Day Fifty-One: The Wisdom of Rabbits.

Ask me a question about Bambi.

I know the answer!

Yeah, you're probably amazed (or concerned). It's true! You are unlikely to meet a twenty-something male with deeper appreciation for Bambi than me (unless you work with the mentally deranged). Apparently a lot of people were actually kind of traumatized by the movie and couldn't really stand to watch it as kids? Like, because his mom gets shot and he has to grow up to be a BADASS and such?

But anyway.

Thumper is the wisest sidekick anyone has ever had. We all know Thumperisms like, "Ya hafta watch both ends at the same time." Wow. Deep, profound, and far reaching beyond the realm of ungulate ice-skating.

(even the best advice is useless to those who do not follow it)

Doubtless, however, Thumper's best known quotation is,





Why bring it up?

Because somehow I am on a team that fails to comprehend this concept and while it's had little manifestations in during previous games, this past Tuesday was positively epic.

I'm sure that many of you have noticed this, but sports have this magical ability to turn seemingly well-adjusted dudes into total crazies in NO time at all. A few errors give birth to frustration, and frustration seemingly uncaps deep wells of self-righteous negativity.

If you missed it, my team hasn't won a game yet. We have some good players, but nobody is show-stoppingly good. Nevertheless, there a couple people who feel like they have a particular gift for correcting their teammates and telling them the nuances of how they ought to be playing.

Anyone who has played a sport/worked with people for more than an hour has encountered this variety of human. They believe that by translating their frustration into criticism they will somehow create positive change.

They are wrong. They will always be wrong. And in the meanwhile, they're really unpleasant to be around.

I remember talking like this when I was in highschool. I was definitely dickish to my teammates. But I'm twenty-five now. I've realized my frustrations are completely self-serving and I distrust them constantly.

But without fail- all it takes is a bunch of boys with a ball to bring out the most negative, pissy attitudes.

And in the end? We lost.

Not one second of criticism helped anyone or changed the outcome of the game.

I've decided to make that explicitly clear next game. Which is not typically my style. But I've decided it's not worth having the entire game polluted with negativity by a couple guys who don't know how to handle their frustration in a healthy way.

Part of strength is the ability to face frustration and hardship and not let it wear out your kindness or exhaust your joy.

An easy first step? LISTEN TO THE RABBIT.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Forty-Eight: Crouching Embarrassment, Hidden Past!

Maaaannnn. How crazy have the last nineteen days been? Allow me to briefly recap!

I carved a pumpkin (it's already rotting)!

Co-adopted a dog/goblin/bat (henceforth, "Dogoblat" [or Ping])!





















Roadtripped to $TEXAS (paid fifty-four dollars to rent a car for four days, drive it ninety miles per hour, and put seventeen-hundred miles on it. I almost feel bad)!

And lost more soccer games.

Yes, lost more. It's been tough. I've been practicing a lot and I can see improvement in my own stamina and game, but only just now I've realized that most of the teams we are competing against have played together in this league for a while now. Whereas my team came into this season largely unfamiliar with one another and at least half had no indoor experience (including myself).

It's been a pretty steep game of catch-up. Last Tuesday was by far the best we've done, and it very nearly paid off. I think the final result was 3-7, which while seemingly bad is, in fact, our closest finish and the way we were developing our attack and getting back on defense actually looked like we were a team.

Which is exciting to me. If you don't know, I don't discourage easily. Whether that is for a lack of connection to the looming onslaught of reality or because of everlasting springs of divine joy remains to be determined.

And now! A confession. A dark revelation of shame.

This is not the first blog I've ever written. There are OTHER blogs. Older blogs.

Some of them very, very old.

And their collective content is- well, how to put this delicately; steaming animal compost. Emphasis on the present-tenseness of this steam. No amount of time would be adequate for the horribleness to cease being freshly rank.

Yes, dear reader. More so than what you now feast your eyes (but starve your brain) on- if you can believe it.

I occasionally have fits of anxiety that one day I'll do something important, become famous, and all these old blogs will be discovered the social-media-adepts; who would find a nearly infinite resource of utterly humiliating material to by processed through buzzfeed and the Huffington Post.

