Ups & Downs

“Always wear clean underwear.”

It’s a standard mom mantra. I know my mom said it to me. She also sewed in my name and address. I would always be covered and clean in case of amnesia.

I always assumed she did both, in case I was in an accident. I mean the sew thing, that was just so they knew where to drop off the crumpled body, right? Then again, if that were the case, wouldn’t it have made better sense to sew in the address of the closest hospital?

The clean thing, that never made sense. If I’m in an accident where somebody needs to see my underwear, I assure you: my underwear won’t be clean--no matter how fresh it was when I left the house.

So why all this over theorizing about underwear?

Mine malfunctioned today. And not in a sexy Janet Jackson kinda way.

Yup. This story starts, like so many others: down a long convoluted path of back-story. See, nothing starts in the now. It always starts somewhere else. Life, like underwear has history, and to convey either to you, I need to go back.

We’re going back to last year. That’s when I stopped working out. I could blame so many things: my book, the Pirate Queen, my job-search, and yeah, even my underwear, but they weren’t the real problem. They were just excuses. The real problem was a problem of priority. Working out just did not make the priority list.

So this year I found bunching underwear enough to keep me from closing my jeans. I realized it was time to get back in the race. I’d had a nice hiatus, but all things need to move forward. This time what needed to move forward was my fat butt.

So I started working the “Couch Potato to 5K” program. It’s a simple system that builds you up to a 5K over 9 weeks. I hate running, but I’ve found it one of the best starter workouts. It’s like I need to get my body fit enough to start working out. Then I can move to other activities; I need to walk before I can run—so to speak.

This plan has you run 3 days a week, with a mix of walk and run that takes you about 30 minutes. That includes warm up. When starting anything in life, limited expectations can help you exceed your goals. It helps makes the days that make you go, “I don’t wanna,” more bearable. I find the less “I don’t wanna” resistance I start with, the more I wanna later.

Today’s walk/run was the same all week: 2 alternating 90-second run/walks followed by 2 3-minute run/walks. The second 3-minute run is kinda tough, but like any anything else, experience will make it easier.

Except today. Today’s experience was in humiliation.

Today I threw on my shirt and shorts, started my ipod and paced down the road. The first 1/3 of the mile is warm up. I felt good and active, and ready to take on the world. I was down at the end of the block, adrenaline pumping, arms swaying, legs movin’.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

That’s the iPod telling me to run. So I ran. See Rob run? Within 15 seconds, see Rob’s underwear sliding down his butt. I

’d love to tell you that this happened because I’d lost so much weight that my underwear couldn’t keep up, but no. It was just the elastic that had given up. I blame mom. When she sews my name, it weakens the elastic.

Whoever’s fault it was, I could feel the wide band creep over my butt hump like an eclipse creeping down the moon. My only safeguard was that my shorts had a better support team. They stayed up.

Now I’m grabbing my butt. Not because I like the warm plush feel, but because I’m trying to shimmy my boxers up without stopping my run. I started this run; I plan on completing it. About a minute into the run, I’ve got Mick Jagger chicken arms yanking up the limp waistbands as high as it’ll go.

Some guy passes me in a truck and slows. He’s watching me in the rearview. I think he was trying to figure out why I was giving myself a wedgie.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

It was walk time. My underwear liked the walking better. It could keep up with that kind of exercise. I continued to walk, wondering of how I could keep them from falling during the next run. 3-minutes is a long time to support yourself by your butt-crack.

I decided to do nothing. I’d let it ride, so to speak. What the heck? My shorts weren’t falling, how far could the underwear go?

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The next run started.

If there’s one thing I should have learned, it’s that underwear is a lot like life. When things are going wrong, you can’t afford to play ostrich and burry your head in the hole.

Uhm…yeah, anyway…No, you can’t do that.

As soon as I started running, the boxers eclipsed the moon again. It might have kept it to a waxing gibbous if I had Velcro on the back of my underwear. At least then the strip would stop at the butt hair .

Without Velcro, It kept going. Within 15 seconds, I’m running with underwear piled into the back of my shorts. I’m running like a toddler with a poo filled Pamper, and that’s not the worst.

The worst is that the underwear keeps moving.

The legs holes jostle around my pumping thighs, making my underwear drop further down my legs, hampering my ability to run. Now with the seam in the crotch, the underwear isn’t going far, but it is going far enough.

Gasping, I look down. On my right thigh sits Cartman and on my left sits Kenny: my cartoon angel and devil making themselves visible. It’s like my South Park underwear is talking to me.

“What are you running for, fat ass?”

“MMMMWrrrrwwrrwwwmmmm!”

Forty-five seconds into the first three minutes of my run, and I’ve got insulting cartoons on my thighs, and bunching undies inhibiting my run.

What do I do? The Cartman leg wants me to turn around. I’m not sure what the Kenny leg wants. He’s unintelligible. I don’t want to give up though. I stagger through the rest of the three minutes, and slow to a walk.

Now I lift my underwear again. Passing a yard sale, I make a quick search for underwear. Nothing. I walk on.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

This beep doesn’t mean it’s time to run again. This beep is letting me know that I’m half way: It’s just as far to turn around, as it is to move ahead. Sorry, Cartman thigh. I’m pushing on.

This is like so many other things in life. It’s Rob operating procedure. I’d love to tell you about all the times I’ve taken the easy path, but like half my blogs, those are pure fiction. The reality is, I stumble through life with my underwear around my thighs way too often. It doesn’t matter if it’s work, relationships, He-Man or South Park; my underwear always tangles me up.

I wish I had some great answer for making it through. I don’t. Today, I sucked up the last legs of the run and made it home with more embarrassment. In life I do the same thing. I plow through.

