Head Scratch

We're capable of much more that we think.

I love physical fitness and strength. For fitness I ride my bike, as I mentioned in a recent posting. For strength I work out at the gym. I keep a log of my weight maximums for the various free weight exercises I do. Today I had an "aha!" moment. It has happened to me before, but today for some reason the "ha!" was put into the "aha!" The significance all sort of clicked.

My lifting progress is very organic. I don't lift crazy amounts of weight to look like the California Governator in his prime. I don't have a spot partner, so I don't lift more than I know I am safely capable of doing on my own. I learned that lesson the hard way having once cried out for help with 150lbs sitting snuggly on my trachea. Before every lift I double check my lift weight and the number of reps I am capable of. Because my progress is very organic I tend not to make significant jumps from one work out session to the next. Today I misread the number of reps I can bench press and comfortably did the "wrong" number that I had in my mind for that particular set. As mentioned, I have made this "mistake" before, but today it really sank in that we are all capable of much more than we think we are. I think through conditioning we have come to an agreement with ourselves that we are capable of only so much.Throw your shackles away! I have and they are now in the dumpster outside my apartment. Give yourself permission to accomplish as much as you like. And don't look to anyone else for that permission either.

Sometimes it's just under our nose....

Have you ever notice that a fly will fly through an open window and spend the next few hours buzzing along the glass right next to it, just a few inches from freedom, only to end up dying on the window sill. Is it just by sheer coincidence that the open window was right in its flight path and there it found itself in my apartment, or was it consciously aware that it was entering, but it was somehow ill-equipped to get back out?

It makes me wonder how many times I have felt stuck in my life, (name it - a relationship, an emotion, a job, the freezer isle at the grocery store wondering if it should be Ben and Jerry's or Haagen Dazs) and in that moment be so caught up in the frustration and anxiety that I have failed to realize that the solution or the freedom or the release was only inches away.

For myself I pray for serenity in each moment, which then allows discernment to arise.

Expanding the term "fully loaded"

It seems that in the last few years cars have become extensions of our dwellings, what with the inclusion of video screens to keep the kids, and even some drivers, entertained. Whatever happened to car games like picking a car and model-type and at the end of the journey the person who has spotted the most wins? Ah the good old days of hearing my dad's voice booming from the driver's seat declaring "So help me, if you kids don't quiet down back there I'll pull over and give you all a hiding."

Anyway, "fully loaded" now seems to incorporate quite an array of features and gadgets, incorporating new technologies to keep us safe, secure and entertained. However, car companies, at least American car companies, are in complete disarray financially. I'd like to propose an added feature to the term "fully loaded" that might bring some of them back from the brink of financial ruin. Drum roll: t-shirts. That's right, t-shirts.

Have you noticed how many people put t-shirts on the front seats of their cars, kind of like the automotive version of the fitted sheet? Think of the many variations a car company could offer - colors, sizes, long-sleeve, short-sleeve, crew-neck, polo, the list is practically endless.

I really don't understand why people do it. But it really doesn't matter. Sometimes capitalism makes no sense and is driven purely by the diverse tastes and preferences of people. Case in point, the guy who invented that singing fish, which was all the rage a few years ago, I'm sure owns a private island in the South Pacific.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike!

If you want to move through traffic stops quickly, ride a bicycle. I am a cyclist. I love my bike and I try to ride it as often as I can. The more time my car stays in its parking space, the happier I am.

I have noticed the drivers tend to cut me a lot of slack when I am on my bike. Without fail, even when I am the last to arrive at a multi-stop stop sign, drivers will wave me through first. I don't know whether these are other cyclist who do it as an act of solidarity, or they are rewarding my non-carbon emissions mode of transport, or they simply don't want me to have to put my feet down as I gingerly keep my balance as I await my turn, but regardless I appreciate that they send me on my way without delay.

Grrrrr, why wont this fit?

So, you buy a product at the store, bring it home and take it out of the box. Then you realize it was the wrong color or it didn't work, or whatever. No problem, you think, I'll just return it. Then what? Well, you put back on the twisty ties, put it back in the bubble wrap and attempt to put it back in the box, but it just doesn't fit. It did when you bought it at the store and now it wont. No matter how much you try (at least no matter how much I try, you might be an expert) it just wont repackage as nicely as when you got it. And then you have to deal with the humiliation of bringing it to the returns department at the store and it looking like your dog chewed it or it was run over by a semi. Why won't it fit?  Having gone through that experience once too often, I have great admiration for product packers. They work magic as far as I'm concerned.

