbag who (coincidence?) inevitably ends up seated next to me. (My favorite nutbag moment from last week: "I don't want to be considered the 'glue' of the team. Horses are shot before they're turned into glue.")

This week, as I mentioned, I've moved on to Stephen Covey. Have you ever heard him speak in real life? He sounds like an out-of-shape version of Casey Kasem. In fact, my opinion of the class would suddenly ratchet up a notch if he said something like, 'Zoinks, Scoob! It's like really dark in this abandoned warehouse. Is that a doobie in your weekly planner?'


I've got one more session all day tomorrow, and then I'm looking forward to getting back to my real job. In fact--in an effort to become more effective--I've already laid out next week's rocks in my FranklinCovey planner: avoid group discussions that culminate in a flip chart list; stay away from meetings that last so long that refreshments are served; and do not--do not!--sit next to that nice-looking lady in the denim onesie.

She's probably crazy.

A version of this post is available via Podcast.

Dear Met...

"Met:

Take a few minutes and fill out these top-four questions. When you're done, tag some other bloggers to get their responses.

When this propagates around the world four times, I will send you a $25 gift certificate to Victoria's Secret, good luck, bad luck, a new job, $1,000,000US, and the latest computer virus.

Hugs and kisses,

Scribblista"

Four jobs I've had:
1. Shagging golf balls on a driving range
2. Secretary at a Catholic Church rectory
3. Math tutor to adult MBA students
4. Resident advisor

Four things you don't know about me:
1. I was once really good at racquetball.
2. I invented a method for stuffing envelopes.
3. I once spent the night in a debris shelter that I made myself.
4. My hell is a basketball court with 20' nets and all of my old gym teachers.

Four places I've lived:
1. Chicago
2. Tucson
3. Albuquerque
4. Note sure, haven't moved there yet.

Four TV shows I love:
1. Curb Your Enthusiasm
2. MythBusters
3. What Not To Wear
4. Ask This Old House

Four of my favorite things:
1. My Macs
2. Good pants
3. Women with freckles
4. Cake for breakfast

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Sequoia Nat'l Park
2. Colorado River through the Grand Canyon
3. Marble Canyon AZ
4. Napa Valley

Four of my favorite flavors:
1. Vanilla bean
2. Bergamot
3. White cake
4. Lemon

Four sites I visit daily:
1. google.com
2. yahoo.com
3. nytimes.com
4. wikipedia.com

Three bloggers that I am tagging:
1. olygirl.blogspot.com
2. John at Inkstain
3. Emily at New West

I don't care if I ever get back

Spring is here, which means that WGN has started saving me a seat at the Cubs games.

For four years, I lived a few blocks south of Wrigley Field on the north side of Chicago. When you live that close, you quickly realize that a baseball stadium is a neighbor who constantly disrupts your life, but you'd never say anything because they throw really great parties. You learn to avoid the northbound train an hour before game time, and you (generously!) tell the non-locals that they're allowed to buy a Slurpee at the 7-11 on Sheffield and bring it into the game.

I can tell that it's still early in the season: the ivy hasn't yet turned the outfield walls green and the people in the bleachers are wearing shirts. The Cub-O's are playing 600 ball, and optimism is running high. However, the season will progress with the occasional highs and (often too many) lows, all the while hoping that we make it to October before breaking out the phrase, 'Maybe next year.'

If you know nothing at all about baseball, let me fill you in on a little secret: always befriend a Cubs fan. They possess many of the qualities that you're looking for in a companion: they're positive-thinkers, very loyal, gracious and--most important--they have a good sense of humor. You'd have to after watching a fan crush your Series hopes in 2003 or trading Greg Maddux to the Bra... well, we don't need to get into it.

I'm going to go buy some peanuts, and I'll see you back on the couch in five.

5K

Adidas is currently running an ad that shows an ordinary-looking guy pictured next to the words, 'When I first started running, I didn't even know what a 'K' was. I was glad to hear that it was much shorter than a mile.'

