On a Scale from 1 to Birthday, I’m 26

September 22, 1985.

I don’t remember much about the 80s, but do they really belong several decades in the past? Having memories from 20 years ago seems like a characteristic of old people, and I’m not pleased with the implications of such thoughts.

Still, there’s no denying the world has dramatically changed since then.

In 1985, Reagan was in the White House, the USSR was still a thing, and the Cold War was nothing to sneeze at. Nobody knew who Britney Spears was, microwaves were a novelty, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song wouldn’t show up for another few years. Born in the USA and Like a Virgin were just hitting the music charts, Cherry Coke debuted for the first time, and Les Miserables opened in London.

Most telling of all, if someone were to say “Pikachu” back then, the response would be “Bless you”.

I had always looked forward to being 25. It was a nice round number and had a good feel to it. A quarter century. Mid-20s, precisely. The last frontier for gaining exciting new legal powers (renting a car without a surcharge). And I was right – it’s been a great year!

But 25 has come and gone, and now that I’m staring 26 in the face, I realize it’s a whole new ballgame. The early 20s are gone, and the mid-20s are rapidly closing in on their daunting older cousin: the late-20s. As everyone knows, the late-20s lead directly into the 30s bracket, and from there it’s a straight shot on toward fogey-hood. And nobody wants that.

To be clear, I don’t feel old. I’m merely forced to consider for a moment the inexorable march of time and its effect on the story of my life.

I’ve always been always confused when people ask someone if they’re “on track”, as if life is composed of a series of constructed railway lines leading to distinct points with no potential for deviation. I’m proud to shake my head at such queries; I prefer being “on the road”. There are some who ditch out on the roads too, opting to blaze their own trail with nothing more than a torch and a machete, but for me there’s something comforting about having smooth asphalt under your tires. You know you’re actually going somewhere, but you also know there’s a million alternate routes and other destinations along the way that would be impossible to explore if you were stuck on the rails.

Last year was full of surprises and awesome new experiences, and I can’t wait to see where the winding road will lead this time around. So, September 22, my ancient enemy and my old friend, raise a glass because this one’s for us.

Happy birthday.

I’m No Doctor, But I Play One on TV

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny, resplendent with a flawlessly blue sky which showcased the iconic Hollywood sign clearly above their grassy field.

The area was ostensibly reserved for dogs and their owners, a point hammered home by the large “No Futbol” signs scattered throughout the park among the picnic tables and trees. Since no other sports were barred, each week two dozen young adults gathered for a game or ten of pick-up disc-slinging.

“Throw it here! I’m open!” a white-shirted man yelled, hurtling down the field as quickly as possible.

The two men in dark jerseys shadowing him made his claim a dubious one, but his teammate sized the shot up anyway. He was called Snatch, and he’d earned this title by having the stickiest fingers to ever hold a disc; the man was worth the benefit of the doubt.

Will, playing for the dark team, watched helplessly from the center of the field as the handler made an optimistic long-shot toward the endzone.

“HAMMER!” he screamed, as if the sonic reverberations from his voice could somehow disrupt the flying disc.

The world moved in slow motion as Snatch wove a delicate tapestry of evasive maneuvers around his double-team, leaping into the air and extending his arms fully to trap the Frisbee mere moments before it struck the ground. The two men covering him looked at each other and shrugged; there was nothing more they could have done.

Another point for white.

As the dark team jogged back toward the far end of the field, a crowd began to gather in the middle. After a brief commotion, Elya emerged carrying Nay cradled in his arms. He walked over to one of the shaded picnic areas and laid her on the wooden table, stepping aside as the various players currently out of the game huddled over to see what they could do to help.

“It’s fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine!” Nay said, grabbing a handful of duffel bags at random and propping one of her legs onto the mound to elevate her rapidly-swelling ankle.

Elya nodded and returned to the field, where the others were waiting to continue the game.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that your boyfriend didn’t carry you off the field, or even bother to come check on you?” someone asked.

Nay laughed, shaking her head. “Elya was closer, and there’s nothing Dev could have done to help. He’s no doctor, and there’s the game to finish. Plus, he needs to avenge me!”