Thanks for the offer, but no.

There are many cultural differences between the US and my home country of Ireland. One of the more curious is the American habit of bringing a glass of water to bed. Self-disclosure here: I have slept with more than a handful of women and without fail all of them filled up a glass with water and brought it to bed. Initially I thought that I was in for an amazing night of passionate sex and that they were planning ahead for dehydration, but alas it never worked that way. Oh don't get me wrong, I have had many a night of passionate sex, but the customary glass of water was never the give away. The handcuffs were the dead give away, but never the glass of water.

I have also been the guest in many a house and many a host has asked if I'd like to bring a glass of water to bed. At first I accepted because I thought that they knew something that I didn't. Maybe they cranked the heat way up during the night? Maybe in a Kennedy-esque manner the family has a ritual of playing touch football on the upstairs landing at 3 am? But after waking up each morning with the glass still untouched I eventually implemented the practice of declining the offer every time.

See, the only thing Irishmen bring to bed is the smell of whiskey on their breath. And the only thing that Irishwomen bring to bed is the hope that the owner of the whiskey breath is too inebriated to do anything other than fall right to sleep.

What's in the case lady?

I live next to a yarn store. I never knew there was money in yarn, but there is. The place is a gold mine. The parking lot is always full. Beyond selling yarn and needles and patterns and bags, etc, etc, the store also offers classes. One of my favorite teachers, not my teacher, I'm not taking a knitting class, not that there's anything wrong with it, and I might try it some day. But rather one of the teachers I get a kick out of carries a big brown briefcase, within which I can only imagine she carries her needles. If I were taking her class I'm sure I'd be a nervous wreck that first day as she'd arrive with her briefcase. I'd stare transfixed as she'd come in, slam the briefcase on the table, and in a thick German accent declare "Za first rrrule of knitting is zee shoezing of zee apprrrroprrrriate needules." And with that she'd flick open the clasps of the locks, a glow would emanate like that scene in Pulp Fiction, and with an audible gasp from the class extract long gleaming needles, with a sparkle in her eye and a demonic smile on her face.

The End.

What ever happened to 9 to 5?

A few months ago Fast Company Magazine featured an article on extreme jobs. I don't have an extreme job, thank god, although I used to. But I have worked in the investment business for many, many years and I am continuously shocked at how the collective consciousness of the industry seems to push people to accept greater and greater infringement of their professional lives into their private lives, all in the name of success.

Today was a startling day for me at the office. I had someone agree to speak at a conference I am currently planning that is scheduled for this summer. No biggie there, right? Well I learned that he's willing to attend the conference slap-dab in the middle of a three-week vacation he has planned. I had another potential speaker pick up the phone, tell me his wife's water just broke, and to make my speaking invitation pitch quick. Yesterday, I had another speaker call me from his car as he drove his kids to a school social, while his kids were jabbering away in the background. And finally, I have another industry contact whose voicemail at work encourages the caller to call him at home at night and on the weekends.

We're all so afraid of losing control. I think that our pursuit of bigger, better, faster, richer comes at a price.

Gratitude

The arrival of each new month at the church I attend brings with it a new Sunday service theme. March's theme is gratitude. We've been challenged to recognize that gratitude is a way of being and not a response. To stop interpreting and judging the glass to be either half full or half empty and just simply be grateful for the water. I have gotten out of the habit, but each day I aim to recognize something I am grateful for, develop a running list. Here are some for starters:

My health
Jules
My job
Water
Shoes
My car
Books
Irish tea
Santa Cruz
Velcro
Fresh food
My bike
Sammy

Pilots' Shoes

I did spend a lot of time observing at the airport on Sunday, so I'll keeping with the air travel theme for a while longer. Have you ever noticed that pilots by and large wear comfortable shoe-laced rubber or foam-soled shoes? And always black. You wont see too many pilots wearing nice leather Italian loafers or a tan pair of Bostonian wingtips. Or even those black walking shoes that look like shoes, but are really sneakers in sheep's clothing. No it's Rockports or Eccos or some such all the way for these men and women who navigate us across the friendly skies. I guess those pedals are tough on the shoes. Airplanes are controlled by pedals, right, along with all those levers and sticks and knobs and dials?