Seriously Irreverent Musings

Category: Uncategorized (Page 2 of 5)

…Easy Feeling

I had a great time last night. It was a more impactful night for me than it was for Pam, but she thoroughly enjoyed it, too. On the surface, it was a simple gathering in a Santa Monica brew pub, but the surface is not adequate to articulate the impact the evening had on me. There were not more than 15 or so of us, nestled around a table amidst a throng of young(er) strangers having a wonderful time, but that was enough, enabling us to enjoy a couple of hours of nostalgic memories.

I woke up this morning with the Eagles Peaceful Easy Feeling on my mind, something I have never done before, and, most likely, something I will never do again. As I pondered why the song was on a continuous loop inside my head, I realized how perfectly it summed up how I felt last night.

I was at peace. I was carefree. I was happy. Despite the turmoil of the world and the daily grind of life, I was able to relax and be fully present for several hours. Even though I had not seen many of them for decades and even though I may not see many of them again, I was able to completely focus on them, on what they were doing, on what they have done, and on our shared memories of the time we spent together in elementary school way more than 50 years ago.

I am glad I experienced it. It was a more intimate, more intense version of what Pam and I will experience tonight as we attend our 50th high school reunion. We will have a great time tonight, but it will not evoke, nor could it evoke, the depth of feelings that I felt last night and carried over to today.

When songs stick in my head, I usually listen to them and then listen to various covers of them. Generally, it does not take me long to find a great cover. This morning was different. Because I was so focused on feelings and memories of the past, the covers were jarring instead of soothing. I found myself replaying the original between playing the covers, something I never do.

At first, I was surprised by this. The more I thought about it, though, the more I understood why. I had to hear the original, nothing else could work.

$35.95

I bought a dozen bagels and eight ounces of whipped cream cheese at a bagel store in Beverly Hills earlier this morning. It was a jarring experience, as the cash register indicated I had just spent $35.95. At that amount, there was no way I was adding a tip to my purchase. Sorry.

I knew it would be expensive when I walked in, but I swear that the price had gone up by 10% since I last bought a dozen bagels and cream cheese at the same place about three months ago. Shocking.

Generally, I delude myself into believing I am reasonably insulated from the ravages of inflation. I sometimes shake my head at the cost of UberEats or DoorDash when I get food delivered, but our dinners vary, both in restaurant selection and item selection, so I do not really notice individual price changes.

I do not drive much, so I rarely buy gas and do not notice the prices.

I go to the market every week, but I generally spend the same amount. Of course, that may have more to do with what I buy or if the manufacturers’ reduced the amount of food in the packaging than it does to the absence of a change in prices.

My solar panels cover my electricity costs, even when we charge Pam’s car at home, so I do not notice utility rate changes, though I did almost lose my mind over the amount of my gas bill in January, but that was pretty much a one-time event.

So most of my purchases are random enough that I do not notice price changes. But every now and then, like when I buy racks of ribs or briskets or pretty much anything at Bristol Farms, I do, and the price increases hit home. Hard.

As I have written about before, I like to live my life in a rut. I like consistency and routine. I do the same things on the same day of each week. Week in. Week out. I do not vary my routine often. I also do not buy bagels often, and I only bought them this morning because Kimberly asked for them.

One of my Sunday morning activities is to go to the market. I have been going to the same market for the 35 years Pam and I have been living back in Beverly Hills. It is the same market that I went to with my mom during the 1960s and early 1970s. Yup. Week in. Week out. Rut-like in the extreme.

If I go to get bagels, I get them after I leave the market. The store is right up the street. Close by but it causes me to turn left instead of right when I leave the market. As with the market, I have been going to the same bagel place for years. It was owned by Larry King while he was alive. Now it is owned by someone else. The ownership change did not affect the bagels and cream cheese sold there. They are still the same. They have never been inexpensive, but the current prices are ridiculous.

One of my weekly Saturday morning activities is to download all our checking account and credit card transactions into Quicken. I have been doing this for years. Needless to say, I have captured a lot of transactions arising from the purchase of bagels. After I got home and before I cut a bagel and slathered the whipped cream cheese on it, I got curious and decided to look back at how much bagels used to cost.

