Now that I’ve gotten a little bit older and have a little bit more money, airline travel has become one of my new favorite past times (and let’s remember to keep the emphasis on “little” in both of those cases).
I've always loved traveling in general, but driving back and forth across this great country of ours four times already has burnt me out on long road trips for a while. In the meantime, I'm appreciating being able to travel more conveniently through the friendly skies.
The only problem is that every aspect of flying goes against every aspect of my nature.
There’s too much waiting that goes into flying. You have to wait in line to check any bags. Then you have to wait to disrobe in the security line. Then you have to wait at the gate to board the plane. Then you have to wait for the plane to take off.
Then there’s the worst wait of all: when you’ve landed and you’re dying to get off the plane but you have to wait for the flight attendants to help the one idiot dislodge his slightly too large bag from the overhead compartment.
Considering how I flip out if I have to wait at a stoplight longer than a minute and a half, this is not a doctor recommended list of activities for me.
Oh, and then there’s the actual flying.
I know it is all science and physics but if I can’t even comprehend how it’s possible for me to program my DVR at home from my computer at work, I’m never going to get past a man-made aircraft lifting off the ground and flying through the air.
At the end of the day, it’s just a bunch of people climbing into a metal tube and hoping for the best.
But when my Wife and I decided to move almost 2,000 miles away from most of our family and friends, flying suddenly became a necessary evil.
I’m proud to admit that almost two years in, I’m finally starting to calm down, relax, and borderline enjoy it. During take-offs and touch-downs, I no longer have to cling on for dear life to my Wife or, worse yet, the absolute stranger sitting next to me.
Baby steps.
What’s really strange, though, is that when I went to meet a buddy in Missouri last weekend, I realized that I am slowly starting to take on somewhat of a Clive Bixby alter ego when I fly.
First, I noticed that during that aforementioned wait at the gate, I always buy the most recent issue of Esquire magazine. I know that’s that not ridiculously abnormal; Esquire is a well-known, widely read publication. But it is kind of abnormal when you take into account the fact that after buying the magazine a few times at airports last year, I even subscribed to receive it at our house... only to never read it… unless I was on an airplane.
We finally had to plan random flights just to unload the stack of unread issues that were piling up on our coffee table.
Then I observed something unusual when the attendants come by mid-flight for my drink order. I always order tomato juice. In my everyday life, I NEVER drink tomato juice. It’s basically thinned out ketchup. Once again, after ordering it a few times on flights last year, I picked up some tomato juice to keep at our house... only to never drink it… unless I was on an airplane.
Is there some kind of clinical diagnosis for this kind of alternative behavior?
I mean, other than just being a weirdo?
Finally, I have become increasingly aware that I spend money like a drunken sailor whenever I fly. At home, I am militant when it comes to our finances, but when I get out of town I spend it like we got it. I also become a very generous tipper and will tip anyone for doing anything for me.
It’s no coincidence that every city I visit experiences a temporary economic spike. I’ve actually received a few “Thank You” cards from town officials.
I genuinely like who I am as a person, but my alter-ego seems to be having more fun than I ever do. So the truly bizarre question then becomes that if this world traveling-Esquire reading-tomato drinking-free spending son of a gun is fundamentally 36% cooler than I am, why can’t I be him all the time?
Maybe it’s because when you get bogged down in the routine of everyday life, you just need something different – or someone different – to look forward to when climbing into a metal tube and hoping for the best.
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh and follow @INDT_popculture for entertainment updates
As I have mentioned before, my Wife and I never argue about anything of actual importance; but our disagreements are always of the utmost significance to us.
Here is the transcript of a recent hum-dinger:
ME: It’s officially October! You know what that means, don't you?
MY WIFE: Yes! Cooler weather and awesome weekend trips to the mountains!
ME: And if by “awesome weekend trips to the mountains” you mean staying home to watch a ton of football and baseball playoffs, then you are correct!
MY WIFE: Ugh, is it really baseball playoff time, again?
ME: Yes… it is finally baseball playoff time again.
MY WIFE: You’re not going to grow that gross, scraggily playoff beard again are you?
ME: I HAVE to!
MY WIFE: No you don’t. It makes no difference on how your team plays!
ME: Umm… let’s review the facts.
MY WIFE: Here we go.
