24 in 24: Baby Steps

With my first week as a 24-year-old complete, it’s become obvious to me that my undertaking may be grander than I anticipated. I have completed exactly…0 of my goals. However, I’ve made quite a bit of progress on many of them. This post will expand upon goals 1-8 I’ve set this year, and how I plan to reach them in 51 weeks. I’ll also touch on the goals I’ve already made progress on.

Here we go:

Goal 1: Get Married

I want to accomplish this goal because…I’ve met the love of my life and she makes me tremendously happy. In fact, this one’s kind of a freebie because my better half is already so good at getting wedding tasks done. We’re 5 months away from the big day, but every day up ’til then is big because she ticks off boxes and buys flowers and schedules engagements like a pro. I love her.

Goal 2: Get Adopted

When I was but a babe, my step-father adopted me. He is out of the picture now, but my birth father is very much IN the picture. He’s a kind gentleman who I asked to adopt me for Father’s Day. We’ve gotten most of the paperwork filled out, our next step is to fill out the rest of it before a clerk (which I hope to do this week) then sign it all before a judge.

Goal 3: Go on a Cruise

So my sweetheart is in charge of putting together a wedding. I’m in charge of putting together a honeymoon. We’ve agreed that a cruise is cost-effective, convenient, and a new experience for the both of us. We’re hoping to visit the Carribean and sail out of Florida so we can accomplish…

Goal 4: Visit DisneyWorld

‘Cause it’s fun. If anyone knows how to get great deals or tickets to this place, let me know. These goals are kind of tricky because they’re cost-sensitive. I actually have to buy the tickets. It doesn’t count if I sneak in after dark.

Goal 5: Camp in Zion National Park

I grew up in Northern Arizona in a little town equidistant from the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, and Zion Canyon. I’m a sucker for red rocks, and I haven’t camped since my Boy Scout days. Perhaps I’ll get lost in nature and find myself. Maybe I’ll experience the majesty of God’s Wonders. Maybe I’ll get eaten by a coyote. We’ll see.

Goal 6: Get Glasses

I’ll be real. I haven’t been able to see more than 15 feet in front of me for 7 years. Every time I go to the DMV they say I don’t need corrective lenses. The woman I called “sweetheart” at Target ’cause she looked like my fiancee from 10 yards away disagrees. I’ve planned to use my birthday money to get glasses by the end of this week. Wish me luck.

Goal 7: Run Ragnar

Ragnar? What’s Ragnar? Well, I’ll tell you. Ragnar is an epic 200-mile multi-stage relay race. You (with your team of 11 comrades) run over mountains, beside lakes, and down country roads. You stay up for 48 hours straight. It sounds exhausting. Why do I want to do this? As a 23-year-old I had the opportunity to coach my school’s cross country team. My students inspired me to better myself. I learned that several of my family members plan to run this year, and it sounds like a truly wearying way to bond with them. Full disclosure: The longest official race I’ve run was a 5k. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Goal 8: Run 24 Days Straight with Roku

I should clarify: Roku is my 6-month-old puppy. I have no plans to run with my smart TV. I would have accomplished this goal already if it was to clean up puppy pee for 24 days instead of run with him. Still, I made it 4 days in a row before hurting my foot at Cross Country practice. That’s 4 days more than I would have done if I hadn’t made this list. On those days when I got up early I felt more energetic at work and Roku was better behaved because he got some early-morning exercise.  Heres to more days when my foot heals.

In order to keep this post shorter than War and Peace, I’ll expand on another 8 goals next week. Hopefully I’ll have made additional progress. Until then, I wish you all the love and happiness you deserve. May you make your dreams come true.

 

24 in 24: Genesis

An excerpt from the conversation between the WordPress Elders and Chance:

WE: So, after three years of no blog posts, you come crawling back to us. Why?

C: Well, your user-friendly interface appeals to me greatly, oh great Elders of WordPress. It’s so much more convenient to log in to a previously used blog to document my many journeys than to start a new blog entirely.

WE: Why then did you leave in the first place! Were you ungrateful!

C: On the contrary, I am hugely thankful for the opportunity to commit to keeping a blog, write three posts, then vanish for three years.

WE: Will you repeat your mistakes this time?!?

