musings

The Second Third, Week 4: Stewing

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

I tend to spend too much time “in my head,” as a friend of mine would say. Ever read the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Well, I half-recommended it to my dad, in part because I thought he’d like the motorcycle parts, and in part because I admired it (which is not the same as liked). He read it, and afterward admitted that he liked the motorcycle parts best, and that the philosophical portions of the book, which appeared to have lead the narrator to a nervous breakdown, made him think of me.

A couple different times in my teen years, he and Mom came home to find me sitting alone in silence in the twilight, having accomplished nothing all day, pale and distracted and emotional. He knows I have a tendency to go down the rabbit hole. So far I’ve always been able to find my way back to the surface. So far.

This tendency is at its worst when I get into a heated discussion regarding something I care about, especially with a friend. I will hash and re-hash an argument, sometimes even out loud, think of responses and likely counters, try to imagine what may have led to their point of view and how best to persuade them or at least make myself understood…and if the discussion is happening online, check for replies compulsively with my stomach tied in knots. I have unfriended people on Facebook just to relieve myself of the anxiety about The Next Thing they were sure to say, tomorrow, or two years from now, that would ignite an argument. I have a hard time ignoring things, and a harder time letting go.

It’s not a problem with forgiveness. I can forgive; that’s an action I can take, every day if need be. But I can’t forget. And if it’s me that screwed up, it’s worse still, because I tend not to cut myself much slack. With myself, even the forgiveness comes hard.

Another friend often says, “The perfect is the enemy of the good,” meaning that all of our efforts to make everything work out just so will amount to nothing, because perfection is unachievable, and by focusing all out efforts on accomplishing the impossible, we will accomplish nothing.

I have a wife to love, children to raise, things to do — I can’t afford to accomplish nothing! No one lives to 105 with the weight of all their mistakes on their shoulders and a thousand useless arguments raging in their heads. No question about it: in my Second Third, I need to lighten up.

The Second Third, Week 2: Thanksgiving

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I spent my first third, from infancy to 35, wanting more. I used to have this card with a terribly grouchy-looking man on it, touting the virtue of dissatisfaction as inspiration and motivation. I used to have a million things I wanted to do, including running for office. I had so much to say, and places to go, and stuff I wanted: new and old stuff; beautiful and functional stuff; all sorts of stuff. But when Thanksgiving rolled around, I was always most thankful for the same handful of blessings, such as Jodi and my children, my parents and my sister, her kids and my in-laws and friends. All the stuff I wanted so badly over the course of the previous year wouldn’t even come to mind.

Over the course of the past summer and fall, we’ve been purging. Even the kids got into the swing of things, getting rid of toys and books, throwing out old drawings and lesser “keepsakes.” When they started asked about an xBox to replace the old PS2, I got them to agree to trade-in the PS2, all the games, controllers, accessories, and most of our PC games, plus put their own money toward the new system (even Trevvy). Jodi and I agreed to pay the balance, but that this would be our Christmas present to the kids this year (even though it was early autumn). They agreed with little hesitation. I hope they’ve begun to realize, too, that having it all is too much.

That may be wishful thinking, and I’m not perfect: on my birthday, Jodi agreed that I “could use” a new pair of brown casual shoes to replace my current, incessantly squeaking (albeit perfectly functional) pair. We went to the shoes store, I found a pair of Doc Martens, tried them on, and bought them. As soon as we got in the car, I felt horrible, and all the way home, I debated taking them back. A week later, after putting them on two or three more times on the carpet, I did just that. And felt good about it.

I’m thankful this year for all the usual things, plus two: the ability to get the stuff we need, or even the stuff we want, sometimes, and the sense to know when enough is enough.

They Call the Trina Bina

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment
So we went through a windy spell a few weeks back, and I made some comment about Mariah singing me to sleep. Then I googled the song, and found the video below. (I hadn’t known where the song came from.)

Then my good friend, Laura of Laura the Crazy Mama fame, commented how much she loves that song, and that her eldest daughter’s middle name is Mariah…which was funny, because everyone calls her eldest daughter Trina Bina. (That’s Treena Beena, in case it’s not clear.) Jodi said as much — “I thought her middle name was Bina” — and, since just a week or so prior (in a beer-weakened moment) Laura’s husband had spilled his guts about how he and Laura met, well, the makings of a song just percolated up real natural-like. With any luck, a super-creative and somewhat musical family like Laura’s brood will record this — maybe even post a video on YouTube.

So with a shout-out to Mamaloco and Trina the Crazy Big Sis (and with apologies to Butch):

They Call the Trina Bina
In Albertville, they’ve got nicknames
For Nielsen sons and daughters.
The Nick is “Bock”; the Lise is “Weez”–
And they call the Trina “Bina”…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

Ol’ Butch he sat at home that night
When came a knock at his door
Up jumped his friend, and he let in
His girlfriend, yes, and one moooore…

They played at cards, then watched a film,
When out they should be goin’.
He wanted then to punch his friend
But inside love was growin’…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

He watched her in the mirror and she
Pretended not to mind him.
Her hair she tossed, and he was lost,
Where only God could find him.

