Blue Collar

It's easy to miss that everyone has their own story. The most boring, most banal people in our lives and the lives of our friends and families have their own path that led them directly to where they are right now. A person you see in a mall or on the sidewalk or in a restaurant, even though they might fit a discernable pattern or stereotype, have their own histories. 
When we were down in Mexico, Cousin Mike invented someone: the disgruntled husband. A personification of the trodden-down husband; a man who thinks marriage is a life wasted; who rocked out in his youth, married his high-school sweetheart, and has been regretting everything that came after. A disgruntled soul who spends his time warning young men, young men in whom he sees himself, that "whatever you do, don't get hitched. Ol' ball and chain is right. I've been tied down for almost 30 years. What I wouldn't give to be your age again."
Briefly, as I was in a moving vehicle cruising through a neighbourhood of small houses with small yards, I saw that man. All I caught was a snapshot, but it was enough for me to realise who it was I was looking at.
What I saw was a white, late 40's man in a faded muscle shirt and sweatpants, working on his car. On the surface, not really much to remark upon. What struck me was the state of the car. Not the family car, but one he had bought 20 years ago, just for himself, maybe in an attempt to hold on to his youth. Up on blocks, not because it was an old, abandoned beater, but because he was rotating the tires. Hood up, not because something had gone wrong, but to make sure nothing would go wrong. Tools scattered about, not disorganised, but close to hand. Man, car, and driveway were all dirty. Not the dirt of laziness or of being slovenly, but of hard work and elbow grease.
I had the feeling that, despite occasional frustrations, a couple bloodied knuckles and aching muscles, this guy would sleep the sleep of a man who spent the day working hard at something with which he was completely at peace.
Maybe his wife doesn't make his eyes pop like she did when they were 18. Maybe he doesn't like his job or his kids, or his best friend is his dog. But that doesn't mean he couldn't still set aside a day to do something he loved, something that reminded him of his youth.
And maybe, hopefully, this guy walked into work on Monday morning, and once he got past his buds bullshitting about how lousy it was to be back at work on Monday morning, he got to see the look of envy and respect on their faces when they asked him, "So, what did you get up to this weekend?" and he said nonchalantly, "Not a lot..."
"Worked on the Car."

The Summer Of Staying Young

God am I sore.
Earlier this week I vowed that by the end of the week, I would own a longboard. Monday was a bust. Struck out on Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday were over before I knew it, and Friday I threw out my back, so longboarding was pushed back in my mind. But I had made a promise to myself, so on Saturday morning, I met up with Mike and he helped me pick out a beautiful board. Big, fat, wide wheels. Not as long as others, but stout. Obviously my board.
Today was the first time taking it out. Met with Mike and Mikey at Assinaboine Park and tried to learn how to skate. And I'll be damned if I wasn't getting the hang of it pretty soon. Of course, there were the obligatory bails; I fell directly backwards, feet up in the air above my head, and landed hard on my ass and the heels of my hands. Jarred myself pretty hard. Pieces of asphalt embedded into my palms. And one fall where I managed to slam down on my already bruised heel.
And you know what I say? So what. Who cares? Bring on the pavement. Last summer was a complete wash. I didn't bike enough, camp enough, buy enough, hang out with friends enough. I was broke and felt useless just about all the time.
No more. I've decided, with some very encouraging and motivating words, particularly from Cousin Mike himself, that it's time I get off my fat, lazy ass and put some miles behind me. This is the Summer Of Staying Young, and I fully intend to take advantage. I've got a bit of cash in my pocket, and I think if I play it right, I will be able to afford to have a fuck of a lot of fun this summer.
I have a lot of practice on my longboard to do before I'll be able to hit the road and not constantly be worried about how to fall. I'm thinking about a new bicycle. Hell, I'll even look into how much it is to go skydiving. Not because I'm afraid of feeling old. Because I don't want to stop feeling young.
Because I know I can longboard, and it's been a long time since I've learned to do anything like this from scratch.
And because I want to go out and own this summer.

Not Even A Blip

Tonight I realised a succinct way of putting into words how I feel towards many people I've dealt with in my life.
I'm not on your radar.
I guess it kind of goes hand in hand with my acceptance of my ugliness. It's not that I think I'm horrible looking. I'm not. But I know where I am on the 1-10 scale. And when I meet up with a person that, for a long time, I used to try to impress and to whom I would attempt to appear attractive (sexually or otherwise), I no longer care.
Does that make me a hipster, but in a pure sense of the word? So be it. I'm over you. And thank God, too, because who in their right mind wants to live their life by someone else's standards? I don't need to follow someone when they get up and leave the room, in the hopes that they want to talk. I don't need to act, dress, or behave in a certain way because it will make me cool in someone's eyes, and particularly when I see these people so infrequently.
It's less of a "Fuck you, because you hurt my feelings/(so-called) masculinity/ego" than a "Fuck you, I don't have to play by your rules."
God, it's freeing, knowing that someone you used to go out of your way to see is beyond you. It's freeing seeing someone and realising that you no longer care whether that person thinks you're cool or if they even think about you at all. It's freeing knowing that I have people in my life that, despite my many flaws, care for me and think I'm worth hanging out with; that when they try to get me to do something differently, they're not doing it to stroke their ego ("Let's see what I can get Creaky to do for me this time,") but to make me a better person.
And it's freeing knowing that those people I used to try to impress are exactly the same people they've been for years, and that I have no desire to be on their radar any longer.