My Brother's Gone Organic

My older brother (not that much older) has gone organic.

I think this sudden change from Czech Stop cheese and apricot kolaches, washed down with gallons of full-fat whole milk, to organic was initiated by our trip to my mother's.

We had to check in at the security gate, my brother and his wife checking their truck through first. When we got to the security window, the officer said my dad in the truck in front of us had already checked us in. I've been calling him "Poppi" ever since.

The reality of his imminent demise has caused him to go organic. My years of running and trying to eat healthy have been good to me, I guess.

We talked yesterday on the phone, and he said he has switched to some kind of salt crystal for deodorant. I said, "Uh-huh. You know, Poppi, how those salt crystals work, don't you?"

"No, how? I just know it works."

"That salt gets in your system and dulls your ability to smell your own body odor."

Norman Bates may have proclaimed, "Well, a boy's best friend is his mother," but, there's nothing like the relationship between a boy and his Poppi.

I'm Having Weighty Thoughts

I'm considering doing some weight training. Again. I think God has been thumping me on the back of the head about this lately. It seems that everything I pick up to read is talking about how I need to be doing some weight training. To be a better runner. Better person. Better All-Pro Dad. Better husband. Better Catholic. OK, maybe not a better Catholic.

My friend Mary Rigney at CrossFit Rockwall says I have a whole new life of fitness just waiting for me. And, if you know Mary, you know that Mary knows.

I'd like to be stronger than my wife. She does weight training, and Pilates, and yoga at the gym. And, before she goes, she does power walking at home. I tried to walk with her once, but sprained my knee trying to keep up and had to return to my running to recover. I'd like to not have to cower down behind her when a bully approaches.

And, I'd like to not have to wrestle with a bag of mulch like it was a dead body. And, I have lower back pain that I know would go away with the right back training program.

I tried weight training once. Years ago, when I was a newlywed. We received a free 3-month membership. I went once. You have to understand that I'm of the if-one-is-good-two-is-better faction (Blue Bell pints, Johnsonville brats, reps, sets). When my trainer wasn't looking, I'd do another rep, another set. I felt pumped on the way home. Then, my wife had to shampoo my head and towel me off because my chest was so tight, I couldn't get my hands above my shoulders. For two days. But, it's been almost 26 years since then. I've grown, matured, gotten much smarter - ahem.

I bought my son and I a home gym set of weights for Christmas when he was a junior in high school. We were going to lift weights three days a week. It's been two years since he graduated from college, and I'm still reminded every day that I have a home weight gym because I have to just bump it (to get my truck to fit) when I pull into the garage.

It's not a vanity thing. I don't think. I'm just trying to figure out some magic combination of exercise that will enable me to eat Blue Bell ice cream nightly, and Hershey's milk chocolate daily, and still wear size 36 pants.

We go to Galveston every year for a week. I keep my shirt on. To keep from getting sunburned. Yeah, right. A couple of years ago there was this beautiful specimen of male human being college student in the surf with us, floating by. The girls (wives included) were all nervous and faint, even from way up under the umbrellas on the shore. I struck up a conversation with him out in the surf. Evan.

"You're the reason I keep my shirt on, you know." "Hey, all I have to do is go to class, study, work out, and come to the beach." We chatted for awhile, and then he floated on along. I have to admit, I kind of had a crush on him myself.

Later, I told the girls, "Evan is a nice guy. I invited him to come to dinner with us." "Oh my God, Daddy! Tell me you are kidding. Please, no." "Oh, I'm just kidding. Sheesh." We were all up at the pool finishing up after a day in the surf, and I had my shirt off. Here came Evan. "Hey, you have your shirt off -- good for you!" he said. "I thought you had class this afternoon." "Got cancelled."

One of these days soon I'm going to bump that home weight gym, and then back right back out of the garage and get out and do a couple of sets. But, only if I'm sure my wife is home. In case I need help showering.

Running = Happiness?

People undertake a new fitness or weight-loss program because they think the end result will ultimately make them “happier.” Let me help you out. Please don’t do that.