Imagine my joy, then, to discover just now that xanga has officially archived all its old content. It's inaccessible except by upgrading the account!

Such joy that is mine! All of my splendid political ambitions are free to flourish!

*prance*

It's an odd combination of comforting and dissatisfying when I google my own name. Nothing about me ever comes up, which is comforting as I haven't done anything that I would wish to have public attention directed toward, but dissatisfying because surely I've done something more noteworthy than yet another dead-end blog by TieFighterGuy85 blabbering about their brochacho named Ethan who "may do this" or "may do that."

As a side note, having a permissional last name is a great way to fade in the search engine noise. Apparently there are a lot of articles about what Ethan Hawke may or may not do. So much speculation around one man!

There remains only one website to throw my political ascendance athwart and I have NO idea how to get rid of it. Gratefully, even with knowing certain precise word combinations to put into the search engine, it is nigh impossible to stumble upon- even with Google's almighty power.

Eventually I will find a seedy hacker, or a really awesome one like Lizbeth Salander and pay them to "nuke it." But with 1s and 0s. Technologically.

Are you still reading this?

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Twenty-Nine: Back to Work!

It will probably come as no surprise that I stopped blogging as the stress of trying to be clever on a daily basis finally defeated my frail wit and sense of commitment. Not for the first time, certainly; and not likely for the last.

I begin again, on this twenty-ninth day of my journey toward the Indefatigable.

To spare you a recap, know this- we still haven't won a game. But we just started a new season. And the future is beginning to ripen with promise. Promise I say!

So before we go any further, the report for today!

The Fatigue:
20 minutes of touches on the ball
(I discovered that the paved surface of my alley is a much better training ground than my own heavily root-ridden and sloped backyard. I discovered this ante-stepping-in-huey-poop, but a valuable discovery nonetheless. My garbage toter, as well, turns out to be an excellent target for taking hard shots, which I am in desperate need of improving on.)

3 mile run
(With Aberlyn and Huey. It has been much cooler, and Huey did a lot better. I think the temperature of the asphalt makes a huge difference for him. I mean, if I were running without shoes? I would not be running. Which sort of makes the whole juxtaposition moot, but anywho!)

My touch is improving. I can juggle for fifteen or more consecutive touches without trying too hard. It's encouraging to feel my reflexes not only reawakening, but coming back with a little more brain-connectivity, dare I hope? I am twenty-five now. I was promised more brain power. Promised I say!

I'm about to talk about religious matters. Those of you who desire your brain space be unpolluted, depart! I rant forthwith!

I want to briefly address a really dumb problem that I see.

There are two main places in the New Testament that are used by major Christian institutions to justify making sure women do not get behind a pulpit. Or lead mixed-gender groups. Insofar as they even do not allow women to take "preaching" classes but require "public speaking" to complete their degrees.

Both passages (In Ephesians and Timothy) are heavily laden with cultural implications (women were almost universally uneducated and regarded as property) and personal recommendation (Paul says "I do not allow").

Even if I didn't strongly disagree with how these passages are interpreted from a translational perspective (because I do with the Timothy passage) and an interpretational perspective (which I REALLY do with Ephesians 5), it is shocking to me how these two passages are used to effectively exclude women from the full implications of the most stunning promises and commands that Jesus Christ universally gives to his followers, without any regard for gender or social standing. For example, John 14, where he says,

"Anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing- even greater things than these; for I go to the Father." (so, that definitely includes leading, discipling, preaching to the masses, correcting and confronting "leadership" with the heart of the Father, etc.)

Or how about the Great Commission? Or how about Acts 2? Or how about, I don't know, everything that is implied by the work of Jesus? Specifically-

"There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus."

For the first century church, the Jew-Gentile thing was mind-bending. It took another millennium and a HALF for the Church to officially abandon slavery.

I really hope it doesn't take that long for the male-female bit. I really, really hope so.

I am confident it won't.

There is one role to which we are all called- to follow Jesus Christ, and be transformed by his love and example. That example is for both genders. It includes everything.

And that is very good news.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Thirteen: AHHHHHH NEED SLEEP.

It's 10:30pm on a Monday evening and we're waiting for someone who saw our craiglist ad for our old microwave cart to come over and decide if they want to buy it or not.