C: …

 

That’s right folks, after over 1,000 days, I’m blogging again. Now, quite a bit has transpired since I last wrote a post. I’m engaged to a beautiful woman. I have a dog AND a cat. I’ve moved, moved again, and kept moving. I’ve had no shortage of blogger-fodder. Mostly I found it hard to make time to document my matters and life and such. And then something happened.

I turned 24.

There’s nothing particularly special about being a 24-year-old (especially if you’re between the ages of 25 and infinity). Many people would surmise that 25 is the milestone trip around the sun. I counter that life can be celebrated at many points, and that as I’m living my life, 24 is a perfectly good year to challenge myself.

I’ve created list of 24 things I want to accomplish as a 24-year-old. Some are small goals (keep my car clean), some are large (get married). Some are basic things human beings do that I’ve been putting of (get corrective lenses), and some I want to do to get back in touch with my own inner human being (share a meal with 24 long-lost friends). It’s a before 25 Bucket List of sorts.

I’m excited.

Here’s the rest of it:

1. Get Married
2. Get Adopted
3. Go on a Cruise
4. Visit Disney World
5. Camp in Zion National Park
6. Get Glasses
7. Run Ragnar
8. Run 24 Days Straight With Roku
9. Get a Raise/Promotion
10. Start a Youtube Channel
11. Get 2400 subscribers
12. Write a 240 page novel
13. Attend an Improv festival
14. Do a show
15. Go Back to School
16. Share a meal with 24 Friends you’ve not seen in a while
17. Host a Christmas Party
18. Juggle for 2 minutes 40 seconds
19. Learn 24 songs on Baritone ukulele
20. Learn 24 songs on Harmonica
21. Earn 2,400 extra dollars
22. Keep car/room clean for 24 days!
23. Memorize 10 Dr. Seuss books
24. Document it with a blog

Now I admit, that’s a mighty large undertaking. I may not accomplish half of these things. Then again, I may accomplish half these things. Still again I may accomplish but one of these goals. It is my sincerest hope that in shooting for the moon I will at least land amongst the streetlights. And if I can do one thing as a 24-year-old for my own betterment to make me or the people I love happy; well that’s as noble a goal as I know.

I’ll be documenting my progress throughout the year. As I complete goals, I may cross them off, or stretch them out. I may even post some videos. Watch for my next post, which should be between now and the inevitable heat-death of the universe. I love you all.

Beneath the Dermal Layer: A Glance into the World of Human Beauty

When prompted by Ernest Hemingway to “write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know,” I probed my 18-year-old mind for what I thought to be true. I giggled fervently as I resisted the urge to jot down, “I wrote a sentence.” At last my pencil scribbled on a piece of scratch paper a naive, adolescent statement, “Women are the most beautiful creatures on the planet Earth and deserve to be treated as such.” Of course this is ridiculous if we define truth as a verified indisputable fact. My sentence is clearly a personal, subjective opinion. Even if the majority of people agreed with it, it is not a fact. However, the sentence was a reflection of my sincere, genuine, true feelings.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day?
You’re Hot.

 

I am sure that somewhere contained in the vastness of humanity, there is somebody who agrees with this claim. I’m certain that he and I would have a grand time discussing the pleasing and potentially beautiful qualities of women. Meanwhile, the 7 billion other people on the planet would have their own opinions to the contrary. A mother holding a newborn child in her arms could assure you that an infant is the most beautiful creature on the planet. A six-year-old girl may declare that a flower is prettier than anything else in the world. Males less heterosexual than I would likely have differing views on what is most beautiful. Scientists might swoon over a tardigrade; a father: his daughter. Oedipus: his mother.

 

Merriam Webster’s dictionary defines beauty as “the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit.” Using this definition we can dismiss the stereotype that beauty means being thin and pretty with silky long hair and sexy long legs. It does not. It also does not mean being curvaceous with luscious breasts and hips that “don’t lie.” Both of these are narrow-minded, oddly specific definitions of beauty. A woman can pleasurably exalt the mind or spirit without regardless of features such as height, weight, skin color, eye color, ethnicity, or any other physical factors. Beauty is an inherent internal quality possessed by all women that shines forth when they allow it to. But, if beauty is truly an equal opportunity employer, it wouldn’t discriminate the ever-present dynamic of gender. Which begs the question: Can a man be beautiful?