I opened Quicken on my computer, searched for the transactions on my AmEx card that were for buying bagels in Beverly Hills. It was a good thing that I had not started eating when I looked, as I noted that at the onset of Covid I was paying a paltry $21.06 for the same dozen bagels and container of cream cheese, after adjusting for the tip, which I was still giving then. If I had been chewing on a bagel as I read, I would have gagged when I realized the price had increased almost $15. Whoa.

At that point I reached for my trusty HP12C calculator. I have been using HP calculators since business school, some 44 years ago. I love the reverse Polish notation required to use them, which eliminates the need for entering parenthesis, making them more efficient. It also makes them somewhat immune to theft in much the same way a manual transmission makes a car harder to smash and grab.

In any event, I powered up my 12C, punched in a few numbers, sans parenthesis of course, and quickly determined that bagel and cream cheese prices have gone up over 70% in three and a half years, or about 20% per year. Damn.

I can only imagine how high interest rates would go if the Fed used the bagel and cream cheese price index to calculate the inflation rate. Ouch.

With that thought, I decided it was time to stop chewing over the cost of bagels in my mind. It was way past time to put one in my mouth and chew on it for real. Thankfully, I had not lost my appetite.

Bitter and Sweet

I am in a bittersweet mood, and I blame it on Clifford, though it was not his fault. He was just the unintentional catalyst that put me into my nostalgic state this morning, but to be fair, I would have been in it soon enough anyway.

I met Clifford in September 1960 when I began going to Horace Mann School for kindergarten. His presence filled a room. He was an outgoing, blonde kid who, ironically, had a big dog, though the dog was not red (duh). Everyone in my kindergarten class knew Clifford, even though he was in the other class.

Despite only interacting with Clifford a handful of times in the 50 years since we graduated from Beverly Hills High School, my memories of Clifford remain as bright fixtures in my mind. He was the quarterback on our Horace Mann School flag football team. I was his left end. When we speak, he only mentions the catches I made. Thankfully, he omits talking about the ones I didn’t make. Those were good times and most likely account for why I feel like I still know him well to this day.

As bright as my memory of Clifford is, it is not as bright as my memory of Jill, the girl who I had not met before and whose hand I held 63 years ago when I walked into my kindergarten classroom for the first time. We were not good friends in either elementary or high school, but, hey, holding hands can leave a seriously indelible impression. Just think of the Beatles.

My memory of her may also be enhanced by the chance, yet somewhat pre-ordained, meeting we had in a Berkeley motel parking lot as we were both dropping off our kids to begin their college experience at the University of California.

Over the past couple of weeks, Ellen, another of our Horace Mann School classmates, and Clifford have been reaching out to me to help them organize an informal elementary school meetup the evening before our 50th high school reunion.

Clifford called me this morning to talk about who might or might not be coming to our meetup and to the reunion. When Clifford called, I was chewing on a piece of rye toast while sitting in my den, which due to the ongoing remodeling of our kitchen, is also serving as our breakfast room.

Of course, I put the call on speakerphone when I answered, even though I had the replay of the Amsterdam Formula 1 race blaring from the TV. He either didn’t mind or couldn’t hear it. For some reason, Pam, my saint of a wife who was also in the den, didn’t bother to admonish me to turn it off.

Pam graduated from high school with Clifford and me and was listening to our conversation. When Clifford started saying he was having issues locating many of our Horace Mann classmates and it became clear that neither Clifford nor I could remember a good number of the names of the kids in our class, Pam, being the packrat she is, sprang into action, grabbing my 1969 Horace Mann yearbook off one of the bookshelves in the den and locating whatever lists of contact information she had from our prior reunions. I knew I had the yearbook, and I knew it was somewhere in the den, but it felt like too much work to search for it. It never ceases to amaze me that Pam knows where everything is while I only have a general idea.

I started scanning the yearbook, focusing on each of the 95 faces and names that made up our eighth grade graduating class. The last time I looked at it was probably 10 years ago. My perusal of it at that time did not generate the feelings I was feeling this morning.