I'm a happy runner, a very happy person really. But, running isn't responsible for my happiness. My fitness level, my strength and stamina, my not being a medical burden on my family, my energy level, my good spiritedness, my positive outlook on life -- yes. My happiness? Well...

Happiness is so subjective. My happiness is based on who I am right now. What makes me happy right now may not make me happy tomorrow, or next week, or 20 minutes from now. I won't be the same person then as I am now; I’ll have had an infinite number of life experiences between now and then that will have changed my perception of happiness. (Imagine, trying to plan a "happy" retirement. Lord knows what’s going to bring me happiness 20 years from now!)

I was about this happy as a non-runner 15 years ago. When I was someone who had never run a 5K, a 10K, the Dallas YMCA Turkey Trot, the DRC Half Marathon, the White Rock Marathon. I was perfectly happy (whatever that is) with getting 8 hours of sleep; waking up and having a cup of good, strong, hot, black coffee; showering; eating a bowl of cereal; and heading to work around 7:30.

Now, to achieve the same level of morning happiness, I must also run.

Get 2 less hours of sleep. Slip quietly out the front door in all weather conditions (I avoid running if the temperature is below freezing, or if it's stormy -- OK, so I'm a wimp.) Spend money on 4 extra pairs of shoes each year. Shorts. Socks. Magazines. Fuel. (This is not to say that I don't get all giddy and goofy when I know I'm headed down to Luke's Locker for a new pair, or two, of running shoes. It makes me euphoric!) Endure the aches and pains associated with running (good aches and pains, mind you.)

When I first started running, a 1-mile run made me "happy." Then, it was 3. Then 5. Then 6. Now, it's 8. Until August, and then it's anywhere from 6 to 20 miles, depending on the week and day. When I first started running, 12-minute miles were great. Then, it had to be 11-minute. Then, 10-minute miles. (OK, I'm pokey, too.)

So, for me, happiness and running aren't the same game. They have virtually nothing to do with each other.

Someone tried to turn me on to Nutella yesterday, again. I am the lucky person who has not yet tasted Nutella. She assured me Nutella was out of this world, and that I must try it.

Nutella is not going to increase my "happiness." If anything, it will decrease it.

Right now, I'm someone who has never tasted Nutella. I'm perfectly happy (whatever that is) sitting on the couch after dinner, watching TV, with a handful (or half a box) of graham cracker sticks. One taste of Nutella, and to achieve the same level of happiness, I'm probably going to have to sit on the couch after dinner, watching TV, with a handful (or half a box) of graham cracker sticks -- and a fresh tub of Nutella to dip them in.

This will lead to a higher level of guilt and anxiety, and make my next morning run almost mandatory (just try to calculate how many miles you're going to have to run to burn that off, mister.) No, sir. No Nutella for Nelson.

I'm a runner. I'll never again in my life be someone who hasn't gone for one of those long, exhausting, exhilirating, rewarding, 20-mile training runs. And, I'm so glad for that.

But, don't take up running, or any fitness or weight loss program, because it's going to make you "happy" (whatever that is.) Happiness is going to have to come from somewhere else.

I'm Good at Math

My brother and his wife drove up from Corpus Christi on Saturday. Any trip up or down I-35 in Texas mandates a stop at The Czech Stop in West for world-famous fresh-baked kolaches. They picked up 2 dozen.

On Monday morning, I ran 8 miles. And, then I ate 8 cream cheese and apricot kolaches.

Though terrible at self-control, I'm very good at math.

The Dangers of Health Food

On Friday during my lunchbreak, I almost got run over and killed by a little ol' granny in a big ol' Buick -- as I was walking into the health food store.

Old Friends I've Lost in 2009 (NOT a sad story)

At the beginning of a new year, we tend to take stock of the previous year and consider what changes we need to make. I did some serious taking stock late in 2008 and early in 2009 and came to a sobering conclusion.

I knew if I was going to live a long, healthy and prosperous life, I had some friends who could no longer be a part of it. From then on. For the rest of my life. “For the rest of my life” is what was so staggering for me.