Well, some more than others.

If beauty is an aggregate of qualities then more has to be considered than genitalia. There are certainly instances when a man is more beautiful than a woman. We rarely see these examples, however, because we live in a society hyper focused on physical beauty with little regard for personality, talent, or character. If I was bold enough to publicly declare that a man is beautiful, many people would assume I was jokingly talking about Dennis Rodman or Corporal Klinger. I’m sure Mr. Rodman is a fine person, though I’ve never met him personally. Nevertheless, I cannot say he is beautiful because I believe it takes more than lipstick and a dress to make one so. Consider the example of Jerry Elison:

Jerry is a director for the SCERA Theater and is a kind, loving man. In his 80 year lifespan he has directed over 100 plays. He has designed costumes, props, and scenery for many of these shows. He worked as a theater teacher at Orem High School where he influenced the lives of countless students for the better. Everywhere he goes he has a smile and a friendly attitude. To top it all off, he is a legend of humility just happy to make others happy. Mr. Elison is a beautiful person. Once again, this is my opinion.

Because I find beauty in men, society would possibly conclude that I must be homosexual. Let me be clear. Just because I find something to be beautiful doesn’t mean I’m sexually attracted to it. If it did there would be nothing stopping me from making love to a tulip or an Edgar Degas painting.

Or to the old man’s tonic and gin. Y’know, some people are into that.

A woman who calls another woman pretty is not necessarily attracted to her. Such comments are discouraged for men. Even a close friendship between two males is frowned upon or misinterpreted as homoeroticism in our culture. I have no physical or romantic interest in Mr. Jerry Elison, but that is unimportant to the college sophomore who gets a chuckle out of yelling, “GAY!” then snickering with his friends.

At a young age I was taught like so many children before me to observe the rule, “boys don’t hit girls.” I have obeyed this rule my entire life. Even when taunted by my sister who would throw heavy objects at me repeatedly, I remembered to treat her like a lady. My observance of this stricture might rapidly change if a woman threatens me with a knife. Certainly there exist women (and men) who are not beautiful. These are people who have abandoned their natural aesthetic and pleasing qualities for lesser merits such as pride, self-indulgence, arrogance and ignorance. They may be still be physically attractive, but carry around these ugly qualities that deteriorate their beauty. Therefore my rule has changed to “don’t hit people who don’t hit you.” Most people are beautiful; it’s the ugly ones that give humanity a bad reputation.

 

If I were to revise my “true” sentence, it might say something along the lines of, “I am more attracted to women than any other creature on the planet.” This is far less poetic and slightly creepy. It is also true in the most literal sense of the word. Different neurons fire off inside my head when I think of a female as opposed to a male. Dopamine and Serotonin rush through my brain creating attraction. It is a fact that I am attracted to females, but it is an opinion that they are beautiful.

Given the opportunity to bounce through time and tell my 18-year-old self what my much sager 20-year-old self knows, I’d ask him to consider the following as a true statement: Human beings are beautiful creatures and deserve to be treated as such. Of course, not everyone is beautiful. Not everyone is pleasing. There will always be that one guy who puts a black mark on the face of humanity. But he (or she) is the exception, not the rule. We should treat everyone how we want to be treated: fairly and with kindness. Because contained in each of those 7 billion people with differing opinions, there is beauty. We just have to choose to see it.

On Cannonballs and Idiocy

Few things in a fifth-grader’s life equal the sheer agony of dropping a cannonball on one’s fingers.

Oh yeah, that happened. 11-year-old Chance was sitting in his antique house that had previously been owned by perhaps the oldest couple in the continental United States. When this couple moved, they left behind enough vintage artifacts to fill an entire episode of Antiques Roadshow. Amongst the abandoned items were a set of railroad spikes, a table with legs made of brass pineapples, and a Civil War era cannonball.

Starved for entertainment (not having access to dirt bikes or paintball guns like all the other fifth-graders in Tinydeserttown USA), I took it upon myself to play with these artifacts. Though it weighed 12-pounds, I found I could throw that cannonball an impressive 5′ if I stood on the porch and threw really hard. At the time it didn’t matter to me that it was originally thrown over 1000 times that distance by a howitzer. I was impressed with my own feat of strength.