From that day on, a family man
Butch was, and a provider
He worked away, and all the day
He dreamt he was beside her.

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

A lovely mama Laura made
But loco as a ferret.
She homeschools, blogs, and often jogs
And Butch must grin and bear it.

They’ve rolled a lucky seven since
Three boys, four lovely ladies—
And nicknames all they always call
From teens right down to babies.

So Matt is Matty; Nicker’s Bock;
There’s Mari and there’s Lina
Tommy’s easy; that one’s Weezy!
And they call the Trina Bina…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

Katrina! Katreenaaaaaaaaaah!…
Oh, lend some saniteeeeeeee!

The Second Third, Week 1: Pulling My Own Weight

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Somewhere around ninth or tenth grade, I took my required high-school health class. Early that first semester, we were asked to set a fitness goal for ourselves. I was one of the small guys on the football team, and a mediocre wrestler, at best, with a large head, skinny build, and little natural athletic talent — so there was plenty of room for physical improvement.

I thought about speed and strength-related goals, like many of my male classmates, but ultimately settled on this: “I want to be able to bike or walk anyplace I want to go, even when I’m in my 70s.”

Or something like that; you get the gist. To be completely honest, I had visions of a family bike trip across the country. Our teacher was also a coach on his way to assistant principal, but even he took notice. This goal was not like a lot of the others. It was extremely long-term, and seemed modest, but as a man of a certain age, he knew this was no small thing.

As a senior, I played varsity football as second-string noseguard. I was about 6-2 and 175 pounds at the end of season, so when wrestling started, I told my coach I was going 189. (Dad told me in 7th grade, when I said I wanted to wrestle, that I always had to wrestle up a weight class — I was forbidden to cut weight, or he would pull me from the team.)

By the mid-point of the season, I weighed 152 pounds, and wrestled 160, 171, and 189, as needed. I was skinny, sure, but had never been in better shape, and had my best (albeit still mediocre) season.

Freshman year at Yale, after several months away from organized sports, I entered an intramural wrestling tournament. I wrestled three shortened periods, won my first match, and went outside to puke in the snow.

The second match was the next day. This time, my opponent had put at least modest effort into his cardio since high school, and it showed. For me, it’s been downhill since.

Today? 6-3 and 235 (on a good day). My bike hung in the garage all spring and summer this year. I road the stationary bike indoors after dark fairly regularly for a few months — but as far as biking anywhere I want to go…well, I can still ride, but we aren’t gonna make time. Especially on the hills.

What’s more: it has begun to bother me that I cannot move my own weight with just my arms. I can do solid pushups, but no pull-ups. From a survival standpoint, this seems like a bad thing. Not that I expect to be in a fight-or-flight situation this week, but then, that’s the point: you never know…

In some ways I was wise as a kid; in some ways, just way less busy and as invincible as only a teenage boy can be. But here in my Second Third, I should be self-sufficient — and that means physically, too. I’ve got work to do.

The Second Third

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

I turned 36 years old today. Last year on this date I joked that I was a third of the way through my life (not half, as some had suggested). 105 seemed like a reasonable age for which to aspire: far enough past the century mark so it doesn’t look like you were stretching for a milestone, yet not so far past that you appear to be going for the record. This year I thought about it again — 105 — and it seemed less like a joke.

Why not? I’ve got things to do. 105 then. That’s the plan.

First I informed Jodi, so if she wants to go first, or wants to try to outlast me, she can plan accordingly. Then I thought about this blog post. If 105 is the mark, at 36 I’ve officially entered the second third of my life — middle age — except lucky for me, middle age lasts until 70, at which point you may consider me an “older American.” I don’t intend to retire.

The second third. It’s appropriate, because throughout the past two years, I’ve had a handful of experiences that pushed me out of uncertainty and into a much clearer (if not yet crystalline) vision of who I am, and who I want to be (y’know, when I grow up). So maybe it’s time to move to the next stage…

I also noticed that so many things have sucked up my time in this past year that this is only the 30th blog post of the year (compared to about 158, year-to-date, in 2008, which was my peak year). Sad. So sad, in fact, that my good friend Jinglebob at the Dennis Ranch blog actually briefly cut me from his blog roll for several days prior to the election for insufficient presence. And since one of the things that has not changed as I enter the second third of my life is my desire to write, I figure I ought to remedy that right off the bat.

So…

Beginning today, and continuing each Wednesday for the next year (at least), I will post a Second Third entry, about where I think I came from, and where I think I’m headed. Navel-gazing? Perhaps. But I’ll try to make it worth your while — and hopefully as I get into the swing of a weekly post, others will follow.

Oh, and Yield and Overcome? Sounds to squishy for my second third. Gonna have to remedy that, too.

Welcome to my Second Third. I’m genuinely glad to be here, and thankful you came, too.