GOOD DAYS – BAD DAYS

“I’m having a really crappy day” is probably what we say more than: “I’m having a superbly wonderful day”. What I’m concerned, that’s not fair, as we no doubt have more good days than bad days; so why give bad days the extra credit? Of course we also have those days in between that are titled “average”, nothing to write home about – just, well “average”. Sounds familiar?

I was about 9, home alone and bored stiff. My father was at work and my mother out shopping or something. My brother… well, he wasn’t there to pester me; but bored I was. I sat on the lawn in the garden and violently struck some huge garden scissors into the grass and then pulled the handles apart to break up the soil. Not for any other reason than I was bored. I did it again and again and only stopped when the very sharp and pointed scissor blades were about ¼ inch into the back of my lower leg. After moments of extreme screaming relating to the horrific horror and, oh yeah, that sincere and agonizing pain, I carefully pulled the garden scissors out of my leg, which opened up a fast flow of blood, with some white tendon or muscle tissue now sticking out; but the blood was the worst. So you say: exaggerated big time in retrospect? No, it was actually worse.

I placed my dirty hand over the flow of blood and tried that way to get up the stairs and into the apartment. Every time I moved my hand to walk faster, the blood stepped up pouring out; so back the hand went to stop it.

I finally made it through the living room, the hallway and into the bathroom, still screaming in shock. My mother had told me, “always clean wounds”, which I did with additional pain. I even tried to stuff the tendon tissue bit back in with my thumb; but I did not succeed.

After some time and loss of about 7 liters of blood, it felt like, it all finally slowed down and gave me a short moment to place a huge band aid over the cut; it wouldn’t stay plastered. I tried again and again, but it didn’t help. I wiped more blood up and when fairly clean and dry, I quickly wrapped a fat roll of gauze around my leg and the wound, and though it was still bleeding through in the process, it did finally stop. I was positive it was because there was no more blood left, substantiated by my eerily white face.

As my mother was supposed to be home by bus within the hour, I limped into my room where I had a view of the bus stop from a big window. To get a better look, I pulled up the very heavy wooden blinds and secured the pull-line on the hook.

With my nose pressed flat against the window, one hand covering the gauze, blood and protruding tendon, tears in my eyes and wishing for mom to show up so bad, the 66 kilo wooden blinds suddenly came tumbling down and smashed my face into the windowsill, causing my nose to bleed, my scalp opening up and my world to fully collapse.

Now that was a really, really bad day… no matter how much my mother kissed my boo-boo; and I still have the scars to prove it. Ever had one of those days?   

In retrospect it’s good to have a day like that, because all other days shine in comparison. Luckily, that’s about as bad as any bad day I ever had, so I feel I’m lucky in that department. My crappy days, even combined do not measure up to some unfortunate people’s one single day of misfortune. I do think about that often and then I knock on wood.

When we have the option of making it a bad day or a good day, I’m sure good days win. Of course the more dramatic “bad” days are something to write home about, but, nah, I’ll stick to making my days as good as I can make them.

Good or bad days rely a lot on attitude, like what do we really want them to be. Sure bad days can suddenly pop up on a good day and screw everything up; most of the time not at our own doing.

Good days take a bit of work, but are a lot more rewarding. I know from the second I swing them legs out of bed if it’s going to be a good day or not. It will be good when I feel rested, have a schedule in line of stuff I really like to do and other factors that will make it all add up. And for the most I’m right – and that’s normally how the day progresses; mainly because I want it to – remember that “effort” thing?

Sure, crap pops up, but on a good day I do solve whatever the crap is in a more positive manner – I try not to let a good day be knocked down to a bad day. And when I think about it, making it good days is not that hard. Bad days are easy in comparison, as we just blame everything and everybody around us and then let it roll. But the reward is – well, crappy.

Average days are just that – average. We don’t put out a lot of effort to make them special; we just hang in there, do the minimum to function – and another day down the drain, compared to what we could have made of it. Just thinking about it makes me a bit sad – but more so disappointed, because it doesn’t take much to make it a bit more positive and exciting and good – really.

So, let’s look at the bigger picture: I’ve lived 23,408 days so far (that’s 66-1/2 years). Let’s just guesstimate 15,000 good days, meaning days I was happy with; and how about 6,000 average days (Yuk), which gives me 2,408 really crappy days. Okay, so these are just guesstimates, but let’s go with it, shall we?

When we normally count an off day here and there, it’s not that big of a deal – and we have plenty to take from - we think. But when we add it all up, I must accept that I have been in a really crappy mood for 6.8 years. And what a total waste of time that was and it sucks high heaven; don’t you think?

The good part is that according to the above guesstimates, I have had about 42 years of good days. Let’s not negate the fact, that “some” individuals might dispute that it could not possibly have been that many. Among those in line, but not limited to: my wife, kids, immediate family, some friends, faithful pets (I thought they were), my Mother – oh, and a few co-workers and colleagues, several employees, some teachers, a few professors here and there, past girlfriends, that jerk boss back then – well, you get the idea… But what I’m concerned, most of those years were good.

But keep looking at the numbers and think what you can actually do about it – starting today; it does make me want to tighten the happy-belt a bit, move more average and bad days into good days– are you coming with me? It takes a bit more effort, but our daily lives would be so much better – and that I’m very sure of and I think you might be as well. Want to try it out?

We already have Good Friday, so let's go for Good (just about) Every Day?

Until next Monday (which is now good…)

WHAT’S YOUR SECRET, VICTORIA?

Well, if Victoria told you her secret, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it? At least that’s how I see it; but according to the official interpretation of what a secret is, I am surprisingly wrong – can you believe that? But I really don’t care, as I am convinced that I’m right; of course I have yet to find anybody else agreeing with me concerning this – hard to understand, don't you think?

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t really care if I’m right or wrong about secrets, as you are much more intrigued about whom the heck Victoria is? I’ll explain…

Here in the USA Victoria’s Secrets is a top-notch retail chain with over 1,000 stores; branches in Canada, the UK and some other countries. They promote and sell bras, panties, sleepwear, lingerie and stuff like that; yeah, for women, duh! What I’m concerned, they use some of the world’s hottest models for their catalogs and the image they project is first class sexy and sensuous – therefore my play on words: “Victoria’s Secret / What’s your secret, Victoria?” - Pretty darn cool, huh? Well, back to life as it really is.

When we are hiding information, we call it a secret and stuff we keep hidden is kept in secrecy. Surreptitiously or clandestinely means the same, but is harder to pronounce; for me at least - English being my second language.

