Resolution #4 Update: Goodbye Sweet Tobacco Goodness

Once again, I have been woefully short on ideas about which to write on this now sad blog. It's been nearly an entire month that I've deprived my one follower of bathroom reading. Allow me to apologize. Moving along, I actually do have something today. It's rather monumental. I'm going on my second week without a cigar. Shocking, I know. There is some explanation to this temporary loss of insanity. First of all, I am given the subtle reminder by my wife that I should be healthier, so short of ingesting more leafy greens, it has been highly recommended to me that I should also ingest fewer toxins. I guess that's good advice. Second,  since Renae and I plan to run a half marathon this August and since I already loathe running like I do romcoms, I should try to take measure to make the task less painful. Though I like to rationalize and tell myself that I don't smoke nearly enough to make running more difficult (hard to make it more difficult in my already Jabba like running pace), I'm sure that I'll see a difference once I allow a couple of months to go by smoke-free.

Needless to say, my timing sucks. The weather is changing, barbequeing will soon ensue and I'll yearn to have a stogie with my friends. Why didn't I think of this during the winter, when I was still lighting up in the freezing cold? It'd be far less difficult to make the transition. So, I hear that when you stop smoking, you put on weight by replacing it with more eating. I also hear that when you marathon (or half marathon) train, you stop dropping pounds. Essentially, then, I'll be punishing myself by not enjoying a good cigar on a perfect summer evening, beating up my feet and legs while trying to get to the 13 mile mark and last of all having any weight loss benefits of training cancelled out by my increased food consumption. Please explain to me how this plan is any good. Nevertheless, it is going forward. Renae seems to be a fan.

Resolution #4 Update: Skiing, the Slippery Slope

When you grow up in the Midwest, you don't exactly learn how to ski. It's more like sliding down a hill-sized mound of ice. That was the meat of my skiing experience. I had been to Devil's Head once in high school with my brother and a couple of friends to "give it a try." No lessons, no experience, no brains. Not a good combo. I recall going down the "expert" slope which was like a green in the Rockies. I had no idea how to turn, so I basically went straight down the slope toward a wood chipper fence. Of course, I also had no clue how to stop (snowplow! pizza!), so once I reached terminal velocity, I just decided to fall and dig up half the earth in the process. I vowed to never go skiing again.

I held to that vow until I met my wife. She is to skiing what I am to eating... practically a professional. She's good and she's fast. So, a couple of years ago, she convinced me to go to Colorado, and I even took lessons. The problem is, the lesson never traveled from my brain to the rest of my body, so I fell A LOT. Most of my energy was spent trying to pull my 200+ lb body up so that I could fall again. I left Colorado frustrated, tired and humbled. Well, it just so happens that my wife wanted to see that happen all over again, and my brother thought he'd come along to witness it. So, upon our visit to San Francisco this past week, we packed up and headed to Lake Tahoe to go skiing with my brother and his family. We toted along my two beautiful nieces, 10 and 5. The oldest one loves to ski and has been doing it for the past few years. She's good, too. Even the tiny one, who is an athletic fury, was skiing down the slopes with no poles and no fear. I, however, had poles and an overly healthy amount of fear. I guess when you're 6'2", 205 lbs and 41 years old, you feel that falling down a rocky snowy mountain face is less fun than, say, napping in the sun after a good meal.


Well, I called upon my bizarre need to feel a sense of accomplishment and spent three days improving my paltry skills. My wonderful wife has always waited for me to crash and then come to my aid, but I was determined to become fully independent. The second day of skiing, I has forgotten to get something from my room a the lodge. My brother told me he'd meet me outside after he did one run. Well, I came outside and waited for 15 minutes. No brother to bee seen. So, I took the lift I thought he used and as I was halfway up the mountain, I realized it was the wrong lift. I was going up the steep one. I thought to myself, "This could be bad." I got to the top and thought, "Oooh. I chose poorly." Well, after inquiring if there was an easy way down, I discovered that the run I had to take was a tad steeper than what I was used to. Well, rather than risk the walk of shame back to the lift to try to get a humiliating ride down, I decided, "What the hell. I'm already used to falling." So, I made my way down, scanning the snowy descent for any possibility that I might careen off the edge. Well, after no less than 5 mild falls, I made it to the bottom alive, and I felt that much better for having tried it. The rest of the trip turned out to be a fantastic experience, and I now want to come back every year. With the encouragement of my family and my tiny niece yelling at me, "C'mon, Uncle Amos! Let's get moving!" I was transformed from lumbering ox to mildly clumsy amateur skier. I may even be hooked. Just don't tell my wife.