Trim Tram Donovan

Apathy and a Bowl of Cinnamon Life

It's usually difficult getting back to something after you've taken a long break. This journal, for example, has been left dark for a few weeks. Somebody once told me that the opposite of love is not hate. Rather, the opposite of love is apathy.

Her argument contended that apathy is the thing that provides the image that you don't care. Letting go for a while looks likes it doesn't matter. This look at apathy is also a comparison to 'hate' as a feeling that still has strong emotions behind it--a driving passion. And while there is passion, there is a fight that is still being made.

I'm getting around to it. Stay.

Since I didn't have swim class for a week, getting back into the water was a bit difficult. Losing practice and drills made for a clumsy swim. My warm up was very slow and my technique had suffered. I let people pass me at pool's end. I would get to the end and swallow a mouthful of water time and again.

All I could do was hope that the drills would agree with me. It started out ok until we got to a set that called on the swimmers to go 50 yards with tennis balls in your hands. At the deep end, you were expected to tread water with just your tennis ball holding hands for at least 15 seconds. This was the drill that was destined to take me down.

My technique got so bad and my speed decreased so bad that I was continuously stopping. After only two laps, I had to stop and collect myself when that old survival instincts started back. I felt like I was drowning and had to save myself--my heart was racing and my stomach was doing backflips. I collected myself and tried to start back again. During this time, my stomach was getting more and more upset.

I got to the other side of the pool and fully expected to throw up. Thanks to my training in college, I knew how to hold back from "tossing my cookies". I swam back a length and got out. I checked in with Jerry and told him that I didn't feel good and stepped away from class.

It was probably not something that most athletes should do. Choosing in between 'fight' and 'flight', I chose flight for my own health. Or, at least, what I thought was a better way to take care of myself.

This decision could be interpreted as apathetic and wimpy. But it was only made to help me come back stronger on Wednesday. And I could have brought up a banana and a bowl of Cinnamon Life into the Verona Natatorium's Masters Swim Class water.

I think it was in the best interest of everybody involved.

Somebody Died

My house has never been this quiet. Ian got burnt out on watching television and told me that he didn't want to watch it (believe it!). He's been playing quietly by himself. Time to time, he'll ask for fruit snacks. There's ice everywhere outside and it's not fit to leave the house. Now I have no excuse.

The Christmas decorations are still up and I need to take them down. There's something depressing about it all. The celebration is over and it's self-admitted too. Unlike the typical parties where you clean up plastic cups and lay on the couch, post-christmas activities force you to take these happy items and put them in a box. It's like I was telling them, "Thank you but we won't need you until next Christmas. Thanks." Wrap them up. Box them away.

Even worse: I was doing it by myself. It was so miserable that I stopped when I spotted a Rubik's Cube and tried to solve it. I realized my denial of obligation and went back to work packing Christmas decorations.

Needles were flying everywhere from the formerly fresh greenery. I carried the tree and the evergreens to the curb. I threw them on top of the ice covered snow piles so The City of Fitchburg can pick it up.

My house has never been this quiet. Ian wants to sit and talk. I let him. After a while, he lets me finish my post holiday duties. 

I talk to somebody who says that packing holiday decorations is like "Somebody died." It's true. You're taking these happy things and tucking them away. Thanks.

The Common Cold

J.P. told me, "Boy, do I sound negative. Must be the cold." She's suffering from the onslaught of the common cold that's hitting us around Madison. You get sick and cranky. Sure. Must be the cold. Or did she mean, "Must be the cold." in terms of today's high was 7 and a low of -7? Naaah. Her disease is at the center so she must be referring to the ailment.

I sat a party last Saturday evening getting the hardest part of my cold. Chills and headaches. Jeni's co-workers were extremely nice and the food was prepared by the host's professional culinary skills. He was French and would gleefully announce, "Help yourself!" But the mixture of cold remedy, clinging symptoms and indigestion (I don't know) seemed to keep me away from any food. The scenes were moving in slow motion in a bad way. That Scotch didn't help.

The cold is all but gone now. My body ramps but up to 100% but it keeps coughing.

I had a list of items for the last minute on these last days before Christmas. My plan was to pick up Franny from a sleep over and head over to Menards Crap World to pick everything up (miscellaneous items like batteries, fireplace wood, CD-R's, CD jewel cases, etc.). I took Franny with me and she interjected too many opinions.

"Could we get that for our house? Our counters are outdated."

"Mom said we should get those."

"Why do we need those?"

"The elevator's right there. Let's go up while we're here."

"Franny," I told her, "just follow me and don't worry about it."

When I got home, I explained to Jeni that I didn't get anything done. I would need to travel out again into the sub-zero weather. The onslaught of last minute shoppers made things only more complicated.

"I have to head out to Target and pick up those things."

Ian heard the magic word: Target. Like a Pavlovian dog hears the bell, he sit up right and shouts, "I WANT TO COME." Almost robotic. To leave him out of this trip would surely produce a fit of rage. Surely his accompaniment would be fine.