The group broke into a nervous cuckle, releasing some of the built-up tension as people walked up to poke and prod at the damaged joint while nodding thoughtfully and offering helpful advice such as “Wow, it’s really swollen!” and “Does this hurt?”. The closest thing on the field to a doctor was a former medical journalist and a current personal trainer, neither of whom had any idea what to do next, and it was soon decided that a wait-and-see approach would be best for this situation.

The gorgeous morning faded into a beautiful afternoon, and after a couple more hours the battered, exhausted group called it a day.

“It always sucks when something like that happens,” Aaron said to Will as they headed to their car, glancing over to where Dev was helping Nay carefully hobble to their own nearby vehicle.

Will nodded and unlocked the doors. “Yeah, but it’ll be ok. Nay’s tough, and Dev’ll take care of her.”

“Some of the guys were giving him crap for not hurrying off the field immediately to fawn over her,” Aaron said. He frowned, unscrewing the cap to his water bottle absently. “I’m not sure what I think about that.”

“I noticed that too, but Nay knows Dev cares. Elya was closer and willing to help, and thus Nay didn’t need Dev to leave the game and become another member of the fake doctor swarm assaulting her on the sidelines.”

Aaron laughed, shaking his head at the memory. “Why do people do that, anyway? It can’t possibly help. Doctors might figure out exactly what’s wrong, but if you or I do it we’re not actually troubleshooting for solutions – we’re just causing pain.”

“Why do people do anything?” Will grinned. “It makes them feel good. In this case, it makes them feel like they’re helping.”

“I don’t often say this, Will,” Aaron said, pausing to take a swig of water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you’re probably right.”

If You Don’t Understand, You Won’t Understand

Disclaimer: this is based on a true story. If you are sensitive to descriptions of injuries, you may not enjoy this entry.

22 men stood on a tattered, dirt-strewn patch of grass wedged between a collection of tennis and basketball courts, running up and down a makeshift field marked with borrowed traffic cones and crude duffel-bag goals. On occasion one would gaze longingly at the well-lit artificial pitch on the other side of the complex, but those areas were reserved and, worse, policed, and so the dream of playing on a level, visible surface with lines and nets would have to wait until another day.

Aaron was but one of many soccer players that evening, experienced and athletic but certainly no professional. A tingle of excitement passed through him as two equal teams were created and took the field. Scant moments later, the gleaming white ball rolled into play and the world dissolved into comfortable, controlled chaos.

The rapidly-retreating sun slowly stripped color from the world, long shadows heralding the gray onset of night. As visibility faded, crisp passes and coordinated overlaps gave way to miscalculations and errors; the ball went out of bounds more often as complex plays were misread or poorly executed.

Not long after the last vestige of light vanished from the sky, a defensive player deflected a bad pass over the touch line, creating a corner kick for the attacking team. As the stopper, it was Aaron’s job to keep the other team’s striker from being able to put this ball into the goal – a difficult challenge, for he was not particularly tall and these plays tend to involve height.

The soft thump of leather against inflated plastic triggered the action, and as Aaron fought to stay goal-side of the offensive player, both took to the air. The ball was coming right for them, the perfect set-up for a header.

Oblivious to how tightly he was covered, the striker twisted his body in a sudden and savage motion, smashing his elbow against Aaron’s head and sending him crashing to the ground. He landed on his knees and brought a hand to cover his face, but couldn’t stand. The bridge of the nose felt smashed, and warm blood poured down his face like water through is fingers.

Aaron was helped off the field by a teammate and given a small medical kit. With no better options handy, he headed over to the nearby public bathrooms at the complex, which are by federal law never cleaned or maintained. The mirror showed a deep gash across his nose, as if a hatchet had been thrust into the area like a log.

While nothing seemed to stop the bleeding, he was able to wash the area and strap gauze tightly to his nose with medical tape, forming a patch. This he covered in plastic, and the whole thing went under a “waterproof bandage” from the kit. The bleeding had been slowed and contained, and this would serve to temporarily keep his blood off of other players.

Aaron headed back over to the sideline and gave the medical kit to one of the girls watching the practice, who smiled at him.

“Want to go back in?” the manager asked sarcastically.

“Of course,” he replied.