I kept thinking about this as I started my first 5K (3.1 mi) race this morning.

The mental preparation began yesterday when three distinct parts of my lower body--right knee, left IT band, and left ass muscle--all suddenly decided to stage a mutiny. This morning, I took some prophylactic ibuprofen and hoped for the best.

What struck me the most about this experience is how unpredictable someone's performance is tied to their appearance. For example, last week I noticed an unusually fit and muscular woman at my gym. When I saw her at the race this morning, I thought, 'I bet she's going to win.' I passed her just after the first mile. On the other hand, just before the turnaround point, I noticed that a 12 year old was about 90 seconds in front of me.

I never caught up to him.

It gave me a lot of energy to see such a variety in shape, size, and attitude this morning. Of course, there was a small handful of skinny, polyester-clad running machines, but the crowd was mostly comprised of ordinary-looking schmoes--just like me--who wanted to feel good about themselves for 5000 meters.

In the end, either my body parts were bluffing yesterday or the ibuprofen did the trick: I managed to beat the (rather lofty) goal that I had set for myself by 60 seconds.

And, to the lady who handed me a bottle of water and a word of encouragement right after I crossed the finish line: thank you. I'm sorry that I was too tired to acknowledge this earlier.

How we got to where we are today

Unbeknownst to me, I was dating someone this fall. What's worse, I didn't find out until she dumped me.

It all started innocently enough, and I made the mistake of telling her how it was going to play out before it actually did.

We met at a salsa dance club. I was probably on my second cuba libre when I said to her, 'I find that women sometimes develop a quick crush on me when we first meet, but it usually dissipates after we get to know each other.'

We had been talking about her boyfriend, and I had volunteered that information to describe my own, recent relationship experiences. Two weeks later, the boyfriend was out the door and we became quick friends.

The long and the short of it goes like this: she was a good listener but I had no interest in ever seeing her naked. When I started dating someone in September, I asked, 'I'm thinking about seeing someone. How would you like me to deal with it within our friendship?' Her response: 'You know how I feel about you and I'd ask that you be sensitive to my feelings.'

In the end, my choice was irrelevant because it was destined to be a lose-lose situation: either way, she was going to be upset when she found out that I was dating someone. Our friendship ended when she sent me an email just before Thanksgiving telling me that she never wanted to speak to me again.

Looking upon this opportunity as a get-out-of-jail-free card, I said good riddance, politely broke off the relationship with the new girlfriend, and slid head-first into my 30th birthday.

I've remained single since then, and these are the events that have led to my new pursuit of happiness, this blog, and all of this touchy-feely business that you've been patiently reading about for the past 4 1/2 months.


Given all of this personal history, what was I supposed to say to my ex-friend when we ran into each other at Cost Plus on Monday night?

I had prepared myself for just such an occasion with scenarios ranging from a blank stare to an over-exuberant, 'And you thought I was the ass?' In reality, when it happened for real, I (instinctively?) settled for a polite, 'Hi', and I continued on to the tea section.

I'd like to think that a lot of personal growth has occurred over the past few months, but mostly I'm just relieved that my first instinct was to take the high road.

Reflections

I once had a girlfriend who accused me of being a narcissist.

I immediately glanced over at my mirrored closet doors: 'Who, me?', I said to myself.

'There!', she said, pointing at us. 'You just did it again. You're always catching quick glimpses of yourself and making that little face.'

I won't comment on how her perceptiveness shaped our relationship, but I know you're not surprised to find out that we're no longer dating.


In fact, it's been two years since this scene unfolded in my Tucson apartment. However, this story came flooding back this week when I arrived at spin on Monday and saddled up the aluminum horse that was adjacent to a mirrored wall.

Generally, I use the mirrors to watch myself and make sure that I don't look ridiculous. (Correction: to make sure I look as normal as one can while riding a bike that doesn't go anywhere.)

Monday, however, was a different story.