I realize it is pretty normal to lose touch with classmates as time goes by, but as I looked and looked, it was quite evident that I had lost touch with over 95% of them. Some had moved away. Sadly, some had passed away. Some had lost interest in being found. Sure, I still speak with a couple of them somewhat regularly. Sure, I interact with a handful of them on social media, and that should count for something, I guess. But those facts did nothing to quelch my feelings, which I think were spawned more by the stark reality of the passage of a great amount of time than anything else.

Every sweet face on that page was filled with youthful energy and the joy of moving on in life. We were still young and generally naive. While we were beginning to grow apart as we aged, we still had way more in common than not. We were early in our march to adulthood, and we couldn’t wait for it to happen.

Well, a lot has happened since then, almost an entire lifetime worth of stuff. Stuff that I am yearning to learn more about, as I think I am finally enough of an adult to make that stuff more meaningful to know.

Purged

Pam and I knew it was time to fix our kitchen. While we are never exactly on trend, we knew our kitchen was dated. I mean, it has wood cabinets and green granite. I think it is damn near perfect the way it is, but even I knew it needed updating for functional and cosmetic reasons. Pam just wanted it clean and new and white. So, we decided it was time to deal with it. That was over three years ago.

It started as a simple refresh, repainting our existing cabinets and keeping our flooring and most of our appliances. We got quotes and bought some new cabinet hardware at the end of February 2020, right before COVID. That put a hard stop on our plans. We thought about restarting it about 18 months ago. We put a stop to that restart once we realized the supply chain issues were still too severe. We waited until early this year to really get going. We got a new contractor. We got new quotes. Along the way, we got the might as wells and dropped the refresh and turned it into a full-blown redo. Of course, the budget when up exponentially. So here we are on the eve of destruction. Literally.

We have spent the past couple of days purging our kitchen, dumping old stuff and moving all the remaining stuff into other rooms and the garage as we prepare for our remodel, which begins tomorrow.

It was sort of shocking when we started opening up kitchen drawers and cabinets. We found items that expired in the early 2000s. We had to clean the pantry, which still had some of our un- or partially-consumed food items we bought, but did not really want or need, during the height of the hoarding days of COVID. We laughed at the pots, pans and utensils that we found that have not been used in decades but were lurking deep in drawers. It was like a reverse treasure hunt. Every unused item just added to the time it took us to purge the kitchen.

In theory, our remodel should be simple. In theory, it should not take more than six weeks or so. In theory, we should not drastically exceed our most recently increased exponential budget. In theory, we know what to expect, as we did a much more complicated version of this over two decades ago, at a time when we had kids living in the house. I hope the theory is right.

I mean, we are not moving or altering any walls. We will be replacing our current cabinets, counter tops, backsplashes and flooring. Due to code changes, we will be ripping out our drywall in order to redo the kitchen wiring. We are adding some HVAC ducts in the kitchen walls. We are moving some plumbing and changing our overhead lighting. We are putting in new appliances, including the built in griddle on our range top that Pam thinks is my ultimate boondoggle. Simple stuff. We will have at least one inspection. We have spent an eon deciding on our counter tops, backsplashes and floors. We have selected and bought our new appliances. Everything else has been ordered and is either in stock or arriving soon, except for the backsplash tile which is on backorder for at least a month. We are good to go. Simple. Right?

We think we have come to grips with life without a kitchen. In theory, we have it all figured out. Our kitchen table is in our den, along with our microwave, coffee maker and coffee bean burr grinder. A spare bathroom has our slow cooker and toaster oven. The contractor says our refrigerator and washer and dryer will be usable. All we are missing is our cooktop, ovens, dishwasher and insinkerator, which we use a lot less often than we used to use now that we are trying to do more composting per city decree. We got this covered. Really.

Tomorrow, they start demolishing the kitchen. By tomorrow night, we will testing our planning and preparation, not to mention our patience.

Dad’s Lights

Another Father’s Day. Pam, my saint of a wife, took good care of me. This year marked a return to doing more normal Father’s Day stuff. Breakfast at Porta Via in Beverly Hills. Followed by a stroll down Rodeo Drive to look at the classic cars that are on display every Father’s Day.

