Location: Columbus, Ohio, United States

Monday, October 11, 2004

How I Have Become a Huge Dork

Let me begin by saying I was once kind of cool.
That was before. I once had a cool car. I played a sport in college. I play guitar. My wife was the lead in plays. Before her I went on dates with cheerleaders. I say this not to sell myself, but to highlight just exactly how dynamic my plunge into lameness is.

Here's when I realized that I am a huge dork (The reasons I'm lame are paranthetical):

Tonight about ten (after work), after my workout (I'm trying to take off weight) I got back and stretched (with a program I learned in my wife's "Real Simple" magazine). I watched the west wing (on Bravo) and decided to write in my blog (write in my blog).

I went upstairs to take a shower (lighting my way with the light fixture which my wife fixed). I got out of the shower and put on my shirt (a v-neck). I kissed my wife on the forehead. She was sleeping soundly.

So soundly that she slept through the sound of our large soap dispenser falling to the shower floor and echoing loudly as it shattered. The reason it fell is because I bumpbed it while tiptoeing in my skivvs and my killer v-neck to not make a sound.

I shouldn't become a Ninja.

The reason for my wife's deep slumber goes back to why I'm a dork.

We bought this board game (when we went garage sale shopping) called "Crack the Case." Last night we played this board game until late in the night (we played this board game until late in the night). I then fell asleep (not certainly, but probably drooling on a stuffed dog which I call "Thug" and my wife calls "Morgan." This stuffed dog was my consolation prize for not owning a dog in college).
Thug and I slept--my wife did not.

Tonight to sleep she took the recommended dosage of Tylenol PM. Tylenol PM, by the way, is the gateway drug to Valium and/or drinking heavy.
I helped her into bed, and came back and had what some call a moment of clarity.
I'm a dork now.

This is sort of the realization that lots of my formerly cool twenty-something friends are grappling with. It's kind of like a choose your own adventure:
To continue running a company that makes water, purchasing things at garage sales, and generally turning lame...Turn to page 8.
To [insert cool thing here] turn to page 15.

The thing is, page eight is fairly comfortable. But this begs the question--is my generation letting the good be the enemy of the best?

In any case--I can make a kick-ass financial model on Excel, so don't step to this.


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