I was so close to the mirror that I wasn't able to see my body, and--instead--I found that I was giving myself the eye for most of the class. I suddenly had a maybe-not-so-unreasonable fear that one of my classmates was watching this scene between man and image unfold.

I'm usually very conscious of where I look in class because I don't want any of the women to get the wrong idea. Many of them decided long ago that men are more of a minor inconvenience than an oppositely-sexed member of the same species. If one were to catch me staring for too long, they might pedal an actual bicycle over to my house and kick my ass.

However, on this day, the thought of being on the receiving end of some empowered woman's can of whoop ass seemed much more palatable than being accused--again--of being narcissistic.

In future, I will sit away from the mirrored wall as to avoid these issues.

Besides, I need to keep my eyes on the road.

Tea time

I met someone last year who told me about a charming twist on the traditional tea-drinking routine: she took her tea in the shower.

For years, I've grouped tea drinking in the same category as the opera and women in capri pants: I've made an honest effort, but I just don't have an appreciation for these things.

She showed me the ritual of tea preparation. In the past, I had always just microwaved a cup of hot water. Her tea procedure was much more elaborate, and it dirtied several more pieces of kitchen hardware. She used a kettle to fire the water, a pot to brew, and a cup & saucer to drink. However, her tea tasted much better than anything I had ever made.

I have since refined her basic instructions to develop my own appreciation for tea-making: the teapot's ability to maintain a hot temperature through several cups, the sound the brewed tea makes when it's poured in a cup, and--my favorite part--the color of black tea set against the ivory background of the cup.

Recently, I discovered Mighty Leaf which places whole tea leaves in--for lack of a better description--a tea panty. The result is quite good: you get whole tea leaf quality without having to futz with an infuser. And, among other things, they sell a decaf Earl Grey that I can drink before bed.

Speaking of, I need to attend to that pot of Black Gold that I started a few minutes ago. However, while I'm away, what's going on with your pants: should they really be hitting you at the mid-calf like that?

It's tea time.

At one with my electronics

Regular readers are aware of the fact that I've been contemplating my own happiness since the beginning of the year, and last night--while some of you were busy walking off a jelly bean-induced tummy ache--I reached a transcendent state with my stereo components:

I can now control the entire entertainment system with one remote.

Oh yes, you read that correctly: I can control the TV, satellite box, receiver, and DVD player with the receiver's remote controller.

That's three less remotes to get stuck in between the couch cushions. There's now a 100% chance the remote that I pick up will do what I want it to. (And, unfortunately, there's an equal chance that--if misplaced--the remote that I need at the time is the same one that happens to be lost.)

But, let's not let this distract from my accomplishment: I can mute, pause, change, eject, and tune all with one gizmo.

And how many thirty-year-olds can make that claim?

Needed: Costco mustard

From the Associated Press:

'Fossils discovered in southern Utah are from a new species of birdlike dinosaur that resembled a 7-foot-tall brightly colored turkey and could run up to 25 mph.'

I might be willing to run 26 mph if it meant that I could get a two weeks' supply of turkey sandwiches without having to revisit the grocery store.

What do I look like?

Tonight, two stories about the ways we're perceived by others:

1. It seems that my department has developed several conflicting personae.

Recently, when another department's new hire moved into our wing of the building, her manager warned her that she was 'moving into the frat house'. By contrast, the more experienced engineers in our center refer to our group as the academics because--as I've mentioned--we have some formal training and we're good at whipping up theories.

However, today, we learned about yet another perception. Apparently, the entire west side of the building (we occupy the east side) refers to us as 'the beautiful people'.

This perception is particularly curious because we are still engineers, after all. Lunch table conversations tend to revolve around supercharged power tools and the plot points in this week's Battlestar Gallactica.

It's interesting that we are perceived so differently by our peers. However, we have agreed on one thing:

We've hatched a plan to steal a certain manager's mascot and paint it pink.


2. This weekend, I received the following email:

'What does one say to someone who thinks he has a pretty large dick, when in fact he doesn't?'