ME: In 2007, I didn’t grow the beard and they got swept in the first round. In 2008, I grew the beard and they won the World Series. In 2009, I grew the beard and they made it to the World Series and then I shaved the beard for that stupid Halloween costume and then they lost. I rest my case.
MY WIFE: But we were so cute as Joan and Roger!
ME: Yes, but I cost us the Series.
MY WIFE: And you almost cost your friendship with your buddy Gray in ’08 when you wore that thing as a groomsman during his wedding.
ME: Yes, but I can’t help that he scheduled his wedding during my favorite team’s first World Series appearance in 28 years.
MY WIFE: But you were in their pictures!
ME: But it was Game 3!
MY WIFE: Is Halloween during the World Series this year?
ME: Yep. Game 4 will be on Halloween night.
MY WIFE: So what costumes are we going to wear?
ME: I have no idea! That's almost a full month away. You can dress up as whatever you want.
MY WIFE: No, we have to be a matching couple! We’ve been Fred and Daphne, Joan and Roger and I thought we were going to be Jim and Pam from “The Office” this year.
ME: We can still be Jim and Pam.
MY WIFE: But Jim doesn’t have a beard!
ME: That we know of.
MY WIFE: No! We have to look authentic. What famous characters wear beards?
ME: I don’t know. I’ll just go as a baseball player again.
MY WIFE: NO! You did already two years ago!
ME: Because we won the World Series that year!
MY WIFE: You’re not wearing a costume you’ve already worn!
ME: We were living 2,000 miles away back then! No one out here will know!
MY WIFE: But I will!
ME: Fine. Let’s look online and see what famous characters have worn beards.
(We spend a few minutes doing an Internet search)
MY WIFE: Well, it looks like we’re down to Obi-Wan Kenobi and Jules Winnfield.
ME: What if I did Obi-Wan and you dressed up as Princess Leia in her Jabba’s palace costume?
MY WIFE: I can’t.
ME: Sure you can!
MY WIFE: Noooo, I can’t.
ME: I will grant you that costume is a little revealing–
MY WIFE: No, it's not that! It's because she’s not a redhead.
ME: Wait, what?
MY WIFE: She doesn’t have beautiful red hair like me, so I can’t be her.
ME: So let me get this straight. You can only dress up as female characters for Halloween that have red hair like yours - on a night where the whole point is to dress up as someone else?
MY WIFE: “Beautiful” red hair. Yes, that is correct. Daphne, Joan, Pam… seeing a pattern?
ME: Yeah, but I thought those were just convenient, not mandatory.
MY WIFE: Sorry, don’t know what to tell you.
ME: So what’s the list of remaining, available characters that have red hair–
MY WIFE: Uh, excuse me...
ME: Sorry, what is the list of remaining, available characters that have beautiful red hair?
MY WIFE: Of the top of my beautiful red head, I can think of Wilma Flintsone, Jane Jetson…
ME: Hey, I like that one! I could get a wig and be George Jetson!
MY WIFE: But he doesn’t have a beard!
ME: Well then you just better hope that we lose before we even get to the World Series so that I can find a more accommodating Halloween character to be with you!
MY WIFE (with a devilish grin): Well if that’s an option…
ME: DON’T YOU DARE!
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh and follow @INDT_popculture for entertainment updates
Seven years ago, my buddy Paulie introduced me to something that would change my life forever: fantasy football.
Being the raging sports fan that I am, this discovery was the equivalent of the creation of the Internet or man landing on the moon or even Columbus finding America.
Fantasy is perfect for people like me who cannot get enough football only on Sundays and want to feel more connected and involved in the sport. And it is exponentially less pathetic than just creating a fantasy team in the Madden video game because you’re actually dealing with real players who are playing real games.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s still ridiculously pathetic.
Fantasy also provides me a way to stay connected with my friends who live all over the country. My Wife will call up one of her girlfriends back East and they will talk for hours about their lives and the latest gossip. Yeah, my friends and I aren’t going to do that. I haven’t had an actual conversation with my buddy Chris in probably six months, but we text 10 times a day about potential fantasy football moves.
So for the most part, the fantasy pros have heavily outweighed the cons until something unexpected happened.
The one league I was a part of wasn’t good enough anymore.
Four years ago, I got invited to play in another league that was set up slightly different from my original league and I thought I’d give it a try for a season. If I had been as bad in that league as I was in my first league (and still am), I probably would have been one and done. But no, I had to win the championship that very first year in the new league and then something even worse happened.