Secrets can be controversial depending on content or motivation. We conceal aspects of ourselves due to shame, fear, rejection and harassment, loss of acceptance or employment – just to line up a few. And some conceal very personal aspects about themselves; information that might prevent certain goals to be achieved or for reasons that would make certain individuals look rather bad. If you “forget” to tell her that you are on FBI’s most wanted list for murder, (that slightly insignificant minor detail about you that you are not too wild about sharing), she might actually go on a date with you; secrecy at its worse – wouldn’t you say?

Family secrets are also a hot number, where whole families bar outsiders from sharing certain issues; as trivial as recipe secrets to information that will cause shame and dishonor to the family or individual family members.

Government secrecy includes, but is not limited to, concealment of weapons design, diplomatic negotiation tactics, military, defense, strike-force availabilities and a huge load more. Keeping certain secrets is substantiated as betterment for the people; perhaps a consideration that is ill-honored in some cases? I truly believe in truth between a government and the people it is governing. Yes, there is certain information I do not want the enemy to obtain, of course. But with respect to what should be known and what should be kept in secrecy, should be conducted on a level of logical trust between the government and the people; at least to the extent and consideration where nobody will get hurt.

My favorite concerning secrets is the secrecy about secrets obtained secretly from foreign secret services; secrets that are covertly extracted from their concealed secret information channels. The interesting thing is that this is so secret that nobody really knows about it; well, except me, of course. This is as secret as any secrecy will get – so to cover our National Buns of Steel, please don’t tell anybody about this. You did NOT hear it from me… Who?

But we are not the only species with secrets. You try asking a squirrel where he’s hiding his nuts, and he will not leak a word – true story. Some animals are masters in concealing (being secret about) their nests and dens and stuff like that, trying to keep these secrets from their un-friendly predators – and good for them.

Then there are all those societies of secrecy, where the members get to do all those cool rituals and secret handshakes, wow! Oh, and did you hear about the secret association back in 1987 that ceased to exist after 164 years? The reason was that they got so carried away and became so utterly secret, that tragically, the members, due to the highly hushed secrecy, ended up not knowing if they were actually members anymore; nobody knew. I mean, how freaking secret is that? Another true story.

The definition of “secret” is hiding information from certain individuals or groups. But of course we also have laws that require certain information is kept in secrecy: medical records, some financial reports and most of all, my diary; just to name a few of the more important ones. And then we come to the most important secret holder: YOU.

Yes, we all have secrets – every single one of us (except me, of course). It can be secrets about stuff we did, are going to do, thoughts and feelings from all over the place, emotions about somebody that we can never reveal or share. It can be evil secrets of revenge or disgrace and perhaps some positive secrets. But we all hold on to some and the reason being that if shared they might pop out as being hurtful, things that nobody would understand, serve no purpose, will expose and/or create jealousy, envy, sorrow – and you get the idea. So keeping a secret or two is not all bad.

What I’m concerned I really do not have any secrets of any great importance (dang it). What I do not expose is more so my very personal (secret) evaluation of things around me, especially people. Would some of these “evaluations” be hurtful if exposed? I can honestly say that for the most part they wouldn’t; but I will still hold on to my right to carry these “secrets” around in a little locked box.

“Listen, do you want to know a secret, do you promise not to tell…” was part of a song John Lennon of the Fab Four (Beatles) sang in the early 1960s. A sweet song with a bit of a naïve request …”do you promise not to tell…” The more innocent secrets, secrets that are happy secrets, I cannot keep quiet about if you give me a million bucks – not going to happen. I get a gift for my wife six weeks before her birthday – and she will know precisely what it is – six weeks before her birthday; so there, and no harm done.

We are not really that good about keeping secrets of any kind. How often has somebody sneaked up to you and said: “Keep this to yourself, but I hear Frances is seeing somebody other than her husband…” And then you ask somebody else to “keep it to themselves,” and the ball is in play.

So I am yet again tooting my horn about when a secret dissolve into a non-secret. I mean isn’t it logical? I have this fantastic secret, and if I cannot keep my mouth closed, it goes “poof” and is no more.

Oh crap, I just realized that I must have heard it from somebody else, so hasn’t that secret already melted away? Oh my goodness, I didn’t even think of that – now I have to re-tool this whole secret-thing philosophy; bummer.

Perhaps I’ll ask Victoria to help me; she might actually know the secret behind it all. Or is she just taunting and teasing me with the Victoria’s Secret stuff? I’ll never know, because I’m so sure that none of those hot models would even consider talking to me…

Oh joy, I just realized we have a friend named Victoria; wow, I can just ask her – and she is not bad looking at all – far from. So perhaps she’ll know (if she’ll talk with me after I have mentioned her here…).

See you next Monday – and that’s only a secret till you tell somebody; so please do…

Take a peek at Victoria's Secret (NO, I'm NOT compensated to any extent, other than WOW...)
http://www.victoriassecret.com

PERSONAL ADS – and why it can work

Homo sapiens are monogamous primates (yes, including you and I); we prefer to partner up with somebody more so than being single. Finding partners at the beginning of time was a piece of pre-historic cupcake: male find female, hit female over head with bat (where the term battered woman comes from) and drag by hair to condo-cave; dating at its most efficient. But then they had to ruin it with a law saying: “Not very nice” followed by stuff about women’s rights. And the personal ad was born.

British-English calls it: Lonely Hearts Column (that could be part of a good title for a Beatles song; there’s an idea), but today it’s more so Online Dating (Sgt. Pepper's Online Dating Band - doesn't sound right), as the use of the Internet to connect romantically has boomed tremendously the last 10-15 years, instigated by massive quantities of social Web-sites and networking.

The main reason for all this is to generate romance, friendships, relationships and sex; that be casual or long-term (from 6 minutes to more than 24 hours?) In personal ads you try (in some cases: desperately) to describe yourself and your interests beyond the truth and not much to do with the truth. You express what you are looking for, already knowing that this super-human does not exist - at all, except in your illicit fantasies. But you still hope somebody will respond, in spite the impossibilities you have already come to terms with (sigh).

In the good old days (have no idea when that was, but it sounds romantic) the newspapers charged the love-starved customers by the characters used in their ads looking for partners. So some cheapskates quickly created abbreviations and code-words to cut the cost of love; this eventually carried over to the Internet.

TLA means Three Letter Acronyms. The first letter covers relationships and sexual preference. Second letter is about ethnicity and/or nationality. Third letter is gender oriented. So if you read DWM, it would be Divorced White Male; easy, huh? GHT would read Gay Hispanic Transgender, and so forth (the last one, perhaps not so easy).

If you are in the process of finding a partner, looking for love, casual sex or perhaps a relationship, you are in so much luck today, because I have decided to help you along and make you succeed beyond your already inflated expectations. Follow the following and thank me later (cash only)… Let’s begin…

Getting familiar with the abbreviated lingo will save you time in your search, and already make you sound like you are seriously on a mission. Remember the TLA?