While Pam was happy at brunch, inching our way down a crowded Rodeo drive gawking at cars we most likely have seen before was no fun for her. I appreciate her sacrifice for my benefit. If I am lucky, I may be able to get her to ride shotgun in my 89 Porsche 911 Carrera Targa this afternoon when we drive to Shelby’s to see the grandkids. I probably shouldn’t press my luck, though.

The car selection this year was really varied. We saw everything from old to new. We saw sports cars and sedans. We saw hot rods and SUVs. Surprisingly, there was a large collection of 1950s Cadillacs, a brand that I used to enjoy.

Shockingly, the highlight of the show for me was not the smallish collection of Porsches, though there were some really nice ones, but the 1959 Cadillac, the model with the fins on each side and the iconic twin horizontal taillights on each fin.

The 59 on Rodeo Drive was white. The same color as the one my dad owned. My dad owned a four-door sedan. The one on Rodeo Drive was a convertible. It didn’t matter to me. Just seeing the one today brought back a host of memories.

The 59 was the last nice car my dad owned. He bought it because his business partner, who could not drive, wanted it. He bought it before my mom started losing large sums of money gambling. Frankly, I think he was more comfortable in his pickup trucks with manual steering and brakes and the 3-on-the-tree manual transmissions than he ever was with the fins and twin taillights, power steering and brakes and automatic transmission. Personally, I liked the fins and taillights and the air conditioning in the Cadillac.

That is not to say that my dad did not like cars. He did. He just like functional ones more than stylish ones. He was a child of the depression after all.

My dad was not good at spending money on himself, mainly because he spent all his money funding my mom’s gambling habit and raising my sister and me. He was generous to a fault, always putting everyone else’s needs before his own. He was happy just having a family, something he never expected. I did not understand that growing up but really appreciate it now.

My dad was a bachelor for a long time. He got married at 39 and had me when he was 40, which in 1955 was really old to have a first child. I was three or four when he got the 59, old enough to be fascinated by the taillights. He married my mom thinking she could not have kids. I was a life changing surprise for him. One that he cherished.

My dad was always there for me. He could not have done more for me or my sister. The only times I lost my temper with him were when he let my mother’s gambling run amok. I thought he could control it. I thought wrong, but I still blamed him for it. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

So, Dad, I spent the morning thinking about being a dad. Once I saw the 59, I spent a couple of hours remembering and appreciating you. You would have loved spending the late afternoon with us when we visit our grandkids. Happy Father’s Day. Love ya.

Prom + 50

50 years is an effing long time. Or, as my kids would say, “Mom and Dad are old AF!” They are not wrong. Pam and I were seniors in high school 50 years ago, and recently I have been thinking about that time in my life.

Today, I felt the need to watch the clip of the pool scene in It’s a Wonderful Life, not because it’s such a great scene, even though it is, but because the setting has shaped my life for the past 50 years.

In 1973, Pam and I were attending Beverly Hills High School, the location of the pool in the iconic scene. It is a unique pool because, for some ungodly reason, the designers felt the need to combine a pool and a basketball court in the same space, resulting in space savings but not yielding either a fully functional basketball court or pool.

But that is not the reason I am writing about the pool. The pool holds a significant place in my life because it connected me with Pam, even though we were not swimming or dancing in the pool at the same time.

It was the final quarter of the school year, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, the school district thought it would be a great idea to offer scuba diving classes as part of the physical education curriculum. At the time, Beverly Hills High School was a truly unique place to go to public school. I mean, how many other schools, public or private, had a planetarium on campus? None, that I have heard of. But that is not the point.

I thought it would be fun to learn to scuba dive. The school hired an outside firm to teach us how to use the diving equipment, and they supervised our class time in the pool. They also said that if we wanted to, we could become certified by doing a series of ocean dives on Saturdays in Corona Del Mar, some 50 miles away from the pool. As the cost of a gallon of gas was a paltry 39 cents at the time, I felt it was a good investment to make all the drives to get certified to dive.

Pam wanted to get certified, too, and while I don’t remember the reason why, she asked me if I could drive her to Corona Del Mar for the beach dives. I dove right into that one and said, “Sure!”