But, like so many games, Cannonball Tossing grew tiresome after a while, and I let the sphere of metal sit in a corner of the porch for months while I entertained myself with grown-up games like Runescape and jumping on our miniature trampoline (take that dirt bikes). In fact, that cannonball became largely unimportant in my life, but not so much that it was ever more than a few feet away from the front door.

Coincidentally, the front door sees a lot of traffic. Neighbors, friends, and out of town family all passed through that door and saw that cannonball. Most ignored it, some were curious, and some were Freddie and Trevor. Freddie and Trevor were classmates of mine who were infamously the class clowns. They did goofy things all the time, in school and out. This particular goofy thing just happened to be at my house on a Saturday when my mother was at work.

So, I’m on the porch with my classmates. Do I

a) Invite them in for Otter Pops

b) Politely ask them to go home

c) Play a friendly game of Cannonball Toss

If you answered c, you’re mostly right.  However, I also learned the new game of Cannonball Catch, which involved moving off the porch, down the stairs, and to the miniature trampoline.

 

“No, it’s safe. It’s already been fired, what harm can it do now?”

At this point, anyone can see where this is going. Anyone except 11-year-old Chance. Trevor dropped the ball on the tramp. It bounced and he caught it. He dropped it again. It bounced and Freddie caught it. Freddie dropped it. It bounced and Chance reached out to grab it with both hands. Alas, gravity did not cease working just because Chance wasn’t strong enough to hold 12 pounds of iron. The ball plummeted towards the frame of the trampoline and so too did my hands.

If I were to compare it to something, I’d say it felt a bit like someone had dropped a cannonball on my fingers. My left pinky got the worst of it, the nail was barely attached and it turned a brilliant shade of purple. Our babysitter/live in nanny at the time (who had been busy with the six other children in the house and figured I could handle myself with my friends) heard me yelling and performed basic first aid: hold the nail on with four band-aids. I was grateful for this, as it seemed to stop the bleeding.

After a few phone calls, my mother came home and Freddie and Trevor hightailed it for their own houses, presumably to try the same stunt with bowling balls or small children. Interestingly though, my mom didn’t seem so upset as she did amused. She took me to the emergency room, where my band-aids were removed (resulting in the second most painful sensation in a child’s life) and my hand was disinfected. Within six weeks of gauze, tape, and taking five minutes to wash my hands, my nail grew back and my hand was as good as new.

Now, why would I share this story about some dumb thing I did? There’s nothing particularly special about it; I do stupid things all the time. Recently I elected to get a girl’s number. I paid her a compliment, she said I was cute, then I stared stupidly at her, saying nothing until I averted my eyes and shuffled away. While not as painful, this was just as dumb as reaching out to catch that hunk of metal.

But I am not stupid.

I do stupid things on a daily basis. I mess up dance steps, decide to skip lunch when I know I should be eating, and stay up too late writing blog posts. But I am not stupid. Even if the unintelligent things I do outnumber the intelligent, the fact that I recognize the mistakes I made and strive to be better blows my stupidity out of the water.

Intelligence does not fully rely on your Intelligence Quotient. In fact, one of the heaviest cannonballs I ever dropped on myself was when I bragged about having a high IQ. I assumed everyone would be impressed and respect me more. Instead, I lost the respect of everyone in the room. Pro tip: Nobody cares how smart you are if you’re a smart jerk. It is far more important to be a good human being than arbitrarily “smart.” On that note…

You’re not stupid.

You’ve made mistakes, and will continue to do so. You may have even tried to bounce heavier objects on the trampoline. But you’re not stupid. You try hard to make the right choices. You fail often and succeed more often than you think. You’ve felt pain in the consequences of your actions as well as joy. You’ve goofed up a time or two, but you’re not stupid.

You’re Human.

Thumbs Up

This is a photo I edited and posted on this blog for the express purpose of commenting on Camille’s post about Brachidactyly type D. I’m a dork.

My Painful Writing Process

Have you ever had a spark of inspiration, a brilliant idea, and rushed to a computer or a notebook to put your genius in print form?  Me too!  However, this experience is usually immediately followed by staring blankly at said computer or notebook for half an hour, forgetting my idea, then retreating back to whatever menial task I was doing before.  This, ladies and gentlemen, is my painful writing process.