Let’s start with the first letter. Some of the more commonly used ones and a few of my personal suggestions: D = Divorced (Desperate) / G = Gay (not as in “happy” but that other thing) / M = Married (very separated, though still sleeping in the same bed with spouse and actually having consensual sex – a lot) / S = Single (and so bloody lonely) / T = Transgender (but confused – considering becoming a devout transvestite instead) / W = Woman or Widower (if not widower already, desperately wants to become one soon).

And the second letter: A = Asian / B = Black (African-American is too long, obviously) / D = Danish (& very Desperate) / H = Hispanic / J = Jewish or Japanese (in some cases: Japanese Jew?) – L = Latino or –na / W = White (as nobody can spell “Caucasian”)

The third letter: C = Couple (and let your imagination go wild) / M = Male (in some cases to be determined) / T = Transgender (I’m as confused as can be) / W = Woman (in some cases to be determined).

And then we have some other time-saving abbreviations: ALA = All Letters Answered. Add a WP and you have With Photo. ISO = In Search Of / LTR = Long Term Relationship and OHAC = Own House And Car or Own Hamster and Cat; plain and simple and not utterly exciting. But I’ll make it better…

Here are a few TLA’s that are not officially on the list, but are used no end. It might also have something to do with shyness, perhaps? VWE = Very Well Endowed (of course I have no clue what that means). RBB = Really Big Boobs / BOS = Buns Of Steel / SOP = Sleep-overs Preferred / ESM = Exceptional Stud Muffin. Well, you get the idea.

Here’s the universal top-hit of personal ads or Online. All you have to do is fill in the appropriate stuff that makes it YOU, up close and personal – and then not wait long for the responses to pour in.

“My name is Frank/Linda. I’m 32 and single (just out of two awful marriages…). I do not have any children – as far as I know. I’m white, except during the summer where I’m more like an early African-American; love spending a lot of time in the sun. I’m fully employed, now going on nearly three months. My salary is in the high six digits (if you include the two after the period). I own my own house, as soon as I have fully paid off all three mortgages, plus what I owe my parents – shouldn’t take more than 28 years or perhaps more.

I’m a terrific listener. I find it fascinating to learn about other people, about you, by listening. I do not use language that includes grunting, throaty sounds, rolling of eyes and the expression: “whatever”.  I’ll only tell you a story once, will never be whiny and fully accept when you are in a crappy mood.

I really love walks on the beach if it wasn’t for all the sand and water. Evenings cuddling (with the dog) in front of the fireplace and reading Heidi out loud. We will watch NASCAR, baseball and football (all at the same time) together, as well as Dancing with the Stars and we’ll make special evenings by watching Home Shopping Network – credit cards at the ready.

We will share keeping the house clean, the shopping, cooking and the laundry done, folded and put away. We’ll share driving, choosing what to watch and have two remote controls – his and hers. We’ll both maintain the children from diapers through college”. And the list is long – and it could be like this? Okay, so I poked a bit of fun; I hope nobody got offended, as it was not meant to be.

Reading a lot of these ads in the paper and on line, gives you a fairly clear idea what the different genders are looking for and who they are. I don’t find it a desperate last go at it, far from, but more so a serious attempt to hook up with a potential right-for-me person. And YES our life-styles have changed and the way to meet partners has changed dramatically with it. There are certain rules in place that makes it near impossible to find a partner in your place of work, etc. – and fair enough. Bars and other social scenarios seem less realistic these days, so personal ads and Online Dating come in rather convincing – they really do.

I am utterly happy in my relationship, married 28+ years to my best friend ever, but if (that would be in another life) I was single and was seeking a partner, I believe that I would certainly try the personal ads and Online Dating – I have no doubts about it.

See you next week – and thanks for reading

RUMORS – please don’t start any about me

For the most part rumors suck, as they seem intentionally vicious, based on made-up speculation, to hurt or deceit, misdirect, confuse, derogate and degrade. Can we find anything positive in spreading and/or being entertained by rumors? Should we consider ourselves ignorant when we pass them on so freely? I haven’t found any redeeming categories that give us an option between good rumors and not so good rumors; if you think of any, would you please let me know? 

Though social sciences have not really fessed up to a crystal clear definition of the term rumor, it seems that: “an unverified account or explanation of events circulating from person to person and pertaining to an object, event and/or of public or personal concern,” should somewhat make the term more understandable – or perhaps not even close.

In social study classes (or any nearby bar), the game of passing a specific set of information from one person to another, is rather eye-opening and fun; depending on the quantity of alcohol inhaled. In whatever scenario, it clearly shows us, how effortless we self-manipulate and produce incorrect information. We do not do this on purpose, of course; because this is just how it is.

“Carol will arrive at 8:30 PM, wearing a red skirt, a flowered blouse and matching handbag.” Nothing complicated. Sift that sentence through 10 people and if lucky, it comes out as: “Harold went through PMS again, causing a red alert and flour on his shirt and what was that last bit? Douche-bag?” (True story). 

Another thing about rumors is that it can rarely, if ever, be verified or confirmed with respect to actual and true information. If we could easily confirm any trueness of a rumor, then wouldn’t it slip into: “the truth is…” category? So it seems that when we run into a rumor, we automatically discard the notion that it could have anything to do with the truth; but we listen anyway – and in many cases with really big ears, just because of the lack of truth - weird.

Rumors are nicely tugged in between gossip and propaganda. Gossips are the lighter side of: “not really the truth, but fun anyway, and not really that intentionally hurtful,” (as long as it doesn’t involve me, of course). Propaganda is the hardcore side of rumors, where spreading misinformation and disinformation are done with calculated and intentional purposes, for the sole single-mindedness of controlling results and emotions in the target it’s aiming at. Propaganda is really nasty stuff, because it can never be any good. This form of manipulation can be used on small groups or the whole population of a country; and propaganda is unfortunately still abused on populations in certain countries today – and how disturbing is that?

Rumors can be used as a tool (or weapon, if you prefer?) in all kinds of situations. I can start a rumor about a (former) friend and look rather innocent in the process, beginning my deliberate false information to hurt this person by: “Did you hear…?” and the ball is rolling, with me claiming instant ignorance, because I stated that I heard it from somebody else… It is terribly easy to cut anybody down and the main reason being that we place too much “validity” in rumors. And another dreadful thing is, that when a rumor is flying around out there, it is very difficult to shoot down; actually near impossible to even hit.

“The rumors about me and "that other woman”, are not true. I do not know who you are talking about and I have never had an affair with her or anybody else, for that matter.” And I can repeat that till I’m blue in the face. In spite of my wife, kids, pets and friends assuring they believe me, I am still, from that moment on, marked with the proverbial dark cloud of rumor-doubt floating above me. And rumors do that, they leave doubt, no matter how untrue those rumors are.