If they decide they don't want to buy it after being all, "We wanna come see it now!" and making us stay up like this, I'mma be all like,

Seriously. It's already fifteen minutes [scratch that, HALF-HOUR] past when they said they'd be here.

Anyway.

Exercised today! Because yes, I didn't do anything all weekend. Well, I did help smash up tile with a friend Saturday. That was strenuous. And on Sunday I did some boxing practice with another friend. That was strenuous, but mostly fun; we weren't trying to kill ourselves or anything.

The Fatigue:
Fifteen minutes of touches on the ball
[I'm actually getting better. my juggling has noticeably improved, which I honestly didn't expect- because I feel like I juggled a lot in high school but never improved much. maybe my motor skills are better as a twenty-five year old?]
Two mile run
[with Aberlyn and Huey. we were going to run three, but in the 93 degree heat poor Huey pooped out on our way back. I actually carried him for a little ways, and the people at Rally's gave us a cup of water for him. probably shouldn't run in this kind of heat with him again- he is wearing a coat all the time.]

If you didn't catch it, I did a little follow-up on the whole modesty-culture discussion back on Day Nine. If you've got time to waste. It's a really core issue to me, because on one side I find freedom and empowerment for myself (nothing about a woman's body controls my sexuality, because nothing about her body is innately sexual! it's all in my head and heart!) and on the other I find a system of guarded legalism (make sure you don't see a woman in these contexts or with those clothes/lack thereof. that's what leads to objectifying her).

Anywhoozle. I'm going to bed. Wait, no I'm not.

GET HERE, LADY.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

(to bed.)

Day Ten: No Sweat

I didn't exercise today and feel powerfully uninspired about blogging. Imagine how you must feeling after reading that sentence. You should probably find a cat-video. At least then you could laugh about something.

But don't worry- I plan to sleep it off.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

(is anyone else getting sick of my catchy tagline?)

Day Nine: Pay No Attention To Missing Day Eight

While officials insist that the investigation is still on-going, a source familiar with the information reports that the primary suspect in the case of Missing Day Eight is, in fact, Day Seven. When pressed for details about what a potential motive might be, the source commented:

"We know from other cases involving number sevens that they can be cannibalistic. It's possible Day Eight fled or was a victim of foul play. I think we all remember how not too long ago, in a different string of numbers,

seven ate nine."

...

Man that was painful. But I wanted it so bad!

No, yesterday disappeared because I did other writing projects. But now, I'm back!

A brief update on exercise-

The Fatigue:
15 minutes of touches on the ball
[like it sounds!]
5 minutes of jump rope
[it sucked!]

I really want to, you know, win a game. Eventually. Sooner rather than later. And there was at LEAST one moment in the game on Tuesday where if my touch and speed had even been incrementally better, I had a goal in the bag.

Anywho!

The response my last blog received really caught me off guard. I actually got really nervous because Aberlyn called me while I was still at work and told that a lot of people were reading it. Thanks for the emails, comments, and all that; the encouragement and criticism are both really appreciated.

I'm working on a follow up, one that is a little more personal and specific about the effect of modesty culture in my life and my thinking, and demonstrating why I believe it is a significantly broken system of belief and practice.

But a friend brought up a really good question about the scientific/biblical basis for my statement about nothing about skin being inherently sexual. I wanted to clarify that point:

On the biblical basis, Jesus made it really clear that adultery happens within a man's heart. It's not about the woman. It's not about what the woman is doing, that's not why the man lusts after her. Even a woman working as a prostitute is appealing to sexually broken men. Healthy men do not respond to a prostitute's advances, nor are they tempted beyond their control, because they know and wholly believe that nothing about what she is offering will satisfy them, and she is not their's to sexualize- even at her own invitation.

Any of the girls who have been violated and/or raped while fully and "modestly" clothed do and have testified to me that the way they dress has zero power to control or influence the behavior of men. Because in the hearts of men who struggle with sexually objectifying women (or rather do not struggle, but happily give over to objectifying women, which is often the case), the woman is already a sexual object. Those areas of her body are areas that, in his heart, he is already prepared to engage with in a sexual context in his own mind and, at times, through physical action.