1. Inspiration

Picture this: Chance is mowing his lawn, or practicing harmonica, or eating dinner and suddenly is struck with a proposal from somewhere in his cerebral cortex.  “‘Midnight Starlight’ is a great song title!” or ” What if I used fire as a metaphor for penitence?” or “Life is great!  We need a poem about this.”  After completing whatever chore he was doing before, he devotes his attention to creation.

I wonder what appeared of Edison’s head when he got his big idea.

2. Concentration

Maybe there’s something poetic about a blank page, or maybe I’m just a pansy when it comes to beginning work, but those first lines are the hardest.  I’ll stare at the page, look up, close my eyes, back to the paper and put the pen down.  Then pick it back up.  I’m letting the ideas flow, see.  Back to the sheet…back up.  The words will fall into place…eventually.

3.  Frustration

Finally the ink falls from the pen onto the page.  “On that midnight in the starlight…” That’s all I’ve got.  Better cross it out and try again, but save that rhyme for later.  “Though I know it’s very far, we still look at the same star…” Nope, An American Tale already did that….dangit.

Somewhere, out there, beneath the PALE MOONLIGHT!!!!

4. Dissipation

Y’know what? I don’t really need to write about how great life is.  I’ll just let this poem drift away and get lost in the back of my mind.  It’s not that important.  This is usually the point where I eat an entire box of pop tarts and pass out, satisfied with my mediocrity.

5. Desperation

NO!  I have to draft this!  Get off your hind quarters, grab a writing pad, get back on your hind quarters and write!  “As he passed through the flame, as they lashed at his back, as he passed through the fire…”  No!  I already used the word passed…how ’bout jumped? Why don’t I just Shakespeare it and make up words?  “He quaffed through the fire…”  Wait…dictionary.com says that word already exists, and makes no sense in this context.  Also, fire has been used as a metaphor for every abstract idea in history.  I’m as good at original wordplay as Michael Jordan is at golf.  How the heck did Anton Checkov do this without a thesaurus or spell check?  I quit.  You’ll find me in the pop tart aisle.

6. Replication

Repeat steps 1-5

7. Determination

Put down that pastry!  I don’t care how stupid it sounds, just do it!  “My love for you is like the Energizer Bunny.  It keeps going and going.”  Yup, that’s dumb, next line…”Your hair is like a silken spiderweb with beauty replacing the dead bugs.” What is this, a ballad to a deaf woman? “My heart burns for you with the heat and intensity of 1,000 white dwarfs.” Oh, this is golden.  Why didn’t I come up with this earlier?

No not that white dwarf. But gosh, you sure do make me feel bashful.

8. Conciliation

So I didn’t come up with the next Cyrano de Bergerac, but I created a silly piece of work that someone might read and be entertained by.  I’m not completely satisfied with my work, but I’ve taken the first few baby steps.  Maybe I’ll come back to this in a couple of years…maybe not.  But at the very least I have a product I can be proud of.

And that’s why it takes a month for me to post anything on my blog.  Not because I dislike writing, but because I love it so much it hurts.  Really, nothing gets done until you knuckle down and do it, so next time you need to complete an essay, or draft a story, or let your inner poet loose, see if you can skip steps 2-6 and just write.

 

It’s My Life…

At my current age, I am forced to sit through meetings and interviews and interventions with relatives, authority figures, and friends who all seem to know what is best for me.  They all  seem to know what I need to do with my life, and if I don’t, I’ll never be truly happy.  These can be tedious, boring, annoying.  What do they know?  Can’t they leave me alone and worry about their own lives (which must be perfect if they follow their own advice?)  Why can’t they let me live my life?

Imagine you just had an awesome day at work.  You didn’t get promoted or anything, but everything ran smoothly, no broken copiers or uncontrollable customers.  So-and-so who works next to you was well behaved. You feel pretty good, right?  You feel so good you actually feel like going home and washing that big pile of dishes that’s been there for a while.  Not because you feel the need to have pruned fingers or because it’s so fun, but because you want to do something productive.  Now imagine you walk into the house and the first thing your mother/roommate/significant other (hopefully not all the same person) says is “I need you to do the dishes.”