Somebody started a rumor – for fun: “At the party last Saturday, did you see how Kenneth French kissed that slut, what’s her name?” And poor Kenneth is now devastated; his wife heard that rumor too, quickly kneed him (where it really hurts) and told him to go to Hell. The irony is that he had not even attended that party – instead, he went bowling with John and Bob (Kenny pretty much hates parties). But now, innocent Kenneth had fully experienced the power of rumors, by momentary loss of wife, as well as suffering the extreme pain from two certain parts of his anatomy being flattened by an angry knee attached to distraught wife. (She later on tried to “un-knee” the damage with kisses, but that hurt even more – we should give her points for trying, don’t you think?)

So how can we defend ourselves against rumors and even gossip? Our chances stretch from near impossible to not possible at all; great odds, huh? Okay, we can try to live a picture perfect life, do all the right things, smile when needed, etc. still, nothing will protect you. People will ask if the rumors circulating about you are true, and you adamantly deny that they are not. But doesn’t that more so show guilt? You might smile defensively, shake your head, roll your eyes and continue life; and then they call it denial. You cannot un-rumor yourself – it’s impossible. If you have ever succeeded, please let me know – seriously; I would really like to know how you did it.

Of course you could be an unethical jerk and defend yourself by start circulating nasty rumors about the one who is trying to get you – but would that be within your character, the ethics of who you are? Nah, don’t answer that – let’s keep it to ourselves.

What I’m concerned, there is a peculiar interpretation of rumors that journalists and reporters have available. Now, don’t get all huffy puffy, but swing with it, please. They can actually report stuff and “expose” information to readers, as the truth without legally having to reveal “the source” or “where they got it from”. Though demanded by judges at times, some will even keep their “source” hidden while paying fines and/or spending time in jail. So where am I going with this?

I don’t understand this legal availability of “freedom”, as it at times no doubt causes made up stuff to be passed on as the truth; to be able to manipulate “the truth” and nothing but – and not have to reveal where you got it from; the “source”. Wouldn’t you more so call this: “rumors with benefits”?

I do believe that the ethics of this issue is applied by most journalists and reporters, I do not doubt that at all; but it’s that slight and legally covered opening for temptation, bringing on a more colorful and exceptional story - that to me, gets a tad foggy. Oh well; we have the freedom to believe what we want to believe and I guess we should apply as needed.

Rumors are used to gain ground and profits in business and in all forms of life within our society; in politics, sports, academia – and so forth. For the most part rumors are not started to make anybody or anything look favorable and nice; only if fully intended to. That’s why I’m okay with gossips, as it doesn’t seem to be something we take too serious (except if it’s about me, of course).

It’s easy to start a rumor; any rumor. It is also irresponsible for the most part. It’s easy because if it is something with even the slightest negative connotation, we tend to find listeners faster – and I don’t fully know why that is; do you?

Though it’s easy to start rumors, why don’t we try not to do that, and while we are at it, why not stop any rumor we hear, from continuing – let’s just stop it right now. And remember, if you ever hear any negative rumors about me – it would be so untrue – so please discard at once and don’t pass it along, no matter how juicy - I thank you in advance…

Till next Monday – let’s make it a rumor-free week, okay? And good luck with that.

FITNESS – actually rather awesome

Johnny Carson, who hosted the Tonight Show for 30-some years, talked with his side-kick Ed McMahon about “fitness”. Johnny was into tennis and the daily use of his gym at home. Then it was Ed’s turn (for those not familiar with these two people, Ed was a tad “weight-challenged”, as in a lot out of shape). He explained: “I make so much money that I have somebody exercise for me…” Way to go, Eddie-Baby…

The whole fitness and health craze has raced around for the last many years and is a multi-billion dollar business these days. I have no problem with that, as I see it as a helping sponsor and encouragement to exercise for better and healthier lives; well for most of us, and don’t you think that’s good?

When I recall my childhood (1832) and fitness, it consisted of playing club-soccer, training 3-4 times weekly from I was around 5 years old; in Denmark we all bicycled everywhere and when the frozen lake could carry me and my keyed on skates, my Mother had to constantly drag me home in the dark, way past my bedtime; I couldn’t get enough.

In school, PE (physical education) was a couple of times weekly. We played soccer and team-handball; we jumped over and crawled under all kinds of stuff. I don’t remember anybody telling us WHY we had to do it – only that we HAD to; but all of it spelled: fitness.

And then we grow up and we grow bigger and then we want to grow smaller, with less body-fat and wishfully decorated with hard-body features like “six-packs” abs (not the Bud’s); so we huff and we puff and we sweat and hopefully we stick to it…

I continued to bike into adulthood. Trained about 200 miles weekly and often participated in century and double-century rides (100 & 200 miles) on the weekends; I was in terrific shape, though still nerdy looking, six-packs or not.

But then one day I was suddenly scared as big trucks and other motorists seemed to race by closer and faster as ever - so that was it, I quit; one of the toughest decisions I have ever made - seriously. My new-found fear stemmed from the reality check, that if the contest came down to me and an 18-wheeler, I was the one they’d had to scrape off the pavement. Being buried as road-kill was not a pretty picture; see what I mean?

So we joined a local fitness club. I don’t think I can mention the name, as I haven’t asked for permission. All I can say is that this great club is by our local airport, but other than that, my lips are sealed (both of them). I was not trying to become the next Mr. Solar-System-Arnold-Look-Alike, with oiled muscles from limb to shiny limb – I just wanted to feel good, and that I do.

I go to the club (by the airport) about 4 times weekly. Half of the time I enjoy exercising and the other half I just feel it’s something I have to do and therefor lack the joy of doing so.

During those many years of huffing and puffing, I have lost approximately 676 pounds (that would be 307 kilos if the metric system is your thing). Surprisingly enough, during those same years I found approximately 662 of those pounds again - and I wasn’t even looking for them; go figure.

Averaging a weight-loss of a bit over one pound annually isn’t impressive, but that’s also okay. I know I can do better, and right now I’m actually doing a heck of a lot better, thank you – lost over 14 pounds since January; and lost them for good, it seems like.

According to the pedometer I got some 20 months ago, I have walked over 2,500 miles (4,000 kilometers), which is like walking all the way from San Francisco to Atlanta (Georgia) or from Stockholm (Sweden) to Rome (Italy) to Copenhagen (Denmark) – and surprisingly, my feet are not even sore… It’s actually cool to keep track. You’d be surprised how much you actually walk in a year. Of course it helps to walk the dog a few times daily and get on the treadmill at the club – by the airport, but even everyday walking adds up – and it’s so darn good for us.

In the club I try to stay focused by listening to music on my iPod and when on the stationary bike, it’s Chopin in my ears while reading books off my Kindle. The time in the seat goes a lot faster that way – just get it over with, is my basic attitude.