The idea that something magical happens to a girl's skin between age ten (where no man should look at her tummy or chest or butt and sexually objectify her) and age twenty is absolutely baffling to me. The only thing that changes is that because she is "physically mature," men now view her as a legitimate/legal satisfaction for their sexual appetite. And that's why they lust after her, regardless of whether she is wearing a high-collared knee-length dress or her underwear.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Seven: Game Day! and Soapblog?

Kick-off for the game was at 9pm this evening. NINE O'CLOCK, POST-MERIDIAN.

Yeah. I got home at 10:15pm.

I mean, holy COW. Do these schedulers think I'm in highschool? Grandpa needs his shut-eye, ya dig?

Anyway.

We thought we played the best team in the league last week, but, in fact, we played them tonight. Yeesh. But! Though we lost (4-12), we definitely played a lot better. And I, for one, definitely felt better.

Better legs, better lungs. My touches we still a little on the sloppy side, but I think part of that is still adjusting to indoor turf. The ball just moves so fast, and so easily. The necessary force for a touch in outdoor is just way overkill on astro-turf.

But I am adapting. And I definitely wasn't in as much pain at the end of the match tonight I was last week.

It's encouraging, all round. And I'm all about finding encouragement. That said, I've still got a looooong way to go if I'm headed for my former stamina.

And that's definitely what I'm headed for.

And now, for something entirely different.

If you're like me and spend too much time on Facebook, you've probably seen the bikini/one-piece debate being trotted out yet again. I've resisted getting in the fray for a long time. But now I have my very own soapbox! My blog!

A soapblog, if you will.

So.

Personally, I reject a culture that seeks freedom for one sex (men from lusting after women) by restricting the other (women from baring their midriffs and shoulders so men won't be tempted to objectify them).

Objectification happens inside my head. It happens because of what's in my heart. We could make all women wear shorts and bathing suits with straps over the shoulders and men who struggle with lust would not be ONE INCH closer to freedom, while yet another generation of women would be indoctrinated with the lie that there is something inherently different about their bodies, and that difference is inescapably and constantly an object of sexuality.

God did not make the person of a woman or any part of a woman as something that men naturally look at and think of sex. That is a learned pattern. I am not describing attraction. I'm describing sexualization.

There are men who look at eight-year-old girls (and boys) and want to have sex with them.

But we know the children are not to blame. There is something deeply broken inside of the pedophile fueling that unhealthy, twisted fantasy.

Yet somehow, if a man lusts after a physically mature woman and objectifies her, that woman shares responsibility.

There it is. The beating heart of this broken concept of sexual identity. We believe that after a certain age, women's bodies become sexual objects that they must adequately cover, lest men lust after them. Once they have boobs, they share in part of the blame if a man is struggling to control his appetites. Particularly if she is being "provocative."

Anyone feeling crazy yet? I feel crazy.

There is something deeply broken in most men, and it goes to the heart of how they seem themselves, their desires, and the women around them.

I firmly and completely believe it has NOTHING to do with the amount of skin a woman is showing.

In one conversation that I was reading, someone tried to make an analogy about how we wouldn't have whiskey at an AA meeting, and for the same kind of reason shouldn't have girls dressed in bikinis around guys.

In my opinion, that attitude unintentionally but precisely articulates why so many guys seeking sexual purity do not find it, and why so many girls are constantly ashamed of themselves. That attitude affirms a broken, hopeless identity for both sexes. Namely- guys are powerless to control their sexual appetites for women, and women are objects for men to satisfy their sexual appetites with.

This is rape culture. Men can't, at a core basic level, resist women. Women can't be something more than sexual to a man.

We recognize this is not what Jesus says about us, right?

But moving forward!

I believe that everything about this conversation is centered on a lie about our identities. And rather than affirm our real identity, and thus the identity of everyone around us, much of Christianity is mired in pointless, empty attitudes about "purity" related to how much skin a girl is showing.

There is nothing inherently sexual about skin. That is learned.

Church culture forcing girls into wearing one-pieces in no way helps with my struggle. To the contrary, it distracts and frames a false struggle.