Two leagues weren’t good enough anymore.
Fast forward to the start of the current NFL season and I am in not one, not two, not three but FOUR fantasy football leagues.
And I can justify them all.
I’m in a 12 team/dynasty keeper league, an 8 team/2 player keeper league, a 10 team/auction draft league, and a 12 team/standard draft league.
So, there.
But now I have problems that I have never dreamed of before. With so many players on four different teams, I will inevitably have too many of my own players playing against myself in the other leagues. It was tough to enjoy Justin Bieber... uh, I mean Tom Brady’s 3 TD performance for one of my teams on Sunday when I knew he was obliterating the Bengals defense, which I had starting for one of my other teams.
Even that was nothing compared to the convoluted chaos I found myself in on Monday night. In one league, I had an 18 point lead over an opponent who only had Chiefs running back Jamaal Charles left to play. In another league, I had a 12 point lead over an opponent who only had Ravens running back Ray Rice. And in another league, I was trailing by 10 points but I HAD Charles and Rice. So I needed just enough from both, but not too much from either.
Hours later, I’m still confused as to how it all played out.
To be fair, the fantasy gods did try to warn me this year. I only wanted to do two leagues but I got roped into playing in the other two at the last minute (by “roped” I mean I was invited and instantly said, “Yes!”) and endured terrible draft experiences in both of those leagues.
In one of those leagues, we decided to bring our laptops to a local sports bar and hold the draft there. I logged in a half hour before the draft was supposed to start to check my Internet connection and everything was fine… until two minutes before the draft when I lost the connection.
The draft started and I scrambled to get back online and the computer started auto-picking players for me. And it was as if the computer had a personal vendetta against me as it drafted players I normally hate in fantasy and real football – including the starting quarterback, running back, AND wide receiver from my least favorite real NFL team.
Thanks, computer.
At least missing half of that draft was better than the other draft in which I missed the entire draft all together. Thought the draft was at 7 p.m. but it was at six, so I logged in at 6:45 the draft was already over.
I'm getting sloppier than Andy Reid blowing through timeouts.
After that debacle, I promised myself right then and there that I’m only going to play in one league next year.
Or maybe five.
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh and follow @INDT_popculture for entertainment updates
My Wife is very cool about a lot of the nonsense that I put her through. Her life consists of watching a lot of sports, watching me play video games, calming me down on a regular basis, and watching a LOT of sports.
I still can’t see her angle on why she married me, but I’m sure she has one.
But the one and only thing that she is not cool about is when I don’t wear my wedding ring. She’s never said why it bothers her so much and I’ve never asked, but if you want to see her go from normal to Jwoww in .04 seconds, come over to our place and watch me slide my ring off.
The only problem with this being her only problem is that I hate wearing my ring. Not because of what it stands for, I just can’t stand wearing jewelry of any kind.
So this was a borderline-to-legitimate issue when we were planning to get married.
ME: I don’t really have to wear a wedding ring when we get married, do I?
MY WIFE: Don’t even try to get out of this one. YOU HAVE TO WEAR A RING.
ME: It’s not like I have a cavalcade of women knocking down my door so what’s the difference if I don’t wear one? Can’t I just get a tattoo around my ring finger?
MY WIFE: Yes, you can get a tattoo. I will let you get a tattoo instead of wearing a ring if you get one that says “I love my wife more than anything else in the world, she is so beautiful and I’m so lucky to have her and I will buy her flowers every day for the rest of my life.”
ME: Hmmm… Can I put that on a sign to wear around my neck instead?
Since that idea bombed worse than MacGruber (sorry, Will Forte!), I suddenly found myself in a jewelry store trying to pick out a ring. I didn’t care about price, quality, or design. The only thing I was concerned with was the weight. I asked the guy at the store for the lightest ring he had and told him I would even be fine with wrapping a few pipe cleaners around my finger.
We finally found a ring that was a suitable compromise for the both of us and I started to wear it a few weeks out before the wedding so I could get used to it. I was miserable for about a week. I was constantly aware of it and it felt like my left hand weighed a ton. Even worse, I felt like one of those poor animals that had been tagged in the ear for tracking purposes.
But then a funny thing happened, we got married and I got used to wearing it. I got so used to wearing it that I now feel weird when I’m NOT wearing it.
Another brilliant tactical development by the female gender.
So that - and the fear of my Wife - is what caused me to freak out a couple of weeks ago when I left the house to run a few errands only to realize that for the first time in over a year, I had forgotten to wear my ring.