I watch in awe how some of the people at the club go through their routines. When I go early in the day (5:30AM) there is a woman who is tearing through floor-exercises with a purpose. I am really impressed and inspired watching the energy and dedication; it makes me step it up a bit.

The staff is friendly and smiling, makes you feel we are on the same team, encouraging you with smiles and a bit of passing-by chit-chatter. I socialize a little bit; found a few club pals. For the most part I get going, get it over with and then get out. No matter the quality of the daily workout, I always feel great afterwards, mind, body and soul – never fails.

Yes, we do have the guys (aren’t they everywhere?) who suck in their bellies and pump out their chests when any female walks by – kind of cute, though, because what do I care…

Yes, we also have the few guys, who are pumping and pushing, huffing and puffing, groaning and moaning, loudly banging the equipment around for more attention, while sweating as if they were a sub-division to the Hoover Dam. They get up after every set and walk around in small circles, to see if anybody is watching them. I quickly look down, while continuing reading “Heidi” and giggle… they are so immature, because nobody cares – nobody is really impressed, huh?

The feeling we experience after a really good work-out, long walk or hike is fabulous, it really is. Encouraging feel-good chemicals are being released in our bodies, and any stress level sinks fast. If you haven’t tried it lately, go ahead, give yourself a treat. You don’t need fancy equipment, tight-fitting Latex (oh, baby…) or much of anything to get a program together.

Though I have never done drugs let alone being dependent on any (other than my wife, of course), I can only imagine what it’s like. But I do know that the fitness drug is healthier for mind, body and soul and I can highly recommend it, because it is actually rather awesome – just takes a tiny effort; and you can too.

See you at the gym – by the airport… 

MOST IMPATIENT PATIENT

I don’t know about you, but I am terrible at being sick – the irony is that it makes me sick just to think about how impatient I am. What it is I am lacking, is the understanding of being a good patient, which is the patient who only thinks positive and works hard towards recovery. But I am the most impatient patient to be found – at least that’s what I’m told, over and over.

Luckily I am rarely ill or bedridden. I have the occasional cold; but I can’t even remember the last time I was forced to lie horizontal for other reasons than to sleep and stuff. But this last week changed my otherwise stellar record – I was diagnosed with a partial torn something or rather. That’s some stuff in your knee-area that are being ripped to pieces for some reason, floats around and gets in the way of nerves and hurts like hell. That’s about as deep a medical description you’ll get from me. This “condition” has roamed around for a very long time, with me hoping it would eventually go away by itself – well, it didn’t.

The doctor told me what it was, what needed to be done and what the expected recuperation time would be. I have never been anxious or nervous about stuff like that – just something that needs to be done – same with dentist visits, etc. Just get it done – no big deal. I’m a great admirer of “prevention”, and have been lucky never to have needed anything major in the cutting & cast department – never broken any bones and that kind of stuff.

But my HUGE deal is the fact that I’ll be off track for weeks. That is the part that I do not handle well at all. I’m an expert telling other people how to deal with stuff like this. But in the case of myself, I preach to deaf ears.

Now don’t sit there and figure that I am oblivious to the seriousness of people being hit with medical conditions vastly more important than what I have been dealt – so far. That is not what I am talking about. It’s the immature fact that when I have been kicked off the track like this last week, with more weeks coming, that I do NOT think outside my own little, pathetic box, hating people who (pathetically?) mention again and again: “But it could have been worse…” From where I see it, through kaleidoscope eyes of me, me, me & me, it is not that comforting – far from (I mentioned already it’s immature, didn't I?)

My wife drove me to the surgery center. Again, not the least bit nervous or anxious. I was soon ripped away from my wife (just to bring some drama into the picture) and soon interrogated concerning me actually being me; name, rank and serial number – again and again. Her name was Gretchen and the process was hilarious – it really was. I was on track and we laughed our way through something that might have been and probably is rather boring and tedious if you do it every day, and many times every day. It was my first time and it looked boring to me, so I spruced it up a bit – so we laughed a lot.

Then the proverbial asinine hospital robe. Now who the Hell designed these pieces of embarrassment and total lack of respect and practicality? I’m sure they must have shot that person by now – many patients would; and if we haven’t, we should.

First of all the pattern of small wild flowers on a robe that is too small and ill-fitting, is not the macho image I normally portray. And they want the vastly open part to be in the back? I’m sure I don’t understand the logic in that. I mean, in case of a heart attack, is it more important to get to the back-side of the patient or would easy access to the front be it? (Where most of our hearts are located) But besides the practicality or not, those pieces of intimidating cloths are all butt-ugly. But they forced me to wear one – had five nurses holding me down, which was actually the highlight of the day – giggle, giggle…

Soon I had two nurses hammering on my hands to find a vein to stick some plate into, to connect IV’s for drips and stuff. But what these two nurses didn’t realize was that my juiciest fantasy ever involves two, hopefully registered nurses, slapping me around on the pre-op table. I told them and the slapping intensified immediately – Oh Lord, have mercy on me (or close your eyes)…

The surgeon showed up and explained a bunch of stuff to me. My only concern was that if any scars would be the result of this procedure, could he make them show a Viking ship in fierce battle off the coast of Northern Denmark. For your information it will be three small spots, if even that – not even close.

The Knock-Out doctor showed up in all her energy and “no big deal” attitude. What she didn’t know was that I was looking forward to be knocked out – really. Just imagine that we can actually do this to somebody and this somebody can’t feel a damn thing, no matter how much cutting is done. I think it’s fascinating – and as quickly it had started, as quickly it ended. And I was rolled out to the curb, carefully stuffed into the car and home I went – still dizzy and starting to realize that I had to be a patient patient from now on till Hell freezes over. The part I hate so much.

I’m fine doing things for the people around me. It is something I do automatically, never thinking of being paid back in kind. But I am very uncomfortable when people around me want to help me, especially when I’m “normally” very self-efficient with just about everything.

So here I’m placed in bed, my right leg, very puffy knee and all, elevated on four fat pillows, feeling the throbbing of pain and pain and pain. Sure I got some great pain-killing stuff, but though it’s a great feeling, it does not kill the pain as advertised. It just makes you not give a crap about the pain – there is a difference.