My struggle is not against seeing that girl as a sexual (or any other) object. My struggle is to understand who she is to God. Who I am to God. And what God is really like.

Can we stop the bullshit about the rest of it? Maybe guys can actually be helped and girls can stop feeling like there's something inherently sinful about their bodies; that they're always in danger of making a guy lust after them.

Both sexes deserve a lot better. Jesus made us so much more powerful and free than a debate about square-inches of clothing.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Six: Uphill Clawing

Nothing thoughtful, but I did sweat today. So, there's that.

Actually, it was a pretty sweet Labor Day. I spent all of it with Aberlyn, and that was awesome.

And tomorrow is game day! First opportunity to meaningfully measure some of my recent effort.

The Fatigue:

3 mile run
[not breath-taking, but it was strenuous and healthy. perfect set-up for tomorrow]

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Five: Hardest Day Yet

Why?

Because today not only did I not exercise without legitimate excuse, but I also cannot for the life of me think of anything interesting or meaningful to say.

Which equals DOUBLE fail.

Typically when I fail, I have the instant urge to lie about it in some way. Embellish, distract, distort- whatever. Even now, when the only actual consequence of said "failure" is the most negligible social form imaginable (like, seriously dude. your blog is not even a blip among BLOGS. that's how low on the importance scale we're talking), I'm still fighting the urge to make something more of it.

I just spent an hour trying to write a little on here about my struggle with telling the truth, but I just couldn't handle it.

Lying is just trying to control the world because I'm scared of what people will think about me and I want to control what they think about me.

That sort of sums it up.

Thanks for reading. Tomorrow, I'm gonna get sweating done, and write something thoughtful.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Four: Chillax

Resting today. I woke up really tight and sore. Moreover, I know tomorrow is going to be full of rope-climbing contests, swimming, and intense basketball. Family party and so forth.

So I'm resting from the blog, too. Food time!

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Three: Finding Will (The Verb)

Today, I am definitely tired.

I realize that all major successes in human history are at least in part due to the dedication of certain individuals who found the motivation and strength to push themselves over and over again, doggedly pursuing their goals. I realize there are also outliers, who merely discover themselves in the midst off random success. Lottery winners, Jed Clampett, this guy. 

In case you were unaware, we just exited another McDonald's Monopoly season. As a garbage man, I can play McDonald's Monoploy without ever having to purchase food myself, because the trash of about one-thousand people passes before my eyes every week. And every week, from July sixteenth through August sixteenth, I peeled those tabs off of discarded Big Mac boxes, soggy hashbrown wrappers- looking for a winning combination of game pieces.  

I didn't find that combination.

A few days before the game ended, I actually looked up the odds of winning. Turns out I had a much better chance of opening a trash can lid and immediately being killed by a lightning strike than finding that wretched Boardwalk piece.

But I couldn't stop. The empty hope of winning a million dollars and being only ONE PIECE away from a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year payout for the next twenty years was positively intoxicating. I even bought a Big Mac at one point, with money that actually existed in my wallet.

The only prizes I won were free food. Free McDonald's food. Which of course, I cashed in on. Oh, McGriddle, you horrible, sexy pancake-demon. You made me so sick, but I ate you anyway. Quarter pounders and french fries and kept on peeling those tabs.

Looking for the payoff.

This entire concept is so obvious but so painfully difficult for me. I hate practical, present-tense investment for small, often nearly imperceptible gains. It's discouraging to me because I often feel like I don't really have anything meaningful (read: gratifying) to show for what was, particularly in terms of willpower, a real investment.

How do you find motivation? Is it something you "find," or is it a point you reach? Is motivation a desire for something better, or is it the weathered conviction that comes from experience? Experience that knows there is only one way forward, and it is by walking with your feet. Under such experience, if it feels like forward motion isn't happening, there is only one culprit. Make that two culprits. And the legs that connect them to a really stupid brain.

I have a really stupid brain. And this physical exercise stuff is just the shallow part for me. But it's so measurable and objective. As absurd as it is, even in these few days I have felt a small shift in my perspective on diligence and effort. A small one.

But I need that small one. And a lot more like it.

So.