I suggested that the most sensitive approach might be to say that the average penis is about 5 1/2", and that he was about on par with that.

Later that night, I related my advice to two friends, both of whom are women. When they heard the number, they said, '5 1/2 inches? No way!'

The three of us stared at each other for a few seconds.

I said, 'How so?' At the same time, one of them said, 'Too big,' while the other, 'Too small.'

So, the definition of a big penis depends entirely on each person's previous experiences. And, maybe that explains why so many men are concerned about penis size. They have no idea how they're going to be perceived until they get a good bit of experience under their belts.

Er, you know what I mean.

Love triangle

One morning during a past relationship, she rubbed my head and said goodbye. It was a Saturday morning an hour before sunrise, and she was headed into work. She had been kind enough to let me stay sleeping in her bed, and I was happy to take advantage of it.

When I regained consciousness a few hours later, I was immediately aware of the fact that something was in the bed next to me, and it wasn't her. At least, it didn't smell like her.

I opened my eyes and saw that I was nose to snout with her German shepherd/labrador retriever mix. As if in slow motion, I saw his lips part and a giant tongue started to head in my direction.

I jumped out of the bed and the relationship quicker than you could say Milkbone.


This past weekend, a friend gave me an article written by a woman who believes that her dog is starting to handicap her dating life. She cited a few scenarios. For example, dogs usually need to be walked every night at about the same time that one might start getting intimate on the couch. Do you take the dog for a walk or worry about it in the morning?

If the dog must be walked, what do you do with the date? Leave him on the couch? Take him along? If you take him along, what happens when the dog drops a pile of turds? Do you ignore it ('she might be environmentally insensitive') or do you bag it and pick it up? (Later: 'you want to touch me with those?')

I don't know what the right answer is to any of these questions, but I've finally figured something out about dogs and relationships.

The dog offers unconditional love and companionship, and those are some big shoes to fill when I show up on someone's doorstep to take her to dinner. In effect, I'm elbowing-in on what's already a pretty stable and satisfying relationship. The dog doesn't have crankydays, and he'll never--accidentally!--leave pubic hairs in the shower.

That, in a nutshell, is the problem: most of us can never live up to the relationship standards set by a dog.

I do hope that some of my other qualities--my goofy stories, my laugh, and my ability to remain calm around the mailman--will be enough to elevate me to dog-like status in a future relationship.

In the meantime, I'll be on the lookout for anyone out walking her cat.

Met meets Pod

Some stories are best told in person.

Unfortunately, we can't get together for cocktail hour every evening, so, instead, I've added a podcast link on the right column of the page. If you click on it, iTunes will open and a podcast called 'The Metrospective' will be added to your subscription list. The list will automatically update whenever a new episode is posted.

I'm not going to record every story, but some (such as The TAH) are funnier (I think) if you listen me tell the story out loud.

The TAH

I've started a trend, and it's already started to pay dividends.

During the day, I work with so many Advanced Degrees that we could start a small--albeit very geeky--private college. (We're very conscientious of the world's limited supply of tweed, and this is what prevents us from defecting.)

As you might imagine, it's very difficult to impress a lunch table full of PhD's. Stories are often embellished: the wind blows faster, motorcycles approach the sound barrier, and fish grow to extraordinary sizes. Ted from systems engineering goes on two dates in one seven day period.

For months, I've sat at the lunch table listening to all of these tall tales trying to sort fact from fiction. Now, when someone says something that I find particularly questionable, I whip out the talking asshole (TAH).

When my co-workers see the TAH, they know that I'm calling them out: they are now officially talking out of their ass. (Find your own, personal TAH by making a fist and then rotating your thumb back and forth to create a sphincter.)

The talking asshole has become a universal symbol throughout my department. If there's a meeting between a few of us and a few outsiders--and one of those outsiders starts making some outlandish statements--someone will show me their TAH under the table. When someone offers technical advice and they're not quite sure about part of it, they'll show me their TAH during that part of the sentence.