More than once I’ve found myself in this situation.  Suddenly, when I’m expected to do it and it’s not a choice, I don’t want to do it anymore.  I want to feel like I’m doing it of my own accord.  And suddenly mother/roommate/significant becomes a tyrant trying to control me  merely by telling me to do something that was on my to do list anyway.  It of course becomes much worse when, “I need you to do the dishes” becomes “you never help around the house” or “When will you grow up and take some responsibility?”

In such a case I find myself many a day.  Not just with my dishes, of course, but with my life.  I’ll be working on finding additional employment when someone says, “You need to get a second job.”  Or I could literally be in the process of registering for classes when I’m reminded, “It’s the adult thing to do.  Don’t waste your time on trivial things, go to school.”  The irony of the situation is that I feel threatened by people trying to support me.  Most of the time they aren’t trying to control my life, or cause me grief.  They just want the dishes done.

We put off doing the dishes a lot.  When I think about it, many of the times that no one has told me to clean the silverware, it didn’t happen.  This isn’t because I changed my mind, but because I got caught up at the fridge, or I decided to check Facebook, or a mediocre show on ABC really needed my viewership.

At best it’s OK. At worst it’s Terrible. At absolute best it’s Rumpelstiltskin.

 

I had every intention of making the kitchen tidy, but, “I’ll do it later” or “There aren’t that many” creep into my head and at the end of the day the sink is no emptier than the beginning.

I can’t speak for everyone; everybody has a different experience.  Maybe you came home ready to suds up your hands and someone tells you to mow the lawn.  Maybe the people giving you advice don’t want your life to steer in the same direction as you want.  However, there is a high possibility that they want what is best for you.  They wish someone had told them when they were your age.  Sometimes they don’t express it well…

GET A LIFE! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW THE REAL WORLD WORKS! I’M TELLING YOU THIS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!

We have to learn to take what they say graciously, or both parties just end up unhappy.  Odds are, they know a little bit about what they’re talking about.  Even if they don’t, there’s no point in being upset about it.  So, next time someone gives you a bit of advice, give ear.  You don’t have to do everything they say, but at least respect them enough to listen.  Maybe they’re right, maybe they’re wrong, but you wont’ find out until you try.

What’s in a Name?

I can’t say if my life experience is really any stranger than anyone else.  However, a few facts that might be perceived weird. I have 20 siblings.  Yep that’s right.  Don’t worry though, my mother only gave birth to 13.  “Wow dude, that’s crazy.”  Sure is.  My mother also doesn’t have a belly button.  And my father got his first tracheotomy when he was less than an hour old.  He has 18 siblings.  My mom has zero.    It’s almost as if I’m the product of highly unusual circumstances.

And maybe that is why my name is Chance.  Many people I meet believe that I am assigned this particular moniker so they can make a terribly overused pun out of it.  And they do.  “Take a Chance,” “What are the Chances,”  “Fat Chance,” “Slim Chance.”  Got a chance pun?  There’s a good chance I’ve heard it.

What?  People think they can joke around with a guy like this?

Alarmingly, even though I’ve heard my poor title hashed and thrown about in every phrase imaginable whenever I meet someone…it’s the first time they’ve ever heard it.  It’s the first joke about my name that they’ve ever made.  Most of the time they’re rather impressed with themselves, and who am I to deny them their moment of triumph in comedy and wit?

I could be annoyed each and every time this happens…but I’d rather the first impression I give to each new budding comedian not be one of resentment.  In addition, since birth I’ve been called and answered to my middle name.  I go by Chance by choice.  Besides, I make jokes about lawyers and doctors when I know very little about law or medical anatomy.  I poke fun at hairy people who drink fine wine and yell “Retreat!” Though I’ve never been to France and am rather undereducated in French culture.

C’mon, there’s a whole world of related humor for for a group that dresses like this.

Oh, and the ABBA song?  Yeah, I know it.  Actually it’s probably my favorite Swedish Pop song.  If we happen to meet, don’t hesitate to sing it.  I’ll join in.  Then we’ll find a song about your name (assuming you’re named Barbara Ann, Roxanne, or Fernando) and laugh and joke and have a grand old time. I look forward to the day I can say, “my name is Chance, nice to meet you.”