So, Pam and I spent several Saturdays in my car making the drive to and from Corona Del Mar.

During that time one of our classmates, Michelle, had a pre-prom pair-up party. I went. Pam went. Though we did not go together, we ended up spending time together at the party once Pam came to the unfortunate realization that her first choice as a prom date, Roger, was already taking someone else. I, along with most other dateless guys at the party, were her potential Plan B prom dates. Having had spent so much car time with Pam, I felt I had a good shot at being The Plan B Guy. So, after the party, I summoned up the courage to ask her to be my date at the prom, an event which occurred 50 years and one day ago. She said, “Yes!”

Thanks mainly to the pool, partially to Michelle, and partially to Roger’s date saying yes, Pam’s life has been intertwined with mine for 50 years, enabling me to have a wonderful life.

True Ridge Mountains

It’s Christmas Day, and I am writing this while listening to various covers of John Denver’s Country Roads, something that has never crossed my mind to do before.

I owe it all to Bryan, Shelby, Portia, and Ford. They went to Louisville to celebrate Christmas. On the surface, it made a lot of sense—to them, at least. I mean, who wants to travel with two kids under four during the week of Christmas. As Bryan is from Louisville and his family still lives there, they had a great reason to go. Pam and I knew it was the right thing, but it put a slight damper on our Christmas activities, not that we do that much on Christmas anyway. But still….

Pam and Kim decided that since we would not be with Bryan, Shelby, Portia and Ford on Christmas Eve, I should make a Christmas Eve brisket, leaving us leftovers for dinner on Christmas Day, thereby eliminating the need for us to scour the city for a non-Chinese restaurant that would be open. Not that we do not like Chinese food, we do, but we had a lot of it last weekend, making it out of the question this week.

Having finished night one of the brisket, thankfully sans latkes, which I am still digesting after the last time I made them a couple of years ago, Pam and I settled down to watch Glass Onion on Netflix. I cannot say I was thrilled, but I agreed to watch it. It was reasonably amusing and somewhat entertaining. I loved the whole malapropism theme, as it reminded me of Shelby, who was the queen of them when she was younger. The other thing I enjoyed was the soundtrack, which was great.

About halfway into the movie, my subconscious began to register a tune that was, at least for me, out of place with the lyrics. Suddenly, I stopped listening to the dialog and focused on the song, which was Country Roads, yet it wasn’t. The chords and notes were all there. The lyrics were, well, off. I was captivated, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to get a handle on it. Clearly, it was a cover with altered lyrics, but not in the sense that Weird Al turned a cover into a parody. This was a real song, just different, and it was good.

Though I never told my friends and would have lost several fingernails before I admitted it, I have always been a John Denver fan, even before he was popular, even before he released Country Roads, even when I was in high school. For a kid from West LA, this is quite an admission. In an era when it was cool to spend hours eroding the grooves on vinyl albums like Surrealistic Pillow, Woodstock, Live at Fillmore East, I was content to idle my post high school day afternoons away by myself listening to Aerie, the album John Denver released prior to Poems, Prayers & Promises, the album that featured Country Roads. I did not know it then, besides the phrase was not coined yet, but John Denver was one of my guilty pleasures, albeit a sub rosa one.

Which is a long, winding way for me to get back to Country Roads. Thanks to Bryan, Shelby, Portia and Ford, I found myself with not much to do today. So out of the blue I googled the Glass Onion soundtrack. I noted that the song that fascinated me was sung by Toots & the Maytals, a long-lived Reggae group of which I had never heard. I listened to their cover more than once. It turns out that they recorded their version of it in 1972, soon after John Dever’s release. Who knew. I didn’t, but I do now.

Not being content to leave it at that, I started listening to too many, if you ask Pam, one would have been too many, covers of Country Roads, a song that has been covered way more times than I would have suspected. It turns out that it is an amazing song to cover. Its simplicity and heartfelt lyrics lend itself to a wide range of artists. I played several of the covers, beginning with the versions by Loretta Lynn and Olivia Newton-John and a gaggle of versions by no-name artists before listening to Brandi Carlile’s 2021 version, a stripped-down, soulful rendition which highlights the purity of her voice. It was the best one I heard.