Every TAH has a voice, of course. Mine has a rather high-pitched, lyrical voice that bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Bill in its timbre and pacing. When appropriate, my TAH will offer up a few words.

Other people share their TAH's voices with me, and none of them sound alike. Some are high pitched and excited, while others are low and deliberate. Some sound like they could be Muppets. One is a dead ringer for Sean Connery.

What started as a goofy way to poke fun at ourselves has turned into one of the highlights of my day. I'll be having a serious technical conversation with someone, when--all of a sudden--they'll pull out their TAH, make it talk, and continue on with the conversation. It makes me happy to see that people are willing to share something so personal and so funny during the workday.

An extended version of this story is available by clicking on the 'Podcast' link on the right column.

Finding happiness in a cupcake

Recently, I've addressed an important question that's been nagging at me for the past several weeks: how do bakeries make muffins with those beautiful, break-them-off muffin tops?

Perhaps a little background is necessary first.

As I've mentioned previously, I've been on a bit of a cupcake binge lately. However, my cupcakes are always so small and humble-looking. In the back of my mind, what I'm really thinking about are those behemoths that they sell at Starbucks. If I was truly a cupcake connoisseur, my creations would be just as glamorous looking. Besides, more cupcake is always better, right?

So, I was delighted when I found the answer last week: they make a special muffin pan for this task. The pans have an ordinary-sized recepticle for the paper liner, but the top quicky flares out allowing for muffin-top maximus.

The pans work as advertised, but I quickly discovered a problem.

Imagine a cupcake shaped like a portobello mushroom: it has a small base and a comically-large muffin top. In fact, the top is so large that the cupcake acts as a tiny pedestal for a lot of frosting. And then--just as quickly as you can say 'Williams-Sonoma' (professional 12-cup muffin pan, $17)--all of the balance that makes the cupcake so wonderful and so enticing disappears into a top-heavy, 500 calorie turd.

The cupcake--in its infinite wisdom--has taught me something about happiness: find satisfaction in your current abilities because more isn't always better.

How to behave when you're filthy rich

Tonight: two stories about self-promotion.

1. The Learning Channel has started a clever ad campaign.

They've started running spoof ads to sell figurines from 'The Life Lessons Collection'. For example, one of the figures depicts a woman seated at a computer typing with her right hand and holding a bottle of wine with her left. The placard at the bottom of the figure says, 'Life Lesson #72: Merlot and email don't mix'. The punchline? Watch TLC and collect more life lessons.

Visit the Learning Channel's website to view all of the spots.

2. Martha Stewart's new talk show looks like it's been designed to make her more appealing to the mass market, but--having just seen the first 10 minutes of today's show--it seems that someone's calculation is wildly off the mark.

She started the show by saying that it was a beautiful day in New York City. She knew this because she stayed at her apartment last night and was therefore able to enjoy a leisurely walk down 5th Avenue this morning. Then, she said that--while on her way to work this morning--'the car' stopped in front of two blooming magnolia trees on 57th St.

Cars don't drive themselves, and I take it that Martha wasn't driving this one.

Then, she answered a viewer's question about termite prevention. One of the termite expert's tips was to make sure that there aren't any wood structures near the house's foundation. She chimed in by saying that her East Hampton home has trellises near the house, and she was mindful of termites when she installed them.

Who can relate to waking up on 5th Avenue, being driven to work, and maintaining a house in East Hampton? It seems to me that--if I were living among the richest people in the tri-state area--I'd just rely on my bug guy to keep me pointed away from termite problems because I'd be too busy doing more important things, like counting all my money.

Tune in tomorrow: Martha details her Learjet.

Please turn your calculator off before the performance begins

We all have customers.

This piece of the business lexicon drives me crazy. Customers are not, for example, entire swaths of the federal government. Customers wear flip-flops and pay in cash. The Navy is not a customer.

As I've mentioned previously, I was in New York City two weekends ago because my sister performed at Carnegie Hall. While I was there, it occurred to me that her profession is unique in that her customer just sits and watches her work.