The Fatigue:
4 mile run
[Aberlyn helped me with this one. Got me out of bed and out the door with her while it was still cool this morning. Long runs are nice because they really help me feel like I've made progress, even if on the nuts-and-bolts side of things, they are not necessarily the best for fast-turnover motion like indoor soccer]

15 minutes on The Square
[This came a little later in the morning. Went down to the park with my younger brother and sister Elijah and Julia. Elijah ran with me for the first six minutes, then passed and worked with Julia. It was actually really sweet to have them along. I remembered how much it meant to me, when I was included in grown-up stuff, even if it was as pointless as The Square. Fifteen minutes because I made the sides twenty yards instead of fifteen, and because SO HOT AND NO NO NO NO.]

That's one small step for man, and I'm gonna eat something covered in chocolate.

Thanks for reading. Love you guys.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Two: Basic Geometry

Few people are allowed the solitary thinking compartment that is a trash truck cab on a rural, driving-heavy route. I am one of them, and it's something to be grateful for, the interminable sensation of it notwithstanding.

As I rolled through remote locales and past bizarre over-sized statues of trout and hippopotamus (yes, Otisco owes all of us an explanation), I was thinking about the approaching evening and what I was going to attempt in this effort to regain my fitness.

I've done lots of kinds of exercise under a lot of different coaches over the years. When I was about twelve or thirteen I got to play on my older sister Natalie's travel soccer team, which was the next age bracket up. It was a big deal for me, particularly as an affirmation-driven sort of individual. The coach's name was Don Edwards, and in my memory he is kind of like a skinny Hulk Hogan, sans the facial hair and always wearing sunglasses. Coach Edwards believed in running and yelling, and we ran while he yelled. We ran a lot, most of the practice as I recall. I don't know if this strategy actually made us any more fit than the teams that we played, but I know it eventually led to him being asked to step down from coaching. According to reports, there may have been yelling involved there, too.

But in these more modern times, they don't do that kind of thing. The research seems to indicate that interval training - doing something intensely in a series of sets with short breaks between - is the best way to condition one's self.

So in the think-tank that is my garbage truck, I got an idea. An idea that percolated nicely over the afternoon.

So when I made it home, I got my cleats, soccer ball, four screw drivers, and trotted down to a park just a couple blocks away from our house.

It's a pretty sparse little public space. Just a month ago the cops busted a meth lab in a white, ramshackle garage that sits directly on the park's edge. It was still there. But as the punishing sun cooked everything, the basketball court sat empty, the plastic playground got wobbly, and with my four screw-drivers I marked out a square in the bleached grass, each side fifteen yards long.

I set my timer, put down my soccer ball at one corner, and-

The Fatigue:
20 minutes on The Square
[the concept was fairly simple- jog two lengths of the square, sprint a third. I could reverse my direction at any corner, and when I came to the soccer ball I could either keep running or dribble it to the middle and do a fake or a turn, dribble to another corner, and resume the jog-two-sprint-one routine. I expected this to be difficult, and I was a lot more correct than I expected. Ninety-two degrees in full sun didn't help. After thirteen minutes I changed the rules and allowed myself to mix-in running backwards instead of sprinting every third side. It helped a little, but in the last several minutes I was dying. It was really hard to keep my touch on the ball from getting sloppy, and eventually it wasn't just accelerating INTO the sprint that was difficult. STOPPING at the next corner, after such a short burst, that became really tough.]

I'm sure someone else has already invented something pretty much exactly this, but I'm proud of it. It definitely pushed me. I'm sure the square is going to become part of bigger fitness plans as my conditioning improves. But I didn't have time to do more this evening.

Time is always going to be an issue. I can see that already. But I think making time is going to be biggest benefit I can give myself. Even if it's just this twenty minutes of effort.

I bet if I thought about it, I could find that principle wanting to improve a lot of other areas in my life.

But psssshhh. Whose got time to think about all that?

Thanks for reading. Y'all are way more motivational than you know.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day One: Excuse Making

As one might have expected, I didn't want to start today.

I work on a garbage truck in southeastern corner of Indiana. I drive (read: hunt down addresses on tiny county roads and busy subdivisions) and tip (read: pick up trash cans and empty their contents into the aforementioned truck), which as you might guess ranks somewhere between considerable and notorious on the much-debated scale of physical labor.