Now I wobble around on crutches, which in itself is an art-form. Though they help alleviate some of the pain, and I mean PAIN, they don’t do it to my satisfaction at all. So I can’t move; I can just lie there being asked over and over: “Can I get you anything?” I would love to answer (so maturely): “Yes, out of this crap (meaning pain & suffering)”. But I try to be nice and: “No sweetheart I’m fine (even when I’m not)”

I hate being a bother to other people, but more so I despise being out of control. I want to go pee when I want to go pee and get it over with within a minute. Now it’s hacking up with bloody crutches, wobble through stuff on the floor, navigate furniture and pets, finally make it out there, do your thing, wash the hands and back into bed again – all in less than 30 minutes, duh? And it hurts like Hell…

I want to get well so bad, that I do EVERYTHING I have been advised to do. My wife is a terrific nurse (in real life as well), so I’m in the best of hands. But though I do what I MUST do to limit my time in this condition, I am still whining like a true professional – and seriously, I’m really sick of it; aren’t you?

See you next Monday – without those *&^%$# crutches and pain, please…     

TRAVELING – the fun we can find

I have always liked traveling; always liked visiting different parts of the world, experiencing it all: the countries, the cities, the people, the sounds & smells, cultures, food and so on. We never have to look far to find fun stuff and new experiences while “out there”; such a big part of dragging a suitcase around. Here are a few examples from a recent trip I made.

I visit my Mother in Denmark at least once every year. She’s 92 and in a home. She has dementia and is not that mobile; with the use of a walker she can slowly move around in her room and still function without a lot of help from the staff. For longer “excursions”, somebody will roll her around in a wheelchair.

I had invited my Mother and some friends of hers to lunch at a local restaurant. To get her there, I had to stuff her into a wheelchair, roll her to my car in the parking lot and (gently) get her into the passenger seat – piece of cake.

Without incidents I parked her in the chair next to my car. To make room for her I had to move stuff from the passenger seat to the rear seat; didn’t take more than perhaps 15 seconds. After I was done I turned and was shocked to find my Mother gone. Now acknowledge that she could not have disappeared by her own strength. So I quickly looked around and there she was, powered by gravity, rolling backwards towards the other end of the parking lot, while quietly saying: “I’m afraid” (in Danish, of course).

I immediately sprang into action by laughing hysterically as I stormed after her. I tell you, I found it so hilarious, though my Mother stated several times that she did not think it was. All went well and due to her dementia, she had forgotten it within minutes. But I had learned a very important lesson: Wheelchairs have brakes – now, how convenient is that?

I stay with my childhood friend Claus and his wife Kirsten when I visit Copenhagen. Claus wanted me to see some new, architecturally unique buildings that he likes. We needed to take the METRO to do so. I had never used this subway system in Copenhagen, so that would be cool to try. Claus was eager to show me how fantastically well it worked.

Taking the escalators deep into the ground was rather awesome; the design, the platforms and a lot of people. Claus proudly talked about how perfect the system had been from the beginning; perhaps with a bit of bragging in his voice?

But now we found the platforms packed with people like sardines. Claus’ face showed surprise and a bit of horror. “What the heck is going on?” he said in Danish. This otherwise perfect METRO system was failing him, just as he wanted to show me how grand it was.

We quickly found out that some of the lines had been closed due to signal failure. Claus was stunned and his pride nicked a bit. But he hesitantly switched to plan B – the Copenhagen bus system that you can always rely on 100%; though taken the METRO would have been a lot cooler.

Considering that about 35% of all the people working in Copenhagen bike to and from work in any weather, the bus system carries the vast majority of the rest. With gasoline at approximate $9.00 per gallon, cars are not you major mode of transportation; and we whine about $4.00? So we waited for bus number 2A, which arrived moments later.

The busses in Copenhagen are really fabulous; clean, on time and very efficient. So off we went. I have always enjoyed riding the busses, safely sitting there watching people and all the stuff passing by outside; so we were rolling along, chatting away and now laughing about the non-functional METRO.

But after about 15 minutes, a huge bolt of the bus, glass shattering and the extreme crashing sounds you only experience when a large moving bus hits a much smaller van (or what now used to be a van). And then the bus came to a stop and all went quiet.

Now, what you would expect would be passengers running around trying to find out if everybody was okay. But it seemed like all were well. The doors swung open and then everybody quietly got out and headed for the next bus stop which was about 50 meters ahead. Nobody went over to the smashed van, perhaps because they saw the driver, seemingly alive, walking towards the bus. No, they were all focused on continuing their journey, getting on the next number 2A bus.

At this point Claus was shaking his head, so for safety reasons we decided to walk the rest of the day; kind of funny, though, as nobody had been hurt other than perhaps a bit of Claus’ pride.

As the METRO had failed and the bus had crashed, we decided to comfort ourselves with a mid-morning beer. This is actually a Danish concept, making it legal and in some cases advisable (like after this morning’s events), to drink a nice, big and cold glass of beer

We quickly decided to do so at Hvid’s Vinstue, which is a pub/tavern that opened in 1723, therefore much older than the USA, by the way. After involving two waiters in fun conversation, drinking the aforementioned beers, we were off on our somewhat adjusted quest – while having a grand time; Claus and I always do.

We went down the pedestrian street Stroeget and quickly ran into the marching Royal Guard. They march through Copenhagen to Amalienborg, where the Queen lives. I assume they guard her from evil things, huh?

They are kind of cute with their big, furry hats and are a charming part of life in Copenhagen. Claus and I stood there and admired them, while they were waiting at a stop-light (yeah, they actually stop for red lights – go figure). Suddenly we were grabbed by three policemen plus two real soldiers and pulled to the side; we quickly found out that we had been standing where the guards were going. In retrospect I did think it weird that there was so much room. What else could go wrong? Actually the rest of the day went well and was very enjoyable.

(The soldier stepping on the white line, was shot the next day)

(ONLY KIDDING)

Flying long distances are not fun for me anymore. I get kind of bored, no matter the entertainment I try to occupy myself with. But things were a bit different on American Airlines flight 1711 from Chicago to San Francisco Sept. 19, being the connecting flight that would finally bring me home. After 9 hours from Copenhagen, that was what I needed.

I sat in row 24, which is economy. If you ever fly economy, I highly suggest that you do NOT bring your legs along, okay? Anyway, two flight attendants rolled the drink-cart down the aisle from the rear to the front of the plane. With 24 rows of 6 seats to serve before getting to me, I figured I’d be home in bed by the time it was my turn to get a drink. But then J.P. flew in on the scene.

J.P. must have worked her magic on the rows behind me before I noticed what was happening. Suddenly she was there, smiling and all. “What do you want to drink?” She asked. “Two gin and tonic, please,” I answered. She asked other passengers around me, and as fast as she had shown up, as fast she disappeared – and as fast she got back with all the drink orders. I was so totally taken by the way she worked the aisle, getting the drink-orders, serving the drinks – back and forth – full speed.

If I’m not totally off, she single-handedly served half the plane. It was fascinating to see how she worked in her own zone, no doubt. It all happened in such a blurry speed and efficiency – and smiling was a big part of it. I really like watching people being effective about whatever they do; J.P. was way beyond that. Next time I fly, I’m making sure it’s a flight J.P. is working – I can highly recommend it (of course, I’m not sure that’s her real name).