The girl’s eyes widened and she said, “Wait, really? Why would you want to do that?!”.

He just stared at her for a moment, then grinned.

“For the love of the game.”

Life, Tailor-Made

We’re addicted to insulation.

Look around on any given day to see thousands of people fully absorbed in their safe, manufactured, comfortable, personal worlds. MP3 players block out all ambient sound, replacing it with a soundtrack of the user’s choice. The same person might be staring intently at a smartphone, typing away at emails and texts or playing elaborate, increasingly interactive games. Sunglasses shield the eyes from the cruel natural lighting of the outdoors, and cumbersome-yet-stylish backpacks, satchels, and purses conceal an entire home’s worth of consumer goods so we never have to be without.

At what point do we cross over from accessorizing our commutes to actively replacing them with mind-numbing familiarity?

Advertising (noun): The Art of Lying

There’s a fine line between selling a product by hyping up its merits and outright deception, and it’s amazing what people will believe when its being told to them by attractive people using flashy special effects or large capital letters.

Sometimes this goes too far. Consider the following quote taken from Time:

According to CSPI nutritionists, Vitaminwater’s sugar content more than offsets any advertised health benefits provided by the nutrients in the drink. “They added vitamins to crap,” says Stephen Gardner, chief litigator for CSPI. “And it’s still crap. Consumers shouldn’t have to assume that the front of a label is a lie. You cannot deceive in the big print and tell the truth later.”

Judge John Gleeson of the U.S. District Court in Brooklyn…thinks Coke could be violating the so-called jellybean rule, which says…a sugar product is a sugar product: you can’t say a jellybean fights heart disease because it contains no cholesterol.

“The potential for confusion is heightened,” Gleeson wrote, “by the presence of other statements in Vitaminwater’s labeling, such as the description of the product as a ‘vitamin enhanced water beverage’ and the phrases ‘vitamins + water + all you need’ and ‘vitamins + water = what’s in your hand’ which have the potential to reinforce a consumer’s mistaken belief that the product is comprised of only vitamins and water.”

Coke responded to the judge’s ruling in a statement. “Vitaminwater is a great tasting, hydrating beverage with essential vitamins and water — and labels clearly showing ingredients and calorie content,” the company said.

So, the crux of the matter is deciding if it’s legal to essentially lie to people who believe that the name of a product should be consistent with its contents. I think Coke’s defense is particularly entertaining, as it could conceivably be used to justify calling a Moon Pie a “whole-grain bread product” despite a whopping 400% daily sugar and fat content rating.

If Coke wins their countersuit, I’m looking forward to seeing other exciting new products such as the Twix Energy Bar and the BaskinRobins Internal Cooling Cream.

It’ll be a brave new world.

Go for the Ball

Sports are all about the competition – not who’s faster/stronger/more agile, but who can channel their energy toward a specific, useful purpose best. I prefer sports with strategic or tactical components, games where there is almost never only one real solution to a given problem. Do I chip the ball over the defender, wall-pass around, or juke him? Situational awareness in high-stress, high-adrenaline environments is a skill worth developing.

Sports also provide an outlet for all of life’s energy. While exerting yourself is certainly a benefit, you also get a chance to practice dealing with negative energy when you make mistakes. How you channel this speaks volumes – do you shout and swear (FOUL! That was a foul!), do you frown and furrow your brow (Crap – I always do that!), or do you just laugh out loud and shake your head with a smile (Ah well…next time!)?

In soccer there are situations called 50/50 balls where it’s unclear which of several players on opposite teams will win a loose ball, which bobbles around as players jump and jostle and fight for control, until eventually possession is gained/lost. A casual observer might suppose this is more or less the result of luck peppered with a dash of skill, but there’s less chance involved than it seems.

50/50 balls nearly always go to the player who wants it more. That player will run a little faster, jump a little higher, shove a little harder, and eventually they will win possession.

Life is full of 50/50 balls just waiting for us to control – you just have to put in the effort.

An Annual Everyday Event

People are inexorably linked to the concept of time. We don’t actually understand it, but it governs our lives nonetheless. Even as we shape our schedules into a series of carefully crafted appointments, it’s hard to tell if we are time’s stewards or its slaves.