For anyone not living in the United States at the moment, it's really hot right now. No, seriously. It's not as hot as it has ever been, but here in the Ohio river valley we've had a solid week of mid-ninety degrees Fahrenheit. That means everything has dried up and all the humidity is in the air and not in the ground or the lakes or wherever humidity is meant to dwell, and the pavement and metal and trash cans are all radiating with their absorbed sun-fury. It's like the angry heat of the sun is transforming everything into its wrathful likeness.

Anywho.

When I got home today, I was tired. And I immediately realized one of the big reasons I have not exercised in a serious way for, oh, about five years now.

IT'S TIRING AND I HAVE A JOB, DAMMIT.

Everyone who has kids and is in college in addition to working a full-time job is laughing at me. But shush, you. This is my blog and I'm being narcissistic about my life and troubles. Away with you!

Moreover, I'd consider myself semi-pro at rationalizing. Not being rational in a real way, but you know- purposefully twisting my angle of reality with a sweet lullaby of excuses as I choose the path of least resistance and effort. I'm really good at that.

So before I was even through the front door, I was all, "Jeez it's stupid hot today. I'm so tired. I don't wanna be out there anymore."

As I was closing the door behind me it was all, "Truthfully, I lifted a cumulative 4.5 tons of trash. Now that's a workout most people don't get."

Huey is there, jumping up to greet me with his happy pit-mix face. And I'm thinking, "I'm really in decent shape, and I played a game last night. Rest is really important if you're exercising. I should rest today."

But then, as I come into the kitchen, Aberlyn is in the downstairs bathroom with a paint roller, working away. In the past couple days she's been transforming that long-closet of a space. She's stripped off the ghastly wallpaper, puttied and sanded all the chips and dents, patched all the holes the wallpaper was hiding, and now this; painting away. She just got back from work, too, and there she is- white paint flecked on her face.

Aberlyn is the reason our house looks good. Because she cares, and she's always doing what she cares about in her life. It's a little crazy to be around if you're like me and motivated primarily by external approval. Because from my side, I'm constantly saying, "That's fine, you're fine, I'm fine, it's all fine! No worries!" Which she seriously appreciates. But when she wants to do something, it's done. Because she's self-motivated, whether or not someone else specifically cares about what she's doing.

Excuses are like pornography, I realize. They appeal to my weakness. I want to accept them for that same reason, because they say it's okay to just slack and not try and not grow and not seek new heights. They are comfortable and easy and numbing to the pain of failure.

They are going to keep me exactly in one place for the rest of my life if I listen to them. I will never be fast, free, and strong like I was born to be if I give into that false, empty promise.

How many more days do I want to be stuck here, on a plateau of cheap excuses?

So. I kissed my wife, rinsed off the trash grime, got my new soccer ball and went outside.

The Fatigue:
15 minutes of touches on the ball
[this was a lot harder than I thought it would be when I decided fifteen minutes sounded like a practical number. I'd forgotten how much fast-twitch muscle all of the fakes and movement and juggling take, especially when done without pause. I was sweating like crazy and breathing hard by the ten minute mark. Huey made things interesting by constantly trying to steal the ball, which ended up making him an excellent defender. I will definitely employ him in the future.]
5 minutes on the jump rope
[I got this jump rope out of the trash. It's got weighted handles, two pounds each. Again, I thought five minutes was a practical number. Dear God. By the end I was tripping constantly and wanted to stop so bad. I wasn't sweating so much as weeping in torrents with my whole body. Checked weather.com when I came inside, and it was ninety-four degrees out there.]
20 sit-ups, x2 sets
[these may seem a little out of place, but the motive came directly because those welt lines from last night are still clearly emblazoned on my gut in nice, hexagonal patterns. I do not want that to happen again. Besides, these are good for my job, too. I'm sad to say this was the most I could do. I'm really careful with form on these and mindful to lift myself only with my abdominals without curving my spine.]

There it is. Day one. I'm gonna get some stretching done. Maybe eat some protein or something.

Thanks for reading. The support has been surprising and encouraging. More complaining and narcissism tomorrow, I promise.