So here I sit writing this, enjoying some great music and feeling quite sure that I will be doing something similar on Christmas Days to come. I just need Bryan, Shelby, Portia and Ford to go back to Louisville.

Merry Christmas.

Year of the Glump

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, but it did. I wasn’t ready for it, but I got used to it. Now I embrace it. So much so that my name on the Tonal and Peloton leaderboards is set to it or a form of it. That’s right, I have become the Glump.

My grandfather moniker was supposed to be Grump or Grumpy, mainly because I can be, but as Portia, our exalted granddaughter, could not pronounce her “Rs” in 2021, she started calling me Glump or Glumpy. So I became the Glump, and I wear that moniker proudly.

Thankfully, 2021 was a good year for the Glump. Given all the good that was going on, it was actually pretty tough, even for me, to generate enough glumpiness to really be glumpy. It turns out glumpy is actually a word in the English language, albeit the archaic English language, but a word nonetheless. It can mean sullen, gloomy, somber, sluggish. And while I do not generally earn those labels, I do embrace my moniker.

So why was I not generally glumpy last year? Mainly because the family was healthy and happy. Work was fun, even if I was too busy, which drove me to form a new business at the end of 2021 to actively pursue in 2022. Pam and I embraced our Covid driven, homebased lifestyle, which included going to Shelby’s every weekend to see her, Portia and Bryan. My sister and I have continued to have a great relationship, and Pam and I were able to visit her in Northern California in the fall. Shelby is expecting another child at the end of March. Kimberly is happy and in a relationship. I have not seen an airport in over two years. I was able to work from home all year. Life, in short, was good.

Importantly, I have continued to embrace exercise and movement, something that is crucial to sustained health as I age. As I sit here writing this on New Year’s Day, I have already finished my first strength workout of the year. I completed the 16th and final workout of a four week program I began in early December. At first I was bummed that I would not finish the program on New Year’s Eve, but it actually feels really good to finish it on New Year’s Day, as it has given me a great sense of accomplishment to start the year.

So how much exercise did I do in 2021? In short, a whole lot. Thanks to modern technology, I actually know what I have done. I mean, my Tonal tracks pretty much every strength movement I do. My Peloton tracks every stationary mile I ride. My Fitbit tracks every step I take, while tracking the miles I have moved and the total beats of my heart. Of course, Fitbit is not super accurate with respect to heartrate so I also wear my Scosche arm band heart rate monitor while I exercise. Frankly, the only thing I do not track is what I eat, mainly because I am happy with what I eat. At least most of the time.

My Fitbit told me I took about 2.5 million steps, either walking or running during 2021. This translates into moving about 1,000 miles. It would have been more, but I stopped running when I suffered a stress fracture in my right foot at the end of January.

My Peloton, which I bought in early March after my stress fracture healed, told me I “rode” 1,000 miles in the 10 months I had it.

My Tonal told me I lifted over 1.1 million pounds in 2021. What it didn’t tell me was how many calisthenic type body weight movements like lunges and regular squats and split squats and burps and burpees and pushups and crunches and planks I did in 2021. Suffice it to say I did many. My Tonal did tell me, though, that I spent over 50 hours under tension during the year, meaning 50 hours doing weighted reps of many different movements, and it told me I lifted the equivalent of an Airbus A380.

I would have been proud of my accomplishments if I had done them in my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, or pre-Medicare 60s. Having done them while on Medicare just makes them more meaningful.

I did a lot last year. I expect to do at least as much this year. And I hope I continue to wear my moniker because I like it. Not because I earn it.

Pressing It

It’s mid-December. How the hell did that happen? I couldn’t believe Thanksgiving, as late in the month as it was, got here so quickly. Now Christmas is just around the corner. Many people have issues during the Holiday Season. I don’t. I have issues when they end.

Ever since I have been a young adult, I have always dreaded the first week of January. Not because I had made a boatload of resolutions, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I had gained a bunch of weight, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I had to return to work after many days of vacation, because I usually didn’t. Not because I had missed a slug of workouts, because I usually hadn’t. Not because I would miss holiday music or Hallmark holiday movies, because I knew I wouldn’t. So what gives? Why the dread?