I was grabbing a couple quick items in the grocery store when I looked down at my hand on the shopping cart and noticed the ring wasn’t there. My first thought was, “Where is my Wife right now?” Because if she was home and saw it lying there while I was out, I might as well never go back.
Once I had the calming realization that she was out of the house as well, I looked at my phone to see what time it was (I won't even wear a wrist watch). She said she would be home by noon. It was currently 11:45 a.m. and I was at least 15 minutes away from our house. I literally left the cart in the middle of the aisle and sprinted to my car.
Now I know why she’s with me – she owns me.
I screamed at every slow driver that I passed (this was before my massage) as I blew through stoplights, racing home like Memphis Raines. I pulled in to my parking spot at our apartment just in time to see my Wife turn the corner in her car. I deftly slipped my left hand into my jeans’ pocket and walked briskly to our front door. Once inside, I ran to our bedroom, found my ring on my nightstand, and exhaled deeply as my lovely bride walked in.
I came out and gave her a big, anxiety-ridden hug only to see her pause and stiffen up.
MY WIFE: You haven't been wearing your ring, have you?
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh and follow @INDT_popculture for entertainment updates
I’ve been a little stressed out lately.
Nothing more than usual. I’ve just been feeling more frustrations at work, with our finances, and with all the “Glee” Emmy nominations.
You know, typical stuff.
Normally, I can deal with life’s simple struggles without breaking stride, but here recently I’ve been incapable of handling even the most insignificant issues.
So when my Wife and I were making plans to celebrate our first wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago, she was determined to find me some rest and relaxation. She pitched a weekend retreat to a resort up in the mountains that included a couples’ massage and spa package.
At first I was hesitant because I’ve never really been into the whole intimate massage scene. But when I found myself screaming at an old man because he wasn’t taking a right hand turn at a stop light as quickly as I would have liked, I knew that these were desperate times calling for similar measures.
Besides, I had gotten a massage once before a couple of years ago, and it wasn’t completely terrible – despite the fact that it violated every rule I steadfastly maintain in regards to protecting my personal space.
When my Wife and I got to the massage place (is it a “place”? Salon? Parlor?), a woman with a heavy French accent greeted us and took us to our massage room. She invited us to sit in a steam room for a few minutes and that they would be back to give us our massages (more on “they” in a moment).
ME: So we just go sit in the steam room?
MY WIFE: Yeah. What’s wrong?
ME: What do you do in there? Just sit?
MY WIFE: Yes, it’s supposed to be relaxing?
ME: Well, what do you wear? Your clothes will get wet if you’re just sitting there in steam.
(If you can’t already tell, I am painfully new to all of this)
MY WIFE: You don’t wear anything.
ME: WHAAAAT? You just sit there... naked... doing nothing... just looking at each other?
MY WIFE: It’s supposed to be romantic.
ME: Are you supposed to do… something in there? How is that any fun? It’s already way too hot and steamy in.
It’s a minor miracle that she stayed married to me for an entire year.
After five minutes of us sitting in the steam room in all of our awkward glory, we dried off and the woman returned to get us set up for our massages.
To measure what kind of intensity we wanted, she said she was going to squeeze our necks with her hand and then we would tell her if we wanted more or less pressure. She then proceeded to give us each a Vulcan death grip and after we picked ourselves up from the floor, we both told her that we wanted less pressure.
A lot less pressure.
She laughed one of those evil villain laughs and said “they” would return in a minute to begin. In a moment of panic, I pawned my Wife off to Annie Wilkes and ran to the other table, knowing that whoever came in couldn’t be any worse.
I’ve been wrong before, but I have never been quite this wrong.
Like from some terrifying horror film, the door slowly opened and a hulking beast of a man walked in. His name was "Steve" and he looked like a henchmen from a 1980’s Sly Stallone movie. He was wearing short gym shorts and a tank top with muscles bulging out of his muscles.
Based on the pressure the French lady applied to my kneck, my very first thought looking at him was, “Well, I had a good run.”
Like I said earlier, my only memory of a massage wasn’t that bad. As much as I didn’t like being touched all over, it was genuinely relaxing on the whole.
This experience would be defined as the opposite of that.
Steve crunched and crushed every bone he could find in my body. I kept trying to remember the secret war plans that had I had apparently been brainwashed with so that I could give them up and end this torment.