Indefatigable. Let's go.

Day Zero: The Reality Check

It's been six years since I played competitive sports. I can remember with pretty intense clarity how my body felt on my last soccer game in Marshall, Illinois. At that time, I played 90 minutes, every game. Wasn't even a question. I'm not attempting to boast- anything less than that would have been ridiculous. I played soccer all the time, every season, for the previous fifteen years leading up to that game. Played basketball in the winter to stay in shape.

That final game, I was never winded. And it wasn't for a lack of sprinting. I played sweeper, and I could run and run and run. Muscle fatigue was a distant threat, but I was good for at least two games before that was a real danger. And being out of breath for more than ten, fifteen seconds? It just didn't happen. I was conditioned by the game. And the game was a place where I always felt powerful, confident, an entirely at home. Even when I lost, even when I didn't win every challenge, I knew that the pitch was a good place for me, and I was always happy to be playing.

Well, it's been six years since then. My life is a lot different now. I'm married to an impossibly wonderful woman. I have a job and a house and a mortgage. Life is really good. But I've missed soccer. I really have. Being part of team, playing my guts out, that feeling of being in competition on the field.

So a few weeks ago I started looking for a pick-up game. Just to get back into it, you know? Circle of mutual friends connected, and I found one, a great one with skilled players who were good people to boot. It was a fun morning, the field was definitely a little over-crowded, but it was great to get touches in again, make plays; I even scored once.

The guy who invited me to the pick-up game, one Bradley Speaks, a gentleman and an athlete by all accounts, texted me afterward to see if I'd be interested in playing on an indoor team called "Toepoke" that he organized. I couldn't believe my luck, said yes, and three weeks ago showed up at Mockingbird Valley Sports Complex over in Louisville and played with these guys.

It's a great place to play. Astro-turfed, hockey-style walls, nets- it was legit. I was seriously excited.

I expected the night to go a little rough for me personally, and it did. I knew I was out of shape, had smoked a cigar the previous night, etc. And I was right- I was out of breath pretty consistently, my legs got really fatigued, the works. But it was insanely fun. I made some good plays, scored a goal- we ended up losing 3-4, but I figured I'd be back into the game after a couple weeks of running consistently with my love Aberlyn, who is always inviting me to join in her cross-country-conditioned ways.

The team didn't play last week, but I showed up a little earlier tonight with a new pair of sambas (my old ones, worn on the previous occasion, had no tread and one of my toes was coming through a hole) and a new soccer ball (six years, and I have a soccer ball again!). I felt ready. Not perfectly in shape, but definitely several meaningful steps ahead of where I was last time.

Well. We got hammered. My conditioning showed no meaningful difference- I was constantly out of breath. My legs were tired. And we were playing guys who seemed way more in shape than us. Definitely way more in shape than me.

I used to chase down every runner, every ball. And I just couldn't do it tonight. I managed to bag a goal early on, but then came this moment where they were in the middle of this devastating run of goals, and I jumped in front of a shot that one of their guys was making. Caught it right in my gut.

That's an hour later. Yeah. It just about killed me. After that, it was even worse. I felt a little nauseous and couldn't draw deep breaths.

I think the final score was something like 4-13. Their best scorer stopped playing after the first half.

I'm really good at losing. I've been on the losing team plenty of times and I feel like I generally do not get upset because of how the score looks at the end. Because I play soccer for the joy of being able to move, play, sprint, and make things happen with the team I'm with, striving to the utmost of my ability.

That didn't happen. And it really stood out to me just how MUCH that didn't happen. I just don't have the kind of strength and fitness that I did.

And that ball to the stomach- it was just drove the point home. I couldn't cut it. I couldn't hold up.

So. I'm starting a blog, because that's the thing we do in this modern era, right? For what purpose? As a motivator and a record to myself, and possibly as an encouragement/amusement to people who might read it.

A record of what?

Of the journey I am going to embark on starting tomorrow. I am going after that same kind of strength and endurance that I experienced at my last game. I have no idea how long it will take. I don't know what all means I'm going to employ. But I want to take it seriously, and want to be consistent.

And write about it. Because I like writing.

Indefatigable. Let's go.