When we go with the flow the opportunities traveling constantly serve us, we can find fun in so many unexpected places. I do believe that I get the most out of my trips, no matter how boring some aspects are (flying; except with J.P.) But I am also very fortunate, because as much as I like traveling, as much I am looking forward to return home. That’s a combination that is hard to beat; don’t you think?

Till next Monday: Bon Voyage…

CHEATING – not a nice thing to do

 “If you stray, you will pay (eventually)”, is the realistic consequence if we get involved in unfaithfulness of a sexual kind. We rather casually call this infidelity: cheating.  If a cheater believes he or she can cheat without being noticed (aka: getting caught), wouldn’t you consider that person ignorant? When we look at cheating not just being a sexual encounter or sexual relationship with somebody who is not our significant other, we find it is way beyond just breaking sexual trust. Overall, cheating is not a very nice thing to do; don’t you agree?

Of course it was the French who came up with the term cheating; perhaps they really needed it? It popped up in the late 14. Century, but was more so used as a trade term. If you are taking notes, cheating is from Old French. But today we consider cheating a rather different animal.

So Bob (not his real name), has been married 12 years, two kids (one of each), cable TV, life insurance, trampoline in the back yard, as well as a couple of neutered pets and bowling every Wednesday. If you ask Bob, it’s a comfortable life – rolling along.

On one of Bob’s business trips, he ends up sitting next to a hot number from Kentucky. She is going to Chicago for a few nights – just like Bob. During the three hour flight, several small bottles of wine, gin and tonics, lots of chatter, laughs and (yes) innocent flirtation, they exchange hotel information and cell phone numbers as they pick up their luggage.

In retrospect, Bob would have been happy leaving it at that, though he did think about her energy and freshness, packed in a hubba hubba body. He giggled a bit intoxicated as he grabbed his suitcase; and then Bob moved on – after all “I’m married”, he more so assured himself.

After a full day of meetings, Bob ended up in the hotel’s bar. It was lively and loud and full of fun. As he was chatting with a colleague through several drinks, his cell vibrated and it was her. She was in the neighborhood, so could he buy her a goodnight drink. In all fairness to Bob, he did hesitate a second (though only a second), but slurred: “Come on down”; and she sure did.

As I consider all my readers top-notch intelligent with grand imaginations to boot (how could you?) let’s save time and cut to the next morning.

 Bob’s hotel room looked like it had been the center of a wild and hot night (notch notch). She was still sleeping as he quietly did the shower and getting dressed thing real fast. She opened her eyes and smiled, and Bob smiled back, but not his true Bob-smile. He actually felt terrible and not just from the alcohol, but from massive guilt. He was fully aware that he had strayed and now it would be time to pay.

She had to pay as well, by dealing with her husband back in Kentucky. As Bob, she had no idea what to do, because as Bob, this had been the very first time she had physically cheated beyond heavy flirting; she realized, as did Bob, that the next step was not going to be fun. They both thought: Oh my God, but smiled bravely. I hope this does not ring any bells with you out there, huh?

Linda (not her real name either) and Bob all of a sudden acknowledged, that getting to the sex part had been easy as they had been physically attracted to each other within the environment and under the circumstances they had met. Waking up the proverbial morning after was so totally different and filled with guilt and many: “Why did I let this happen?” and not related to how great or not the sex had been. You see, the sex part of the cheating is of course the sole reason for the massive complications that one moment of lust creates. I think that if we (actually) thought about those consequences BEFORE hopping into bed with someone other than our significant other, cheating would become a rarity – I fully trust it would; perhaps a bit naïve? And don’t give me the “but I was drunk” bit – it doesn’t count.

What Linda and Bob had done was breaking a trust they used to have with their respective spouses. The core of any relationship is trust; if it’s in a marriage or union or partnership, girlfriend/boyfriend, and any other “agreement” that includes “just the two of us” and that “till death do us part” thing (or I kill you, cheater - perhaps?) To me, a broken trust is extremely tough to repair.

It’s not just that Linda and Bob momentarily were (miss)-guided by organs other than their common sense, but if they had thought about it for a few moments, alcohol or no alcohol, they would have seen the havoc and complications a night of selfish frolic would cause their lives and not just THEIR lives, but so many lives (and neutered pets) around them. But they did stray and now they realized it was time to pay –oh my, oh my.

The ones being cheated are basically getting screwed even more; okay not the same way Linda and Bob went about it, but you know what I mean. Besides broken trust, the believability of Bob has gone; his blatant disrespect for his wife Carole (actually her real name), is hurtful and seriously makes her wonder: “His first time? Will this continue as a (cheating) affair?” As an otherwise role-model father, how could he even fathom that his inconsiderate ways of showing lack of responsibility concerning his children would ever be forgiven? So you see it’s not just the moment of the roll-in-the-hay, but much more the aftermath that must and should make us think: “Is this really going to be worth it?”

Bob keeps pleading with his wife, asking forgiveness and expressing in tears how sorry he is – how much he loves her and confess he is a moronic idiot (which Carole fully agree with). Though we can more so easily forgive, we can never as easily forget – that’s the tricky bit; and that is precisely the core of the future rocky days in Carole and Bob’s marriage, which used to be close to perfect. So Bob, was it worth it?

Of course situations vary. Some cheating is expanded upon, referred to as affairs, lasting longer than the one-night-stand. Cheaters have thousands of “excuses” why they cheated or cheat; for them valid reasons, for others pathetic irresponsibility. But the why will not negate the eventual day they have to fess up and pay, while acknowledging the collateral damage, if they are not too ignorant.

Apropos these days: Especially cheating politicians are pathetic; is it because they feel they have some kind of “power” immunity? Or do they float above the (stupid?) voters feeling nothing can touch them and they will be forgiven when their infidelities are bared? How about they start realizing that they are also screwing their voters? It’s pathetic and so utterly ignorant. But as most cheaters, they are more so guided by egotism and genitals, when they should follow common sense, decency and brains. So if they can’t figure that out, how about asking Bob?

Handy Footnote: Linda was devastated. As Bob, she could not hide her indiscretion and confessed to her husband as she returned home. Though he was shattered, as he loved her so dearly, they found a way to move on. Linda now realized her husband to be even more the man she had been in love with all those years. (Gee, I’m such a sucker for happy endings; aren’t you?)

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BEING SHY – but being in control

As a young boy I became aware of how extremely uncomfortable I felt in the proximity of other people and how I suffered in unfamiliar situations. The label SHY was quickly stamped on my forehead, and that was pretty much how shyness was treated back then; other then: “you’ll grow out of it – eventually”. Of course being teased or ignored by your peers were just added parts that effectively helped remove self-esteem and eliminated whatever scraps of confidence you had left. Ah, those were the days, huh?