"I don't like the Spider Man gloves. I want the Transformer gloves."

"The toys. We need to go to the toys. Go to the tooooooooooys."

"The glasses! Let's stop at the glasses! The glasses!"

"Why can't I geeeeeeeeeeet the Transformer shampoo?"

Real demands made in one real hour. It's tough to simplify it into a blanket statement like, "I don't negotiate with terrorists," because he's my son. And he's 3 and he needs to learn shit like "You're here as a guest. My guest."

I get home with my 6 little items and it takes me about thirty minutes to unload them. The kids are asking me for food or milk or where "Megatron" is located.

It's horrible to write this as Christmas is coming. I should be more forgiving and loving during this time. But, for Christ's Sake, I'm getting over a cold. And I'm cranky. Must be the cold.

The King's Pathway

I wish I knew how to eloquently show again how swimming makes me sick to my stomach. In the past someone sent me a video that (instead of explaining it) showed what it made me feel like:

Now, I want you to play this video four times to yourself. Now play it six more times. Now play it ten more times.

You'll get what it's like for me to take a Masters Swim Class at the Verona Natatorium. The deep end boasts a twelve foot depth on one side that drops off in the middle--marked by a bright red tiled line.

As some may know, I have a tendency to try to sing a song in my head to help clam myself down. Unfortunately, tonight's class forced the red line upon me and I recited the tune "Don't Worry, Be Happy". I wish I could tell you something else. Something more poetic. But my brain was rush to find a song.

This class strikes twice a week. I hope I will get more used to the water. Sorta like how you start telling yourself, "This is just a video. I'm not going to fall off a cliff."

I tell myself, "No one is going to drown. There's a lifeguard here. Nothing can go wrong." And I repeat that very phrase while I sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy".

It's a lonely miserable existence under water.

Ground Decaf Coffee

The ten or so days leading up to an event like a marathon, it's always a good idea to stop excessively drinking coffee. I forgot was I was going to say.

Start over.

When you're training for a marathon and you are close to race day, it's always good to switch off coffee. Not only does it dehydrate the body, but it also lends tension into a fragile being. Fragile being. Fragile. being. Where was this going?

OK. So. I quit coffee. Always good to kick habits now and again, but F**K my head hurts and I need some of that nectar. So sleepy. So sleepy. Decaf's just not doing it for me.

It will help me. It will help me. I am growing so tired. 

What?

What?

What is that F**KIN' noise? It's like a ticking. Oh my God. I have only a few days until race. That isn't like a tell-tale heart bullshit. It isn't. It just isn't. Maybe it's a mouse.

So tired.

Ground Coffee

Every time I make coffee, I see all those millions and millions of grains of ground brown pellets in the bag waiting to be spilled by my hand. I have performed the accidental spill of ground coffee many times. Sometimes, my arm misses the coffee filter and some spills out of the scoop. Sometimes, I simply have scooped too much and by the time the scoop comes to light, it's rolling off the pile of finely ground coffee way too easily.

Today's spill was the most creative spill. I opened a new bag and the adhesive tape stuck to my arm and, out of shock, I straightened my arm and tried to pull it off. The bag is slingshot up and about a quarter of the bag flew all over the kitchen.

Immediately, our dog runs into the kitchen when he hears the ruckus. "Buster, stay!" I hold up my right hand as if I'm a crossing guard and my other hand holds a broom with the dustpan attachment, "Staaaaaaaaaay." Like I'm diffusing a bomb, I gently lower my hand and take the dustpan off the broom and Buster strolls away while his nails click on the Pergo (trademark) floors. I couldn't take that dog eating all that caffeine.

A Case of the Mondays

As a three-year-old, Monday seems to hit harder for Ian. He has no concept of days nor does he have a reason to care. He lives moment to moment. And nothing gives him the reason to think otherwise. We have to badger him into understanding how our lives work then he must conform. 

That is why Mondays hit hard. He must think, "This is great. We're spending these days doing nothing. Just playing and hanging out." Then Monday rolls around again, "Wait. What happened? We were just hanging out and shit and what? I don't want to get off the couch. No, you dress me."

Today, he almost could sense it was a school day. He started off by objecting to any instructions I would give, "No, Dad." He held up his hand as if he were blocking my words, "No, Dad, don't talk."

It worked wonders because it rendered me pretty speechless.

I drove into work and escapades on the beltline did not disappoint. The rogue vehicle cutting in front of cars, no matter what lane. Acting as though they had a human organ to deliver before it was too late. But I suspect that it had little to do with human life but rather the disregard for it.

One car that chose to cut me off today had a bumper sticker imploring, "COEXIST". The letters were represented by a number of religious symbols. It cut me off and decided to sit on my front fender.

I wanted to tell the car, "No, car. No bumper stickers." 

