Leaving, and coming home

This is how I feel.

What a trip.  A mix of emotions-it was tough to leave my grandfather in a nursing home, but hanging out with my family is always a great time.  I'll be back in a month to see my grandfather back home, and have time to talk to him about all the things on our minds.

I'm tired, still and again.  This weekend was relaxing, in a stress sense, but exhausting.  Only a month more, and then I get a little break.  If I can get my shit together this week, I might even get some sleep this weekend.

Unless I'm grossly mistaken, I think I'll get at least a few hours on this plane ride I've got coming up.

New friends.

Yet another adventure.  This one was a little short-notice, but since I wasn't sure my grandfather would even be around by the time I got here, and instead he's doing better every day, I'll take it.

Town's pretty quiet at 2AM on a Thursday morning.

RIC was also pretty dead at 4:30AM.

The Richmond Airport wasn't too bad.  Parking is confusing, but they've got guys with flags to wave you into the random lots you end up parking in.  And since it was 22 minutes from parking my car to sitting at my gate, I wasn't too displeased.  The security line could be a nightmare when it's busy.

The flight from RIC to EWR was uneventful and quiet.  We landed about 5 minutes before my connection was due to board.  I had to gate check my bag for the tiny jet I flew to EWR, and it took 20 minutes to get it off at the end.  A quick sprint across the Newark airport and I made it with a minute to spare.

Dem ridges

The flight from EWR to SEA was wonderful.  Great views and managed to make a new friend. She got sent a drink from her coworkers at the front of the plane, and the flight attendant who delivered it fell in love with her immediately.  He proceeded to bring her drink after drink, which we ended up splitting when he was out of view.

Plus, I pretty much rocked the crossword. Oh - this is Seattle.

I promised Ashley a selfie before we got off the plane.

As soon as we got off the plane, we drove to go visit my new goddaughter, Avery. She was ugly and horrible, and lacked any charm.

Or the opposite of that. Whatever.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch Jim. I'll be back.

My uncle had big plans for the evening.  Hint: beer.

If you drink all 1,000 in an hour you get a free T-shirt.

Shout out to this food truck with a beautifully-permed chef and delicious latke sandwiches.

Day 1 of Seattle complete.  Tomorrow, my brothers arrive and we go see the grandparents.

Where's all the extension?

Another fancy new core-blasting program showed up at my gym.

CXWorx - it'll worx your CX!

Like every other "revolutionary" 30-minute core workout (fun fact: if you're spending 30 minutes on your core, you're wasting a shitload of gym time), it appears to be mostly based around dynamic, flexion-based killer moves that will really shred that stubborn belly fat.

Sorry.

My problem is this: as a people, we don't struggle with flexion. Of course, everyone could use a good ab workout - but how many people are affected on a daily basis by their lack of flexion strength?

Lack of control, maybe. Not lack of strength. Or endurance.

Who keeps their milk cartons on the floor, anyway?

No, as this picture suggests, our problem is extension.  We're terrified of it. We never do it, and then we wonder why we're so bad at it.  I would suggest this:

If you are a happy, healthy, fit adult, and you cannot safely lift 50 pounds in the above position, you are not healthy or fit. You are ridiculously weak.  That's not perfect lifting form - but life doesn't function in ways that allow you perfect form every time.  I watch people do horrible things with their shoulders all day, with no injury - because despite my frequent encounters with RC tears, your average human being still uses their shoulders on a daily basis, and so the muscle strength and control is at least a little bit present.

How did I end up with this woman again? I should pay her a percentage of my sweet profits for this post.

So how about a little extension? Sure, do some "core blasting" and feel great about all that ab DOMS.  But if you ignore the other side of your body and then hurt yourself lifting a wiggly child, don't come crying to me.  Or do, and once I have a license you can pay handsomely for me to give you the same damned advice.

Nobody messes with the rainy-day runner

10k in just over 56 minutes.

The lighter I get, the faster I get.

Pictured: A place I didn't run.

Today's run was in the rain.  I wasn't planning on running in the rain, but I got stressed, and because my favorite solace (being a fatty) wasn't available since I had smartly not packed food to stuff my gullet with, I went for my second-favorite.

I love to hurt.  After that run, I felt pretty great about everything.  Sometimes you just need to do a little damage to get your mind straight.

Brighter days

Waking weight: 199.4

Mood: awesome, less manic than the previous two days.

Today is already the best day in a while. 

Iced coffee makes every day the best day.

 We slept in, got up late, and felt good about wasting the day.

So we left a note for our guests, hopped in the car, and drove to Busch Gardens.

And I got to ride co-pilot.  Lazy lazy lazy.

While in the car, we sang a little of today's popular music, and talked about how much better America is than every other country.

 

 jk we sang spirituals. 

 Because seriously - I had to pay .30 to pee in Germany.  America is littered with rest stops that are clean, safe, and free.  Suck it, European socialism.

