My first two descriptions were quite lengthy, mainly because they are my favorite. So I’m going to try to shorten them up from here on out…
First day of football season
On so many levels, but the greatest of which is probably the time of year it occurs. The last few weeks of summer, right before school started. In junior high, my friends and I would hop on our bikes to ride to the football fields, carrying a bag of equipment over one shoulder and using the other hand to steer the bike. In high school, the first day of football practice meant going to the fields early in the morning for the first session of two-a-days. The grass was wet from dew, the air cool, but the sun still powerful. All of the other fall sports teams were around campus as well, and everyone started talking about the coming school year. In college, it was the first Saturday when the majority of the student body came to one place and mingled around the field, freshman wearing their new clothes trying to meet new people and trying to hide the alcohol on their breath, upper classmen wearing the same pair of jeans they wore their freshman year but faded and fraying, carrying their booze in mixers disguised as pop bottles, savoring the beautiful warm weather before parkas, stocking hats and mittens are required for the next six months. Now, it signals a time that gives me a reason to be able to sit on the couch every Sunday for at least 3 hours in my sweatpants with the grill cooking beer brats and cold beer in the fridge.
State Fair Week
Endless options of fried food on a stick that you must eat for the simple reason that you can say you have eaten ___ on a stick. Hot summer-time weather. Great milkshakes. And thousands of people that make your highlight reel for weirdest people of the year.
Snowdays
You wake up in darkness. Sit up in bed, turn and walk to the window to see a white blanket covering everything in site, with a snow globe sky adding to the layer on your windowsill. The dread of the thought of shoveling flashes into your head. Back in school, you instantly turned on the radio to listen for school delay announcements, hoping that today would be the day that you hear the glorious word “Cancelled” stream over the airwaves. As the deejay makes his way alphabetically through the cities near you, your heart starts to race. You forget how many schools start with the same letter as yours, when suddenly you hear your school named. You run back upstairs to tell everyone in the family. You savor your homemade waffles and bask in thought of using your snow pants and coat that are screaming your name while hanging in the closet. As soon as the dishes are in the sink, you’re dressed in your snow gear and running to the garage to grab your sled.
Now, I long for the days of holding my head to the radio in the kitchen, but when we do get that big snow once or twice a year, it feels so good to call the boss and say you won’t be coming in. It feels even better to receive the call from your boss just as you’re walking to the shower, telling you to avoid the roads for the day and just call this afternoon to check in.
It’s still a ritual to make homemade waffles on snowdays in our house though.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Monday, March 03, 2008
Mandays (continued)
Non-shaving days
I remember the first day that I shaved: The autumn of 6th grade with a stolen disposable razor from my mother’s medicine cabinet, right before leaving the house to catch the bus with my sisters. I really only shaved my upper lip, without cutting myself, and with only warm water splashed on my face.
I’m not going to attempt to put a number to the number of times I’ve stripped my face of its natural ciliated covering by scraping sharp metal over it. But, I’ve been doing it long enough to know that it really can dry out and irritate the skin if done with improper technique and inadequate supplies; that shaving with normal razor pressure over any type of blemish (i.e. a zit) usually leads to a very painful skin laceration that bleeds like the movies and stands out like a canary in a cave mine; and that whenever I take a day off from the razor, my face wakes up and thanks me.
I’m blessed with a job that allows me to sit on my ass for 40+ hours a week, not perform any heavy lifting (or manual labor, or any physical activity for that matter), work indoors, and travel occasionally. Unfortunately, if I show up looking like Cro-Magnon man, the “professional appearance” line on my yearly review wouldn’t be rated too highly, clients would start to look at me like they should offer me a home that is alternate to my cardboard box in the alley, and the TSA would probably become a little stricter during my pre-boarding security screenings.
A five-o’clock shadow isn’t generally frowned upon, thankfully, but if I start the day with it, I then have to answer to my wife at home at the end of the day. She’s one that can’t stand facial hair, and makes it a point to notice it and pester me until I’m basically forced into the bathroom because I’d rather apply razor blades to my face than endure the constant nagging that she can dish out.
So, I’ve succumbed to this habit of shaving six days per week, on average. Generally, I try to make myself avoid shaving once a week, typically on Saturday or Sunday. Occasionally, I can stretch it out to where I shave on Thursday morning before work, and if the planets align so as to allow me to not attend any social functions requiring any sort of personal grooming, and for my wife to either be A) too tired or busy to notice, or B) at work or out of town all weekend, I won’t need to shave again until Monday morning. That adds up to 96 hours of my face keeping its upper layers of protective squamous epithelial cells, and retaining its natural hydration and oil levels, making every facial expression seem effortless compared to the Monday morning stoneface routine in order to keep your smile creases from cracking open.
Why are these 96 hours so blissful to my manhood? When these 96 consecutive hours happen to fall into my lap, it means that I: 1) have not worked for at least three out of the last four days; 2) have not had very much expected of me for the last couple days; or 3) have more than likely been spending a lot of time with the boys, and therefore, more than likely, have been doing things I normally wouldn’t have been for a long period of time. I guess you could say that it can be looked at as a symbol of my “freedom” from my regularly scheduled life.