The plowing is easier with my faith. I mean I’ve got God to get me through, I know that eventually I’ll be able to stop and pull up my underwear. Sure, I know. It’s an imperfect metaphor, but it’s what I’ve got.

I’ve got an imperfect life, but I’m plowing through. And if I ever get lost, I’ve got my name in the back of my underwear. I’ll figure out where I belong.

This Is Not a Blogpost.

This is not a blogpost.

If you’re reading this, you’re the most loyal reader I know.

Everybody say, “Awww.”

I’m waiting.

Still waiting.

Come on now…Thank you.

Don’t read anything into that. Things are much the same as my last post. In fact, that’s why I’m not posting now.

“Why don’t you write blogs anymore?” So asks the Pirate Queen. She’s still the same ol’ PQ.

“Cuz I’m trying to finish my book and find I job.” Same ol’ Rob too--always so much on my plate. I would not make a good Oliver Twist.

“Please sir, can I have some more?”

“Shut up, chubby.”

“Hey! I don’t like to be called chubby!”

“Then don’t call me sir. Now get off of me, I’m not in the mood anymore.”

Yup, things are the same between the PQ and I. We’re still multiple moons orbiting a gas giant trying to figure out what’s solid between us. We draw the weekends. We repel the weekdays. We’re doing everything to keep from freefalling, molten nuggets descending towards unknown horrors.

“Please sir, can I have—Ow! Crap! I say! I’ve just been hit with a pair of molten nuggets!”

Yeah, leave it to me to stick my nuggets in a Dickens’ novel. OK, back to 2010: Rob’s space odyssey. In this odyssey, Odysseus will be played by Rob, the role of Penelope belongs to The Pirate Queen. Careful, the literary reference satellites are falling like so much space junk.

Last weekend, our intrepid satellites were at Living Spaces looking at furniture. This was our second revolution there. The first passing came before Christmas. She’d asked to see my sofa as a pyre of Yule cheer.

I understand. Some relationships suffer when you’re dating. Some guys give up their pets. Some guys give up their best friends. I have to let go of my couch. I think it’s an acceptable trade.

She also hates the space she calls my “man cave.” It’s the office off the back of the house. After the divorce, I spent so much time working there that all activates that didn’t require a sink, a toilet, a bed or a lawnmower migrated there as well. Ok, sometimes the lawnmower came too, but that’s another story.

“Please sir, may I—AHHHH!”

Anyway, the man cave holds all things most satellites keep in their living room. My living room holds echoes. It’s been empty since MyEx left. The Queen hates the echo room. She hate’s the echoless cave. She hates the couch.

There is something she doesn’t hate. She doesn’t hate the luge. That’s our one-man, one-woman snuggle position for watching TV. She lies in front, and I support her from the rear. It’s our tandem snuggle. It’s silly; it’s stupid; it’s part of our orbit.

Last time we looked at furniture, we found this thing called an “Astro Snuggle Chair.” Aww, yeah. It’s bigger than a chair-and-a-half, but smaller than a love seat, so it doesn’t require a real commitment. It’s really comfortable, with good back support and, as the name states, it’s perfect for snuggling.

It sucks for luging.

That’s alright. We all make sacrifices. I figured it was my turn. I’m getting a decent tax refund. So, I thought, “Why not?”

OK dear readers, thank you for the list of reasons why not. I’ll file them appropriately in the “I know, I know” file. Yes I know. I’m jobless. I know I’m already risking foreclosure. I know there’s no reason to buy a piece of furniture that I may have to pay so I can have it removed if I go. You know what reason I give for being such a fool?

It would make the Pirate Queen feel more at home.

I love her. I want to synchronize our orbits. Don’t panic. We’re not marrying. We’re not moving in together. It’s just that she’s helped me clean my backyard. When you share a disposable bag, a saw, a shovel, and a hoe, you’re already sharing plenty.

That’s why I wanted a snuggle chair. I wanted to put it in the living room, and maybe work a TV into the mix. I wanted to make the outer space our space.

So while at Living Spaces, I mentioned my plan.

“What do you think?”

“A Snuggler won’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too small.”

“OK, so what would?”

The Queen moved to a comfy white leather sofa, and got a little defensive about why the Snuggler wouldn’t fit. She turned red and flustered as she explained things like, “It’s just my opinion,” and “it’s not my house, but…”

I wasn’t worried. I wanted her opinion. If the Snuggler didn’t fit, we must not sit. Maybe we could find something else that did. So I said, “Angel, it’s OK. I’m just trying to find something that would make you more comfortable in my space. I like sharing it with you.”

That little astro-tidbit smacked the PQ out of orbit.

That red color she had before? It washed away. I lost her against the white leather like a waning ghost.

“Baby?” I asked.

She reappeared, this time, greener than before. After a few moments she wobbled to her feet, but things had shifted.

Ever since, things have been out of kilter. This weekend she’s revolving in her apartment, alone. It’s nothing. It’s nothing new. Nothing in our orbit has ever been stable, but it always recovers.

The problem is, I’m a stable orbit kinda guy. I was married for 10 years. Marriage is a manmade satellite: you work together, expending fuel to maintain orbit until everything is gone, and then you plummet to Earth in a fireball of blame.

This orbit is more like an ADD kid with a hula-hoop. It throws my universe for a loop. The things I’m good at become the things I’m bad at as the gravity of insecurity pulls me down.

One of the effects is that this week I’ve done a lot of writing. I just wish it were on my novel. Every time I try to focus on my book I see the waning Sofa Queen.

So what have I written? I’ve written over 20 job applications, most out of state. If I can’t find stability in my state, maybe I can land somewhere secure. Maybe I can find a new orbit, one that belongs to me. I Know I can survive on my own. I’m not Oliver Twist.

And this is not a blogpost.