At one point he pressed down on my back so hard that I legitimately saw my soul trying to escape out of my physical frame. The crazy thing is that I didn’t try to stop it.
My Wife sauntered out of her massage relaxed and rejuvenated. I limped out and, weeks later, still have nightmares.
MY WIFE: So, do you feel any better?
ME: Well, I’m too broken and sore to feel stressed and angry.
MY WIFE: Mission accomplished.
ME: Thanks?
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh and follow @INDT_popculture for entertainment updates
I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions.
My thinking has been that if I couldn’t make something happen in the first two decades of my life, it’s probably not going to happen now.
But this year was different. Coming into 2010, I committed myself to getting into shape. Not necessarily peak physical condition – just some semblance of any actual shape, as opposed to the blob of flesh I have turned into.
I don’t know where it all went wrong. In my teens and early 20’s, I was one of the most active people I knew. Looking back, I’m pretty sure I got off track somewhere between the introduction of fantasy football and DVR technology.
Recently, however, even I had to concede that there were some minor health related issues starting to develop. Simple tasks such as climbing a small set of stairs, standing up from a sitting position, or even breathing had suddenly become more difficult; so I promised my Wife I would start working out with her.
The only problem with working out with my Wife is that she is one of those weird human beings that actually enjoys inflicting pain upon her body. I’ve never understood that mentality and that’s always been my biggest barrier to physical fitness.
Why do something that hurts when it feels so good to do something that doesn’t?
With carefully crafted excuses and "schedule conflicts", I was able to hold her off for a few months but when her dad surprised us with a membership to a gym (that sits in front of our apartment) as an early anniversary present, I knew my goose was cooked.
I could sleep easy at night knowing I was blowing off a gym membership that I paid for, but there was no way I could live with myself when it is on someone else’s dime.
Part of our package included two free hour long sessions with a personal trainer and I found myself dreading this more than anything else. Blame it on the male pride, but I just pictured some perfectly sculpted Adonis laughing at me as I lay crying on the floor trying to complete a single sit-up.
So I was actually a little relieved when I got a call from a perky female trainer to set up my appointment. She was exactly what I needed to get back into the flow of things. She was extremely nice and personable even though we both knew she was probably judging me a little on the inside.
Unfortunately, once the clock started on our session her niceness disappeared faster than a thought from Snooki’s brain.
It was like one of those hours where time stands still and you think 40 minutes have gone by but then you look at the clock and see that it’s only been 12. Three minutes in, I thought I was going to throw up. 17 minutes in, I was pretty sure I was going to throw up. And 33 minutes in, I knew I was going to throw up.
For the last bit of our session, she put me on a treadmill right next to my Wife and of course they had to hit it off. It was one of those nightmarish scenarios that you feared in high school (or at least I did) where two girls were making fun of you... right in front of you.
MY WIFE (jogging along at a breezy pace on her treadmill): It’s taken me so long to get him to come here with me.
TRAINER: Oh, I know, my husband was a big wimp at first too.
ME (hanging on for dear life to the treadmill that I’m pretty sure the trainer set to “Rocket Launch” speed): I’M RIGHT HERE. I CAN HEAR YOU!
The pain suffered during that hour was nothing compared to the soreness I felt for the next couple of days. To talk on my cell phone, I literally had to use one arm to prop the other arm with the phone up to my ear. To add more injury to injury, I contracted an annoying head cold a few days later. Between the head cold affecting my balance and the stiffness throughout my body, I lurched around our apartment like a zombie.
I hate to admit it, but now that I’m past the initial push, I’m starting to feel a little better on the whole. Softball season starts this week and it will be nice to get to first base without the aid of a stretcher.
It only took me seven full months, but I’m finally starting to make good on my resolution.
Next year, I’m going to commit to something I can handle. I’m going to be the best nap taker of 2011.
Follow Josh on Twitter @Just_Being_Josh
Then there’s the worst wait of all: when you’ve landed and you’re dying to get off the plane but you have to wait for the flight attendants to help the one idiot dislodge his slightly too large bag from the overhead compartment.
What’s really strange, though, is that when I went to meet a buddy in Missouri last weekend, I realized that I am slowly starting to take on somewhat of a Clive Bixby alter ego when I fly.
It’s no coincidence that every city I visit experiences a temporary economic spike. I’ve actually received a few “Thank You” cards from town officials.