I think it has always related mainly to, sorry Billy Joel, my New Year’s State of Mind. I live my life in a very orderly rut, a rut that I flow through without lots of thought. That is not to say that I do not make changes in my life. I change, but I change the way glaciers used to change before global warming, very slowly and very subtly. And those changes are not marked by the calendar. They are marked by need. Generally, this has worked out very well for me, and I have made significant changes over a long period of time. But there is something about the first week of January, all fresh and new, that just makes wonder if I need to pop out of my rut and press reset. It is this wondering, or maybe more accurately any FOMO, occurring as, sorry Andy Williams, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year draws to a close, that causes me to dread the first week of January.

Ironically, this year is different. There is no dread in my head. There is no wondering. I have pressed reset.

Over the past several months I have been dwelling on the most asked of questions: “What do I want to do with my life?” At 66, well almost 67, I should have made those decisions already. And to a large extent I have. But, as I wrote about earlier this year, the specter of a rapidly diminishing quantity of quality time remaining has been causing me to assess just how I want to spend my next chunk of quality time.

After much thought, I have decided to continue to spend major portions of my life doing exactly what I am currently doing. I am really fortunate, as I am, sorry Tim McGraw, generally Living Like I am Dying. But I have decided, despite how much I enjoy my work, to change how I work, to change with whom I work, and to change how much time I spend working.

For good or bad I am not ready to retire. So instead, I have decided that at almost 67 it is time for me to become an entrepreneur again, something I have not been since 2004. For the past four months I have been laying the groundwork to start my own consulting entity. I would have preferred to transition to it earlier in the year, but I had to finish several projects in which I played a key role, forcing me to live in my current rut for longer than I should have.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that, sorry Carly Simon, my Anticipation about starting anew in January has put a damper on my dread. In fact, there is no dread. Just the opposite. I feel more alive and excited about the future than I have in years. I cannot think of any better way to defer retirement. Or any better way to spend my time.

As far as I am concerned, the first week of January cannot arrive soon enough. I can only hope that by the time next year ends I will be firmly ensconced in my new rut and dreading the first week of January yet again.

47

47 is an odd number, literally. It is close to 50, a nice round, even number that is worth commemorating, but 47 is not 50. So why am I writing about 47? It has nothing to do with the number of the next POTUS. It is not the number of years I have been married to Pam, my saint of a wife, which is only a paltry 41. It is not the number of years since my high school graduation, which is 48. So WTF am I writing this for? Frankly, I could have just written about the number 1, which is the real significance of 47 for me.

In the summer of 1974, 47 years ago, I began my first physical, not spiritual, rebirth. In the summer of 2020, 1 year ago, I unknowingly began the rebirth of my physical rebirth. Simply put, I changed my exercise regimen dramatically in my 47th year of exercising. That is why 47 is so significant to me. And that is why I could just as easily have written about the number 1.

I did not expect this change. I did not seek this change. I did not even understand that I needed to make this change. Nor did I understand just how important this was going to be for me. The reality was that I had been in an exercise rut for years, smugly thinking that I was fit. And to some extent in one dimension I was.

As the summer of ’74 began, I had just completed my first year at UCLA, and, frankly, I was overweight and out of shape, having skipped most forms of exercise for the prior couple of years. I don’t really remember what prompted me to step foot onto the red clay track at Beverly Hills High School, my alma mater, but I did. It was not pretty. It was not pleasant. But at least that first outing was brief, possibly only a single lap, a lap during which I probably walked more than I ran. And while my start was inauspicious, that single act was the catalyst for the commitment I have made to exercise ever since.

Running became my go to form of exercise. My raison d’etre in the exercise world. I could never explain why. I was never more than marginally good at it. But I was that guy. The one that everyone got irritated with. I ran. Not because I had to. But because I liked it. I liked to run without music in my ears, as I just loved the sound of my heart beating in my chest and of my feet slapping the ground. I felt bad if I didn’t do it. Yeah, I was that guy for 46 or so years, while covering about 25,000 miles.