As you continue reading, please acknowledge that I am not an educated expert concerning shyness or treatment of same; nor do I claim to be one. I am only expressing opinions and thoughts, based on my experiences concerning my conditions and my solutions. So legally, this statement should cover my butt – don’t you think?

Shyness is explained as being somewhat genetic and can stem from many things: abuse, lack of family, a dominant family member and so forth. Personally, I am not sure if we fully know where shyness comes from.

I grew up with a loving mother, a father and an older brother. As I was born in 1946 (Denmark), my developing years were in the 1950’s; innocent times, really. Not a fertile breeding ground for shyness, huh?

According to social psychology, shyness as a condition is when we are overwhelmed by apprehension, the lack of comfort, awkwardness (mentally and/or physically), insecurities, self-consciousness and anxieties – just to name a few.

For the most part, shyness is brushed under the rug by those who are not shy. But for those who are shy, it is not that easy to ignore, if at all. It is overwhelming for some and it can devastatingly interfere with an otherwise well balanced life, especially in a shy person’s younger years.

If the above garden-variety shyness evolves into extreme shyness, which includes depression, social anxieties, social phobia and other nasty things, professional help is warranted – and the sooner the better.   

I never suffered from extreme shyness, but it was most certainly enough to make my life very uncomfortable and painfully so, in too many situations. I didn’t function well socially and school was agonizing in the early years. At family gatherings I clung to my Mother. My childhood buddy Claus, was the only friend I felt comfortable with. I would also experience depressions – and never figured out why I was depressed; and then one day…

I must have been around 13; now my shyness was getting in the way of meeting girls. Oh my; that pushed me over the edge. At this point, my Mother was all done and very angry watching my constant pouting, moping around, all sour and so sorry for myself, as in heavy duty self-pity. So Mother’s proverbial foot came down and hard.

“Are you going to stay boring, dull, inactive and pathetic the rest of your life or are you going to change into the person I know you can be?” Then she turned around and left me sitting there – absorbing and sobbing: “But I thought you loved me…” I whimpered; later on I realized how much she did.

I did not want to feel shy any longer. Obviously the: “you’ll grow out of it…” didn’t hold water, so waiting and hoping it would go away, was a waste of time.  As I assumed that shyness was not an illness that could be cured by a magic pill, but that it was something I would have to deal with for the rest of my life, I had to find a way to make it insignificant.

I knew my shyness was controlling me; didn’t take a genius (like me) to figure out. When something is controlling us, we can either continue to be controlled or we can get off our butts and at least make an effort switching it around. I decided to get off my butt; now it was MY turn to be in control. And that became my master-plan.

I wrote down every situation I could remember being controlled and bothered by shyness; every WHERE, WHEN and HOW much I was handicapped by it. The list was long and horrific. Then I went back and wrote down HOW I would have liked to function in those scenarios. It was an extremely sobering and eye-opening experience; then I wrote down how I felt I could change it in the future.

I quickly found that the most essential point, and biggest challenge, was the urgent need to get connected with myself. I had to face my insecurities, anxieties, awkwardness and the extremely warped self-consciousness of me, me and me. The need to acknowledge and deal with that thick and tall wall in front of me was crucial concerning any hope of breaking through to control any part of my shyness.

It was a rather interesting trip, really. I dealt with a lot of unknown emotions and factors; on the way, evil doubt showed up a bit too often. But I approached it by doing the easier parts first and built from there on. I practiced more than I theorized – there was no other way around to success; at least I thought so. Was it painful? It was the hardest and most difficult thing I have ever done in my life – seriously. Becoming more and more stubborn sure helped me along – and the prize was right.

Approaching and communicating with girls? No big deal (he tells you while his nose is growing). I wrote and rewrote and edited and spoke out in front of mirrors for hours on end. I smiled the most shaky and nervous smile ever, and gave up millions of times. And when I thought I was ready, I practiced a million times more – until the first practice run – oh, my…

She was finally alone in the schoolyard; cute as ever. I was sweating waterfalls, and if it had not been for the obvious physical shaking and the feeling that at any moment I would projectile puke, I was fine – thank you. My legs refused to move, my tongue was wrapped around my tonsils, but I was finally standing in front of her – kind of. My world exploded as she looked at me and smiled with a giggle.

“What took you so long?” she said.

“ghouedkbaobhielo” I mumbled.

“You have been staring at me for so long.” She was still smiling while I gasped for air – any air. I finally had some of my prepared script at the tip of my tongue – but not in the correct order.

“I really like you…” came out shaky – like violently so… She kept smiling and nodded her head; while I was escaping by running away, she shouted:

“Meet me after school?” At which point I was in shock, but had enough sense to nod that blushing head of mine – while running even faster, looking for a place to hide.

My master-plan suggested small steps for small successes (or small failures). My first attempt had been a giant leap for Peter; the significance of that moment was tremendous. With this surprisingly new achieved confidence, I started smiling a lot more, stopped mumbling and started talking, bit by bit; greeted my classmates, looking into their eyes – yes, even the girls.

I still prepared myself for rejections and they were plentiful. But the more I faced rejections, the better I got at dealing with them. I simply removed ME from the equation, by trying to convince myself that it was not all personal – but it was, for the most part. I kept telling myself that we learn more from our failures than we learn from our successes – I learned a lot and I learned it fast.

I started hanging around groups of kids that I had successfully avoided socializing with for years. At first they looked at me with suspicion, but I just smiled and then one day I said a few words and they looked at me with surprise, like they were saying: whatever. And on I went, adding new daring projects every single day; some days were tougher than others, but I hung in there.

When I got low and didn’t feel it worked fast enough, I thought of the years I had spent in self-pity, cowering behind my shyness - all that waste of precious time. So I worked even harder. I accepted that it was always a gamble of either shine or suck, but I was willing to take those chances by applying determination & hard work. And slowly I was reaching those goals of mine; slowly but surely.

I like the person I became; meeting me for the first time, you wouldn’t know that I’m shy – none of the people who knows me believe I am. I worked the transformation so well, that I now categorize myself as an extrovert, which is also a term used concerning shyness. The person is more so outgoing (and loud at parties – another reason I’m never invited) to cover up being shy. I talk with people everywhere and make riding elevators fun and challenging. I still straighten up a bit more when walking around other people; I have made many speeches through my life and only the first few moments are still tough, but then I’m okay; I’m constantly working on being in control of my shyness – every single day, and I will till the day I die (and perhaps longer, huh?)

I did all this and you can too, if you are shy as I am. It just takes the desire to change, hard work and willingness to accept failures as well as successes on the way; and that’s a true story.

Till next Monday