This got me to thinking: maybe I need to rethink my own customer relations. What if I installed a few stadium seats in my office and charged on-lookers 80 dollars to watch me work for 75 minutes?

I'd be granted the same concessions as any performing artist, of course:

Please take note of the bucket of Ricola outside my office and do not hack and cough while I'm running computer simulations. Please do not applaud until I have finished all of the lens designs, and do not rustle the pages in your Playbill while I am on the phone.

In return for these simple considerations, I will perform my work for a continuous 75 minute sitting. I will resist the urge to visit my support staffer during this time to order new office supplies. (And yes, the fact that I pinch the occasional Post-It note pad is just part of the act.) I will also maintain my cool when that knucklehead Johnson stops by to tell me about his weekend.

Oh wait! You're not leaving, are you?
I was just moving to the whiteboard for my encore.

The search for happiness

Ever since I turned 30, I've spent a good deal of time thinking about what makes me really happy, so I paid attention when a story about happiness popped up on my Podcast playlist last week. (iTunes it! -- while it lasts)

NPR ran a story that featured Harvard professor Tal Ben-Shahar's class on the psychology of happiness. He's also published an eBook on the subject. I've just started reading it, but--in the first few pages--he pointed out something that's worth mentioning.

According to Ben-Shahar, there are four personality types when it comes to the pursuit of happiness:

1. The Hedonist does things that make him happy today while giving little thought to the future or owning up to the negative consequences of his present actions.
2. The Rat-Racer foregoes happiness in the present and lives with the perception that he will achieve a big happiness payoff someday in the future.
   
3. The Resigner has given up hope for happiness. He participates in activities that won't make him happy now or in the future.
4. The Happy Person practices activities that will make him happy both now and in the future.

These archetypes resonated with me because, in recent months, my own happiness situation has changed quite a bit, and I'm finally beginning to make sense of it.

I spent all of my education years (grade through graduate school) as a bona fide Rat Racer. I studied dutifully because there was always another goal waiting around the corner: high school honors, a good college, a prestigious graduate school, and the perfect job. The problem with being a Rat Racer is that the Nirvana Moment--the time when you finally reach happiness--never comes; there's always another milestone ahead that must be met.

Last November, I finally settled into my new job after 15 months. By coincidence (or so I thought), I've also been incredibly happy since then. Most days--provided that I get enough sleep--I spend a good deal of time just feeling good about myself, my lifestyle, and my place in the world.

The reason for this, I think, is that I'm no longer a Rat Racer. At work, I don't have any desire for record-breaking promotions over the next 15 years. The work is challenging and interesting and they pay me enough money, so I have little desire in trying to get more responsibility, money, or both.

Instead, I've been living archetype #4 for the past 5 months, and--until now--I haven't been able to put a finger on why I've felt so good: it's because I do things that will benefit me now and in the future. I've started getting more a lot more exercise. I've cut back on my number of obligations. And I try to grow the relationships that are most important to me.

So, sure, perhaps my current position was made possible by all of those years spent in the rat's maze. I'm just happy that I'm no longer in that game.

Muffin man

I have a little problem, and it's time to go on record.

Lately, I spend more time thinking about cupcakes than one should probably admit in public.

I make these things for the same reason that most people do yoga: to find some inner peace. And why not? The cupcake balances style with simplicity, luxury with abstinence, and it does it in a convenient, palm-sized package.

I've got the fab process down to less than 30 minutes--including baking time--so bringing new cupcakes into the world is no longer considered a hassle. However, I always end up making a batch (two dozen) just so I can have one or two. What am I supposed to do with the other 22?

I've started bringing them to the office, but people have started to talk:

'Cupcakes? Again?'

There should be some sort of shelter where stray baked goods can be taken with the promise of finding a good home. This way, I could continue to bring cupcakes into the world, guilt free. (I'm not about to spay my oven.)

I'll talk to you tomorrow. I've got to go frost a batch.