As simple as it may seem, I take pride in my stubble days. I actually look at them like PTO days; like I’m allotted so many of them each year and I need to use them sparingly so as to maximize their effectiveness. I sometimes use them to spite the world around me. To tell the world, “I’m not caring right now.” To show my boss that I’m really not in the mood to attend a “touch base meeting” at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. To tell my wife that I’m going to keep her from rolling over and flinging her hair in my face in the middle of the night by instilling the fear that she might accidentally brush up against my chin and get a second degree sandpaper burn on her face. Usually though, these days remind me that I can just wear mesh shorts or jeans with a t-shirt/sweatshirt, throw on a hat and go outside to mow the lawn or dig in the dirt or play in the snow or work on the car or go to the rink or hit the beach. It means that I don’t have to risk slicing open my philtrum while half asleep and teetering in front of the mirror. It just means that I can be un-homme-au-natural.
I usually have a teleconference once or twice a week with some guy that works from home. He always makes it a point to brag about sitting in his boxer shorts at his desk in his basement at 1:00 in the afternoon while not having showered or even combing his hair. My five year goal is to do the same, with the ulterior motive of reducing my shaving days.
But then I’d have my wife to answer too. Crap.
I remember the first day that I shaved: The autumn of 6th grade with a stolen disposable razor from my mother’s medicine cabinet, right before leaving the house to catch the bus with my sisters. I really only shaved my upper lip, without cutting myself, and with only warm water splashed on my face.
I’m not going to attempt to put a number to the number of times I’ve stripped my face of its natural ciliated covering by scraping sharp metal over it. But, I’ve been doing it long enough to know that it really can dry out and irritate the skin if done with improper technique and inadequate supplies; that shaving with normal razor pressure over any type of blemish (i.e. a zit) usually leads to a very painful skin laceration that bleeds like the movies and stands out like a canary in a cave mine; and that whenever I take a day off from the razor, my face wakes up and thanks me.
I’m blessed with a job that allows me to sit on my ass for 40+ hours a week, not perform any heavy lifting (or manual labor, or any physical activity for that matter), work indoors, and travel occasionally. Unfortunately, if I show up looking like Cro-Magnon man, the “professional appearance” line on my yearly review wouldn’t be rated too highly, clients would start to look at me like they should offer me a home that is alternate to my cardboard box in the alley, and the TSA would probably become a little stricter during my pre-boarding security screenings.
A five-o’clock shadow isn’t generally frowned upon, thankfully, but if I start the day with it, I then have to answer to my wife at home at the end of the day. She’s one that can’t stand facial hair, and makes it a point to notice it and pester me until I’m basically forced into the bathroom because I’d rather apply razor blades to my face than endure the constant nagging that she can dish out.
So, I’ve succumbed to this habit of shaving six days per week, on average. Generally, I try to make myself avoid shaving once a week, typically on Saturday or Sunday. Occasionally, I can stretch it out to where I shave on Thursday morning before work, and if the planets align so as to allow me to not attend any social functions requiring any sort of personal grooming, and for my wife to either be A) too tired or busy to notice, or B) at work or out of town all weekend, I won’t need to shave again until Monday morning. That adds up to 96 hours of my face keeping its upper layers of protective squamous epithelial cells, and retaining its natural hydration and oil levels, making every facial expression seem effortless compared to the Monday morning stoneface routine in order to keep your smile creases from cracking open.
Why are these 96 hours so blissful to my manhood? When these 96 consecutive hours happen to fall into my lap, it means that I: 1) have not worked for at least three out of the last four days; 2) have not had very much expected of me for the last couple days; or 3) have more than likely been spending a lot of time with the boys, and therefore, more than likely, have been doing things I normally wouldn’t have been for a long period of time. I guess you could say that it can be looked at as a symbol of my “freedom” from my regularly scheduled life.
As simple as it may seem, I take pride in my stubble days. I actually look at them like PTO days; like I’m allotted so many of them each year and I need to use them sparingly so as to maximize their effectiveness. I sometimes use them to spite the world around me. To tell the world, “I’m not caring right now.” To show my boss that I’m really not in the mood to attend a “touch base meeting” at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. To tell my wife that I’m going to keep her from rolling over and flinging her hair in my face in the middle of the night by instilling the fear that she might accidentally brush up against my chin and get a second degree sandpaper burn on her face. Usually though, these days remind me that I can just wear mesh shorts or jeans with a t-shirt/sweatshirt, throw on a hat and go outside to mow the lawn or dig in the dirt or play in the snow or work on the car or go to the rink or hit the beach. It means that I don’t have to risk slicing open my philtrum while half asleep and teetering in front of the mirror. It just means that I can be un-homme-au-natural.
I usually have a teleconference once or twice a week with some guy that works from home. He always makes it a point to brag about sitting in his boxer shorts at his desk in his basement at 1:00 in the afternoon while not having showered or even combing his hair. My five year goal is to do the same, with the ulterior motive of reducing my shaving days.
But then I’d have my wife to answer too. Crap.
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