Also, this is a "rough" road in 99% of America. Tell me how civilized your pothole and frost-heave-riddled hellscape is.

Eventually, we made it to Busch Gardens. I didn't take any pictures due to the childlike wonder I experience every time I go to an amusement park, but here's a sandwich I ate earlier:

Sheeandwich? Sheetzwich?

A few beers at Busch Gardens, enjoying the perfect weather, grabbing a hotel, going to sleep.

Also, I can recommend this joint: Second St. Restaurant - An American Bistro

Double also, my grandfather isn't dying, or at least not appreciably more than the rest of us. Stubborn bastard is giving his 110%.  My relief that he'll actually be there to see, when I go to see him, is overwhelming.

What's the noun for selfish?

I know the one for "hypocritical" is hypocrite.

I took a self-portrait in Haiti.

I'm not a fan of international mission work.  To me, there's plenty of work to be done right here in America, the additional cost of traveling to exotic locales to "help" the locals is money wasted.  As a guy who likes to explore new places, combining an exploration with self-aggrandizing work is ridiculous.  If I'm there to look around, I certainly don't want to be trapped in one location, interacting only with the people who regularly deal with white Americans who can (only just) successfully hold a hammer the right direction.

But they are photogenic doing it.

Now, I did come to a sudden, and unpleasant, realization while I was in Haiti.

Filthy, and gorgeous.

A group of missionaries was there, building houses out in the country.  For several days, I listened to them laugh about how bad the men were at putting in windows, and how the locals had to go back and fix them directly after.  How can they justify being there? Not only are they taking construction jobs from locals, but they can't even manage that properly. They're just wasting time.

Bitch, I ain't got time for that bull.

So why did I go to Haiti?  For myself, mostly.  An excerpt from my application for my clinic abroad:

One of the biggest reasons I decided to become a physical therapist was the ability to do the job anywhere in the world where people live.  Travel and exploration are a huge part of my life, and I fully expect to live in other countries.  This clinic would give me the opportunity to participate in therapy in a setting far different from anything the USA has to offer.

Not to help the less fortunate, or to learn my place as a global citizen, or gain valuable perspective on my White American Privilege.   To help me decide where I want to work in the future.

It's important to note - places like Frankfurt also count as "other countries" I could practice in.

So I don't feel bad about it.  And maybe I actually provided some benefit to Haiti while I was there - we didn't really take jobs anyone else was looking to fill, and hopefully some people are better musculo-skeletally than they were before I showed up.  But mostly, it reinforced the idea that I don't have to be in America forever. I love it here, and it will always be my home, but I can't shake the idea that I need to spend a few years somewhere else.

What's the mission?

Waking weight: 200.2lbs
Intake so far: 2 cups of black coffee, 1 Nature Valley "protein" granola bar.
Mood: OK.  Took some supplements, faked a smile till it was real.

Mission July is a new name for a goal that's been around since the year started.  I turn 28 on July 7, and I plan to have that chiseled physique I've always wanted by then.

And some white board shorts.

The term itself was coined by Maggie and Carli, who upon hearing of my birthday present to myself, decided to join in the quest.

You think Maggie's fucking around here? Not likely. Stone cold.

It's for a couple reasons.  The first is obvious.  Nobody likes to be Chubs McGordo.

I do love cupcakes, though.

The second is an even better goal.  We in the weight-loss community (pretending I make an effort to be part of the dieting community) like to encourage new losers with the idea that "weight is just a number".  Which is true, in that it's a number describing how heavy you are.

In the past few years, I've become a fan of running. I'm not great at it, but I've run a few half-marathons, and I really enjoy the feeling of moving under the power of my own feet.  If you look at the great runners, they're small.  I'm not a small guy - I don't really want to be a small guy.  But weighing 220 pounds and trying to turn in a sub-20:00 5k just wasn't working for me.  At 200, I can already feel a difference, and why not? 10% less weight to haul forward is a hell of a thing.  My "goal weight", which is really a best guess, is 185 pounds.  15.2 from where I woke up today.  I suspect that at that weight I will have the full 6-pack, and with a few months of training be ready for the 18-minute 5k I want to run this fall.

Plus, maybe the next time I try to down-and-up the Grand Canyon in a day I won't nearly die.

The final reason is the one I'll probably get shit for, but I've really stopped caring.  It gives me control.  I don't have the time to exercise 2 hours a day like I'd love to do.  I'm stressed about school, I'm stressed about exciting new projects, I'm stressed about my family.  Not all of this is bad stress, but it all adds up.

And every time I don't eat something when I conceivably could, it's a victory.  In Haiti, I got some ribbing for my "3-bite" meals.  I wasn't starving myself, but the joy of controlling my impulse to stuff my face, and only eat until I was no longer hungry -- that is a feeling I love to feel.

I'm tired.  I'm not sleeping well.  Maybe some day I'll get caught up, or take a step back and make time to just breathe.

Not today. Not tomorrow.  Maybe July.

In Haiti, it felt like July every day.