You're not going to lose more, right?

The woman who manages my gym asks me this on Monday, followed after a beat of silence by, “I haven’t asked any of my members that before.” “I’m not trying to lose the weight. I stopped back in May.” Which is true. I’ve donated five bags of clothes to the local Salvation Army and homeless shelter -- all perfectly fine clothes that simply no longer fit. Pants at size 34 to 32, large and medium sized t-shirts, dress/collared shirts at size whatever those sizes are, medium sized underwear.... no, gross, those went into the garbage. I’m not so callous as to pawn off my dick support to the needy. Around mid-May, when the closing of my now house was certain, I noticed that the total effect of the donations was an entire closet space. More importantly, an empty closet space once housing my office-appropriate garb. In other words, I gave away all my fucking work clothes. Off to the local Gap Outlet I went, gift card in hand. $150, and a ‘feeling’ of numb shock later, I came home with for all intents a new wardrobe. For the first time since 10th grade, I owned (and fit into) a size 30 pant, size small t-shirt and same for underwear. I’m a 30 year old in a child’s body, celebrating at his kitchen table with a glass of Spanish white wine. The next day, the gym scale read 147.

She wondered whether I wanted to lose more in response to the news that, according to the scale, I currently weigh 141. “Maybe cut out the cardio? Use that time on weights,” she suggests. That’s not bad advice. Giving up the 2.5 mile run isn’t a difficult choice if only for selfishness. I hate running. Hate it. But, because this world is goddamned cruel, the running played the largest role in shedding the fat. Switching over to a weight-dominant regiment makes me anxious that the fat will creep back under my skin. I’ll give it a shot, though; she’s a trained fitness instructor and I’m a lazy academic. Listen to the experts, eh?

Be safe, mate

Last week I saw a student from my Winter course at the Holland Farmer’s Market. She watched a stand for her employers, a natural/organic grocery store, while I feigned interest in hanging flower baskets. Her name slipped from memory, though I recognised her immediately. The twenty dollar bill, crisp and folded in my wallet, was the entire market budget. I walked up to an ATM, rocking on my heels between two cars waiting for the same machine. My former student’s booth looked expensive (as organic products are wont to be). I focused on market stalls adjacent hers, feigning interest in floral hanging baskets ($10!). That mental persecutor’s voice: I’m on the student’s territory, not a respected teacher but a common (perhaps miserable) man trespassing in barely clean clothes and dishevelled hair hiding under a hat. Because life is life, I made eye contact and we shared a pleasant but fabricated hello. Did I mention that she earned a ‘D’ in my class? Her store sells hummus, peanut butter and the like. I like both of these things. Of course bought one container of each. Why? Obligation. Of what? The prospect of seeing delicious things for sale at 8a, unseasonably cold for even the predictably unseasonable Michigan, and not buying them didn’t sit well. The sale took nearly half of my market budget. Our brief conversation limited to the immediate perspective sale, the sale, the subjunctive future of enjoying said sale. Yikes. Awkward. Over to an opposite stall, stood a handsome young man selling peppers. He struck a pose of self-aware boredom mixed with the effort to mask said boredom. Buying a pound of red peppers he made note of my being his first sale of the day, to which I wondered aloud what the hell these people’s problem could be to not buy such good looking peppers. He shrugged and asked if I’m from Western. “I left two years ago,” he explained, seeing the old WMU faculty id card when the remaining $10 came out from my wallet. “I signed up for the Navy. Leave in February,” he volunteered. Jesus, it’s too cold outside for June; the mug of coffee a waning miracle. “Be safe, mate,” is all I could offer.

It's in a red notebook

The stuff that should be on this site are going into a red notebook. I bought the red notebook last Christmas at the Barnes and Noble store in Grand Rapids. Not only is it red, it is made in Spain. There are any number of ready-made excuses for the posting avoidance: busy with house projects, entertaining guests, attention to the present summer course combining with preparation for the second. Any or all of these. But none, really. The red notebook is without the public air.

Derrick and I talked about homeownership over a vegetarian dinner: pride, prejudice, responsibility, cost, night sounds, neighbours. He’s an invaluable connection in this especially lonely summer. He stayed for five days. The Tigers won and lost their series games against the White Sox. Shayla finished a “Flowers in the Attic,” and maintained social connections on social network sites from my laptop plopped in the kitchen not socialising much with her father and I. We together took on a handful of improvement projects: replaced the original, late 1930’s electrical outlets (which prior owners painted over with the walls), removed the cabinet doors, built bookcases, filled those bookcases, shopped home furnishings outlet stores, swapped old incandescent bulbs with higher-efficiency spirals, moved furniture from room-to-room, tackled the lawn, ran wires from room-to-room, and others I shamefully overlooked completing this morning. I learned to appreciate, and come to rely upon, the employees at Home Depot and Lowes. The advice received from the various folks in those stores is high fucking appreciated, if not a huge savings in avoiding unnecessary work. I realise now that a house is a living thing. Its pipes, a circulatory system (a little rust), electrical wires/sockets the neurologics, the middle wall it’s spine. Put in the context of owning and caring for a life is simultaneously terrifying in its responsibility and a huge source of pride. Reckon this is the nearest to parenting I’ll get (unless a dog enters the picture), so enjoy it. How I feel about being a single parent is a continuing development. On that note, fuck HGTV. That network is yuppie propaganda. Each show I saw about finding/buying one’s first house centered on 20-something straight couples whose criteria, every time, was “enough room to start a family.” Ugh. The realtor made a similar comment to me. Thanks, society, for adding a dash of inadequacy to my once-in-a-lifetime achievement.

Ryu Inu

Ryu Inu is asleep to my right. He’s a four year old male (neutered) Shiba Inu. He came to Holland today from Newaygo. His owners posted a message on Craigslist. I responded, not believing the luck - having wanted a Shiba Inu for a decade. The owners and I agreed on the details of the adoption during a few email messages and phone calls. They gave me two grocery bags of Ryu’s toys and snacks, a folder of veterinary history of immunizations, and his country registration. Now he’s asleep to my left. Tuckered out. We ran a mile in the neighborhood. Before that, we ran three blocks; that is, I chased him for three fucking blocks after he wiggled under the back yard fence. We were home 45 minutes when he made his break. A family of 12, maybe 15, witnessed the chase from point-blank range as Ryu and I tore through their family picnic. I apologized at full speed. Finally caught him, carried in one arm, back from a stranger’s impressive back yard garden. The picnic people applauded as we made our way back to my house. I had no choice. My shoes fell off next to their garage. Those two and a half miles I run at the gym nearly every day paid off in spades. Ryu and Ciela get along famously. By that, I mean they sniffed each other’s butts and afterwards walked in different directions. This is a huge relief. Shiba Inu are hunters. He pulls like a bottle rocket on a string when he notices a smaller animal during our walks. Ciela is fat, lazy, and defenseless. Compared to what Ryu wants to chase, Ciela is an unprotected chocolate cake.

Tonight is the first one. I hope it’s a quiet one. Tomorrow is his first day alone from either previous owners or me. Multiple web sites warn about Shiba Inu predisposition to separation anxiety. Being at the office will suck, I’ll feel anxious leaving him solo. For now though, bedtime. Two animals and a grown man who isn’t a pervert.

update: Ryu shows nearly zero signs of separation anxiety: some minor squeals for a few seconds after the door closes. Nothing what i’d feared: destroyed, chewed up things, pee stained floor, angry neighbors. What a good dog!