For almost four years, I had kept them out of my life. And, really, I’d never been better, and felt better. Based on my test results, my doctor said I was his most-healthy patient. (OK, so he’s got a lot of elderly patients.) Life was so good with these old friends out of my life.

Then, early in 2008, I decided that I was strong enough to let them back in. I was sure that if I just limited our time together, I could still have a good life – maybe even an enhanced life. Very shortly, I knew I’d made a mistake. By mid-year, it was too late – they were woven through my entire life. I didn’t get my annual physical in 2008 because I was afraid of the results.

So, now it’s a new year, and it’s time for a clean break from these old friends. Let me tell you just a bit about them.

Ben and Jerry and I spent a lot of time together in 2008. At first it was just on Friday nights. Then, on an occasional weeknight. Then, whenever they were in the house, we partied.

Famous Amos and Little Debbie went to work with me – old faithfuls. They got me through many afternoon lulls. You might get a mealy, pithy orange, but you can always count on Little Debbie to be good.

Milton Hershey and I celebrated a productive workday, a good grade report, the end of an exhausting day. Hershey and I also got through some tough times together.

Duncan (Hines) and I spent many evenings together, making cookies. Duncan taught me how to “love” with food. I know now that what Duncan and I were doing wasn’t “love” – baking cookies for family and friends who shouldn’t be eating them in the first place.

The turning point for me in 2008 will shock you. I trained for a marathon – and gained 25 pounds. I ran a total of 1450 miles (I log them) – and gained 25 pounds.

Making the decision to eliminate (for the rest of your life) such friends who have been such an integral part of your life is terribly difficult. I think we actually go through Kubler-Ross’s stages of grief – I know I have.

Denial and isolation – denying there has been a loss, withdrawing from social settings. I’ve been there – terrified of, perhaps, a family birthday party where I know my old friends will be, tempting me.

Anger – furious with the one who inflicted the hurt, or at oneself. What kind of a company would make such destructive products? What kind of a weakling am I to be drawn in so?

Bargaining – with God, “If I do this, will you take away my loss?” I promise to run more miles if I can just keep these old friends.

Depression – feeling numb, with anger and sadness underneath. What’s life going to be like without these old friends? Is it even worth it? My family will still love me if I’m fat. (But, I know I won’t love myself.)

Acceptance – finally accepting the reality of the loss. I’m not here, yet, but I hope to be someday.

Maybe you have some friends who are holding you back from the healthy and prosperous life you deserve, friends who need to no longer be a part of your life? There’s no better time than now, at the beginning of a new year, to make a change.

It won’t be easy. But, nothing worthwhile ever is. There’s going to be some grieving. But, you’ve got a network of family and friends, and Nelson pulling for you. You can do it.

Happy new year, friend.

Gentian Violet

Gentian Violet is an intensely purple powder. It's used for a variety of non-prescription medical purposes, and at one time was used to make the purple dye they stamped prices on canned goods with at the grocery store. (Anyone old enough to remember that?)

My old boss kept Gentian Violet around because he was an amateur plumber and would flush a teaspoon down the toilet from time to time when he thought he might have a leak, and then go look to see if purple water came up anywhere.

He once put a little bit in his pool, and turned the whole thing purple (much to his wife's dismay.) Gentian Violet is powerfully purple -- get a speck or two on your fingers, and you've got purple fingers for at least a week. My old boss was always coming to work with purple blotches in various places.

One year at Christmastime, he'd go out in the morning to get the paper, and bulbs from the Christmas lights he'd lined the sidewalk with would be missing. He'd replace them, and the next morning there'd be more gone. Gentian Violet, he thought.

That evening, he went out with a popsicle stick and put just a tiny bit of Gentian Violet on each bulb. The next morning he went out to get his paper, and then walked down to the school bus stop. Three little boys stood there with purple fingers, and blotches of purple on their cheeks, noses and foreheads (and Lord knows where else).

The bulbs stopped disappearing. He never ratted them out. Just seeing that sight at the bus stop was entertaining enough.