My Latest Cross to Bear

There are two types of employees in vehicle repair shops. The guys who actually fix the cars (we'll call them 'techs') and the meet & greet guys (we'll call them 'the know-it-alls'). When I visit a garage, I typically want to talk to the techs because they won't give you crap and just tell you what you need done. The Know-It-Alls have learned a couple things about cars from the techs or they were techs who didn't like working in a garage. Both types of Know-It-Alls believe that they have a right to deliver lectures on your car.

The Know-It-All who was administering my tire troubles was well groomed with a blonde hair and blue eyes pedigree that would make Hitler tee-hee in delight. As he stapled my papers together, he continued his lecture to me about my axle problems. "Do you understand what a C.V. joint is?"

I was almost afraid to answer.

"You put that baby in four-by this winter and it could fall apart. You let it go longer, it will fall apart completely and you'll be walking in the snow. Anyways, you drove this thing on flat for a while. We replaced it. The other tires weren't bald enough to replace but let me warn you that driving on bald tires are a recipe for an accident. If anyone ever plows through a stop sign and get into an accident with me, I'll be reaching for this thing (tire tread measurement tool gets pulled out of his breast pocket) and see how bald they are."

He holds it about three inches from my nose.

He's right about me driving on a flat tire though. It was a slow leak that I ignored and would fill up with air again and again. I was just glad it was fixed and I wouldn't have to endure this all over again anytime soon.

Today, I woke up to find one front tire a little flat. It has that look that it's gonna be slow leak as well. I got to the local gas station and filled it up. I left to drop off Franny at Camp Bead Bonanza (this week is all about crafting with beads). All I could do is think about how I'll soon have to visit that damn place again.

As my car flew down county highway M, we were quickly approaching a man in a day glow vest carrying something on his back while strolling up the road. As I got closer and closer, I see he has ten foot cross on his back. He sees my lone car on the road and as I pass him, he smiles and waves to me.

I gave a short wave but had to get Franny to Camp Bead Bonanza. My tire seems to be losing air again.

Put Your Face BACK in the Water.

Went out for the early morning swim with Jessica and the training group today. It seemed like the buoys were out in no-man's-land but I managed to get out there.

Jess gave me a nice compliment that my form looked really good when I could hold it. I tried to hold onto that idea. I tried to stay long and tall. Tried to relax my body. I had only 20 or 25 minutes to be in the water before I had to leave. I started thinking about wrapping up my time in the water and Howard arrived late. He looked at me while it registered who I was.

That was right about the time that I was about to head back and he kindly said, "Don't forget to put your face back in the water."

#  #  #  #  #

In my drive into work, the Rimrock Road and John Nolen exits were backed up to the beltline. This was very unusual. It can be frustrating for some.

One car behind me kept honking the horn in long, uninterrupted blares. What do they think they will accomplish? If he/she wanted to annoy me, then they accomplished it.

Traffic moved slowly. About twenty minutes passed before I reached the clear road. That's when I noticed that the "Get Motivated!" Sales Seminar was taking place at the Alliant Energy Center at 8:30AM. This traffic must have been the onslaught from this program.

The car blaring the horn was probably pretty damn excited to get motivated and couldn't wait any longer. Then again, why would someone like that need a motivational seminar? It's almost like the Wizard of Oz when they arrive at the Crystal Palace and Henry Gale (the Wizard) tells them that they learned their valuable lessons on the journey. Maybe the Horn Blower learned how to be 'Motivated!' by sitting in traffic.

Pork Chops

My hair is grown out long. It's been looking preeeeety damn sweet sometimes. Chicks love it.

Being a guy, keeping it short was simply in my DNA. It's easy to maintain. The one true plus for male responsibilities. If it's a responsibility and it's easy then that's the way we will do it from now until the day that George Bush admits wrong do-ing. We, as men, like easy.

But since I grew it out, it has made for many good hair days but something was missing. I thought why it looked simply like unkept hair. Like my long hair wasn't planned. The opposite was true. It grew longer out of a suggestion from my favorite hair stylist Crystal. She suggested growing the bangs longer and letting the hair grow over my ears. "It's very in," she told me. Since I like to be "in", I followed her direction.

Two months later, she's on maternity leave. I was forced by the hair salon to see someone else. I explained my dilemma that I thought something was missing. The new girl said, "Maybe you need to grow sideburns." Interesting observation.

That week, I went out running with Ivens who has a set of sideburns. He told me that he was approached by one of his co-workers in the bathroom who said, "Those sideburns are awesome. Can I have them?" That scared me enough to re-think growing them.

I grew my beard for about a week then decided to shave it down to sideburns. When I trimmed it down to sideburns, it didn't look good. It looked like two little islands of hair on the sides of my head. It may have been worse to me, the author of these furry rectangles (after all, we are our own worst critic). But it made my hair/face more complicated and mis-managed. I shaved them off immediately.

I might get my hair cut short again.