Birthdays ought to exemplify this concept best, as they present a merging between our awareness of the relentless march of time and of the way we embrace its inevitability.

The point is this: we routinely take a day each year to revel in the fact that we still exist. Why not make every day more like that?

At the very least there’d be more cake.

Vacate the Status Quo

There are 2 basic types of vacations: Family ™ and Casual.

The typical Family ™ vacation features people who see each other rarely, and thus everyone gets their spotlight moment because nobody has anything to talk about until the “so, how’ve you been” part is done. This isn’t a criticism – it’s a boon. We rarely sit back and try to define who we are and how we’ve been during our normal routines, and listening to yourself during one of these conversations will leave you with a better idea of what you value than you’d probably like.

Casual vacations, on the other hand, are generally done with people you’ve known for years. Not “been related to and thus spent time with”, but known. While I like my uncles and cousins and such, I couldn’t tell you most of their hobbies, dreams, or interesting anecdotes; casual vacations are spent with the people about whom I know these subjects by heart.

Where Family ™ vacations promote story telling, casual vacations promote shared experiences. In this way, casual vacations tend to provide the stories you’ll use to define yourself on Family(tm) vacations. Just remember to listen when relating tales of adventure to your family – you might be part of the audience too.

Watching the Second Hand

I spent a lot of time in school staring at the clock. I did this mostly because the relentless advance of the second hand proved more entertaining than the teacher explaining a concept I already understood for the sixth time, but at least part of me just wanted the day to be over so I could move on to the next big thing.

College was similar – I had to pay slightly more attention, but not a class went by that I didn’t at least glance at the clock (or flash the time display on my cell phone, or check my laptop’s time) to see when it would be over and I could gain some measure of freedom to do something else.

Our society never grows out of this.

The average American is completely unable to process the idea that maybe happiness doesn’t involve 40+ hours each week staring at a clock. People who only work part-time are typically expected to be actively looking for additional work, as if it were a terrible malady to have more time to yourself each day. “Any luck in your job search?” friends and family might ask, blindly assuming you’re running one. It’s the vocalization of our general assumption that if you’re living life correctly, free time should be a luxury – a precious commodity and not a bountiful resource.

There is, of course, the money argument. “You work full-time to support a lifestyle you enjoy.” But even this seems odd, as the core concept of work is trading time for money. When we spend money we’re trying to turn it back into time , but the exchange rate for these currencies is absurd. A reasonable person making $20/hr, for example, should never spend money at a rate less than that – you’ve established that an hour of your time is worth $20, which is 33 cents per minute. It takes (and here I am being generous) 5 minutes to make a sandwich, and you’ll go buy one for $5 at Subway without thinking twice. You’ll even stand in line for 10 minutes for the privilege of doing so, and you’ll walk away convinced you got a good deal.

My rambling point is that we live in a society where everyone wants more time to do the things they want to do, but can’t afford it because we’ve made ridiculous decisions about what time is worth. Turning time into money is easy – at a fixed rate. Turning that money back into time at the same (or even a similar) rate is completely impossible.

The end result? We spend our entire lives waiting for the bell to ring.

Sandcastles and Snow Forts

Snow forts are tricky things. You spend a lot of time and energy constructing one – you fortify the walls, create an escape tunnel, dig out a shallow shelf to store your extra snowballs. And then you wait for someone foolish enough to assail your position. Time passes. You get bored. So you build the walls higher and make a few dozen more snowballs and hope against hope that somebody comes along before you get too wet and cold and tired to enjoy the fort.

Some of us are still waiting, and will be until the day the sun comes out and renders all that effort meaningless; an unused fort that never fulfilled the eager dreams of its maker.

Compare this to a sandcastle. From the beginning, before you shovel the first grain of sand, you know this is a losing endeavor. No matter how elaborate your construction, no matter how deep and wide your moat, no matter how sturdy and well-engineered your walls, the inexorable tide will come and wipe it out as if it never existed. So you have fun with it, carving impractical designs into your spiraling towers and creating bridges spanning in all directions yet leading nowhere. The only purpose is the joy of creation itself, and when the waters finally come you can smile in pride as you count exactly how many pulses your castle can resist.