• The stone! Give me the stone!

    The set-up:
    My boy Adam and I were driving home after a haircut this weekend. We were listening to the radio but only one of us was paying close attention.

    The conversation:
    “I wish I had my notepad.”

    Why do you say that Adam?

    “Because I want to write something down.”

    That’s my boy!

    “What?”

    Nothing. What do you want to write down?

    “That commercial that was just on…”

    Commercial?

    “Yeah. Something Stone.. learning languages?”

    Rosetta Stone?

    “That’s it. Rosetta Stone.”

    Why do you want Rosetta Stone?

    As my mind turns:
    He’s been taking Spanish in school, so I was impressed he was interested enough to learn it on his own time. **I think it’s great he wants to learn other languages, and I’d like to encourage him somehow. However, we’re not in a position to trade a few months of the family’s room and board for The Rosetta Stone Experience.

    Meanwhile, back in the real world:
    “I’ve been having trouble learning French.”

    A popular caffeinated beverage burns through my sinuses…
    French?

    “Yeah, why?”

    I don’t know… how long have you been learning French?

    He pauses for about fifteen seconds – ’twas very dramatic…
    “I guess since Kindergarten.”

    He hasn’t really, but he has been exposed to it by his grandparents.

    Later that same day I got a call from my sister (who had been looking at lists and was out Christmas shopping), asking if Beth still wanted to learn Italian.

    Italian? I’ll say this: whatever Rosetta Stone is spending on marketing , I’ll bet it’s worth it.

    **Please note: I’m not really complaining. To borrow some humor from a GEICO commercial… my kids’ interest in learning and languages in particular makes me happier than a slinky on an escalator. The mock outrage here is simply an attempt at humor when I’m feeling humorless. I’m trying to kickstart a good mood.

  • Forgive me

    Forgive me Father for I am considering sin.

    My neck isn’t any better than it was almost a year ago. While I haven’t given up hope my issues above the shoulders will improve one day, it’s time to stop waiting. It’s time to start doing. It’s time I started exercising again.

    We interrupt this post for a moment of rationalization.

    It’s not that I haven’t been trying. Here’s just a couple inspiring examples of damn near heroic perseverance: I’ve tried increasingly short walks, scaling down every time it started to hurt. I tried easy skating, thinking gentle gliding would be less traumatic than the up/down pounding of walking. My reward? Suffering more pain for days afterward.

    We return to the post, reality in progress.

    My Doc says walking isn’t the best choice, due to the range of stressors placed on the neck (side to side, up and down, etc). When I mentioned skating she just shook her head with dismay. She must think I fall a lot, constantly pushing my limits. I don’t know what gives her that idea.

    She recommended bicycling – or more precisely: riding an exercise bike. If you’re doing it right (is there any doubt I do it right?), there’s little upper-body movement at the lower effort levels.

    The Problem(s): I have a road racing bike. I love my road racing bike. I may never be able to ride my road racing bike again. The bent-over, aerodynamic riding position puts a strain on my neck. Stupid pride prevents me from selling it for a heavy, upright clunker. Stupid pride prevents me from riding a heavy, upright clunker.

    The less rational problem(s):
    Yes, it can get worse.
    A stationary bike represents all that is evil in this world. Bicycling is an adventure, more intimate than a car but taking you further than your feet. A stationary bike is a terrible tease of the adventures in life not taken. It’s like an indoor porch or a computer without the Mac OS. They’re useless, but rendered so intentionally – adding an absurd quality to each.

    The Problem (condensed): me.

    That said, I’m considering the unthinkable: defiling my beautiful bike by rotating the bars up 180 degrees, bullhorn style. The 1970s will be calling, asking for their bike back. Worse, I’m considering riding it indoors (on my trainer) wearing a cervical collar.

    To recap:
    Neck still hurts.
    Determined to exercise.
    Stationary bikes evil.
    Too much misplaced pride.
    Sleek bike defiled.
    Riding indoors anyway, looking like a commercial for an injury attorney.

    I’m nowhere near a thousand words but there’s NO chance you’re getting a picture, so this will have to do.

  • Death of a Civic

    It came too soon. I only had my little Civic for eight years. I’d planned to grow old with the little fella. My little five speed manual, two door coupe, was small enough to get pretty good gas milage and be fun to drive.

    There’s a responsiveness to a car with a manual transmission, a link between man and machine, that you don’t get in an automatic. They have no soul.

    It made replacing my old Civic all the more painful. To save money we got a leftover/clearance 2012 Civic with, you guessed it, an automatic.

    Preying on my weakness, the sharks smelled blood in the water and offered me a manual 2012 Accord Coupe for “about the same price.”

    Anytime a car salesperson says that magical, almost too good to be true phrase, put a padlock on your wallet.

    In this case, the mathematical formula for “about” is 3x / 2 (where x equals the price of the first car).

    We got the automatic Civic.

    As I was getting into the new car, my old car in front of me, off to the left. Stripped of its plates and my stuff (including my Democrats! sticker propped up in the back window), it looked abandoned – sad.

    “Are you going to miss it?” The salesperson asked me, as I took a long last look.

    “I already do,” I replied.