Of course, running was not the only form of exercise I did, but it was my favorite. During the rest of the 70s and through all the 80s and 90s, I did other things along with running. I spent lots of time playing pickup basketball until I realized that it was too easy to get hurt and keep me from running for months. On a whim in the mid 80s, I decided to check out a Masters Swimming workout at the Jonathan Club. It turned out that if I liked running, I was actually naturally good at distance swimming, despite having never done any organized form of it. So for the next 17 or so years, I swam with a Masters team, logging somewhere over 6,000 miles in the pool and ocean. In the late 80s, I dabbled in cycling and did several international distance triathlons and, later in the 90s, bike centuries.

But since I stopped swimming in ’03, I became much more one dimensional. I ran. I sort of lifted a few weights, but there was no organized or thoughtful or consistent approach to my lifting. I didn’t realize it, but my body was changing in ways that were not positive. My running stride was shortening. My mobility and balance were waning, and most of all my core and glutes were pretty much useless. But I still smugly believed I was fit. And in a cardio sense, I was. I just assumed that my physical degradation was due to aging. I began to wonder just how much longer I could run.

Then Covid happened, and I was not lifting at all, not even sporadically. That was when my Tonal entered my life. I had no expectations for it other than replacing my disorganized, unthoughtful and sporadic approach I had towards weightlifting and for keeping me away from Equinox. It enabled me to do both of those things admirably, I was wrong in thinking that was all I would do with it.

I recently celebrated my 1 year Tonalversary. It is shocking to me just how much fitter I am today than I was a year ago. Let me be clear, I will never be the guy who focuses on building big delts, lats, pecs or biceps or getting super strong. I am not interested in those traits. On the other hand, at 66, I am totally interested in maintaining muscle mass and bone density, in training all the muscle groups in my body, in improving my balance and mobility, and in maintaining my cardio fitness levels. When I got my Tonal, I had no idea just how important all of these goals were going to be to me. Nor did I realize how effective it would be to enabling me to achieve them.

I breezed through the first program I tackled. It was a pure beginner program, and I kept my weights low to ease into using the machine. Then I started the second program, and all my illusions of fitness evaporated when I tried my first Bulgarian split squat. After lowering the weight to the bare minimum and falling out of most of the reps, I realized I needed to press reset. My mobility and balance were awful and my glutes apparently had not been used in years. That was about 11 months ago. Suddenly I was not so smug. In fact, I was pretty depressed. All I wanted to do was to avoid doing another Bulgarian split squat. I mean, who needs them, I asked myself.

Then I got mad at myself for being so lame. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed them. So I decided to incorporate body weight versions of them into my pre-Tonal warmup stretches. At first, I was happy doing one on each leg. Then two. Then three. Since then, I have done about 1,000 of them. They are now one of my favorite movements. They have become the poster child for the rebirth of my physical rebirth and the genesis for restoring my belief in incremental improvement, despite being on Medicare.

With the help of the Tonal Coaches and community, I have transformed myself. Over the past 11 months, I have mastered many, many movements that I would have thought impossible to do a year ago, movements that have enabled me to focus on my core and my glutes and on a lot of other muscles in my body. I have lifted over 850K pounds in that time, a low number compared to most Tonal users, but a significant number to me. I cannot even count the number of burps, burpees, mountain climbers, squat jacks and other body weight exercises I have done. Sure, I still have limitations and physically cannot do a goblet curtsey lunge consistently right, but mentally I believe that I can and will master them.

Due to a running induced metatarsal stress fracture in January, I stopped running. I began to believe that I would never run again. I could not exist without cardio and had no interest in returning to Equinox, so I bought a Peloton bike, which I have used for cardio for the past six months. But spinning is not running. I will continue to use the bike because of the ease in which I can get a great cardio workout. But returning to running has been lurking in the recesses of my mind for the past month or so. I miss it. So much so that the other day, I put on my running shoes after doing a core workout on Tonal and went for a run. My pace was slow and easy. My distance was short, under a mile. My cardio was a bit labored. But my stride was remarkable. It felt long and fluid. My glutes were firing. My core was stable. I realized I would still be doing some form of running for years. I thanked my Tonal the whole way.

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