Why Do I Run?

I have a presentation to make at 8:30 this morning so naturally I’m awake at 4:30, drinking a cup of coffee and getting ready for a four mile run at 6:00. I have no idea why I do this. I am not fond of running, have never been. I am still sore from my last run two mornings ago. But here I am. I think it has something to do with the angst brought on by my advancing age. When a man turns 60 he becomes keenly aware of time…of how short it is. You become aware of subtle changes happening to your body. You can feel yourself getting soft. You can actually see the softness in your skin, how it has suddenly become stretchy and thick in places. So partly out of vanity and partly out of anger you step up your exercise routine, part of which involves hitting the road at ungodly hours to do something that you have always hated…running.

So far this year my handy running app tells me I have logged 382.5 miles, burning 51,886 calories in the process. Have I lost any weight? Not really. But I haven’t gained any either which feels like a victory. The only good thing about running is that when you arrive back at the house dripping with sweat— it is a profound paradox—you feel great for about fifteen minutes. You feel like you’ve accomplished something. You ask yourself, “How many 63 year old men can run 4.25 miles in 41 minutes?” You ignore the companion question…How many 63 year old men die every year trying to run 4.25 miles in 41 minutes?

You take a screenshot of your latest run and send it to your son in Nashville who is training to run a half marathon this November. Running has become something that brings you together with your boy. Out of nowhere he decided that he wanted to run a half marathon, this from a kid who has never been in to fitness or exercise. You worry that you have passed along your tendency towards dangerous schemes of self destruction to your children. But, its been fun to compare our running struggles. You are proud of him. This isn’t his thing, but he’s sticking with it and working his tail off, yesterday running in a driving rainstorm. Chip off the old blockhead.

Somewhere around the 2 mile mark this morning I will think to myself, “Why are you doing this? You hate running.” By mile three my hips start to hurt. I am no longer asking myself questions by the time I get close to the end. For reasons that escape logical inquiry, I am sprinting at this point. When I’m done I will consult my running app and discover that once again my fastest mile was the last one. It’s like I have somehow convinced myself that if I sprint to the finish I will have taught running a lesson…not to mess with me! But the only real lesson is that I am a weird dude with strange motivations.

At some point I won’t be able to do this anymore. I will have to find a less physically punishing exercise regimen. Unlike my son I have been into exercise all of my life. When I was younger I would often quote that tired old gym mantra—pain is weakness leaving the body. But there is an addendum to that hackneyed phrase once you become a man of a certain age…pain is stupidity entering the body.

Scandaleux!!!

Suddenly, submarines are in the news. Normally, this would be a topic about which I would have no opinion. But if you throw the French government into the discussion I’m all in. Also, I’m not much of a Joe Biden fan. I mean, I voted for him and everything but only because the other guy was nuts. So, the best thing I can say about Joe is that he isn’t nuts. But when it comes to this submarine thing, I’m 100% Team Biden.

Ok, since most Americans are too busy talking about Nikki Minaj’s cousin’s friend’s testicles, I’m thinking an explanation might be prudent. Yesterday came news that the United States had entered into a strategic partnership with Great Britain, and Australia to provide nuclear submarines and related technology to the Land Down Under. In so doing, the French 60 billion dollar contract with the Australian government was scrapped. The French Government was so outraged that they cancelled a gala dinner in Washington, accusing us of treachery and some kind of anti-French bigotry.  Scandaleux!!!

I probably should have a better reason for being in favor of this Anglo-alliance thing other than the fact that the French are so pissed about it, but honestly, there’s nothing that makes me happier than French angst. Ahh yes, the gallant French, with their vaunted Maginot Line, their Vichy capitulation, and their seven decades long whining about lack of respect. I’m thinking that if somehow your country earns a nickname as bad as cheese-eating surrender monkeys, it may take a century to live it down.

So, I’m delighted that the French got hosed in this deal for two reasons. First, I’m all for the English speaking countries sticking together here. Great Britain and Australia have been stalwart allies of America for a very long time. And secondly, we will get to hear Macron’s whiny little voice crying about how terribly unfair it all is for months now. Talk about entertainment!!

What Has Happened to Men’s Fashion. Part II

“Fashion contributes to pollution of the earth and the exploitation of workers to an unparalleled degree; the fashion industry makes, say, manufacturing fridges look like growing wildflowers on an Alpine mountain in terms of its war against nature. The Met Gala will increasingly become a wake for the Woke wealthy, as their mockable costumes and sad faces say ‘We may be rich famous but look – we’re not having any fun – please don’t burn our gated communities down!’.

                                     Julie Birchill

Seeing as how it no longer matters how anything looks anymore, I’ll just leave this wacky script running off the page…

                                    

Shopping For Pants

 I used to brag about my uncanny knack of being able to shop for clothes with far less drama and angst than my wife. In fact, eight years ago I wrote an entire blog about it HERE. If you click on that link you will feel the superiority practically jumping through the screen at you. This was a skill that I was quite proud of. I am here today to tell you that those days are officially over. My experiences over the past couple of days has served to wipe that self-satisfied shopping smirk off of my face. What, you might ask in the name of all that is holy, happened? I’ll tell you what happened, for the first time in five years I went shopping for pants. That’s what happened.

Ok, I’m not a big fashionista. I don’t want to look like a bum or anything, but I’m not the kind of guy who has to have the latest thing when it comes to clothing. Actually I’m confused by changing fashion trends. First of all, who exactly changes them? How does what is considered hip and trendy become so? It is a mystery, one that I suspect is the fault of a small but powerful cabal of conspirators in Paris and New York City. Be that as it may, the fact is that you wake up one day and realize that your pants are looking dated. Suddenly guys are walking around in different styles of pants. Those full cut puffy pleats aren’t working any longer. Besides, they are starting to look a bit frayed. When I look in my closet I see the carnage that has cut a swarth through much of the stuff I used to wear. There must be 6 or 7 suits hanging in there, all lined with a fine mist of dust on the far left of the closet. When I first entered the business world in the early 80’s I wore a suit and tie every single day while sharing a 9x9 office with a guy who chain smoked Marlboro’s. Now, the only time I have worn a suit in the past 10 years has been to weddings and funerals. On the left wall of my closet hangs a tie rack jammed full of silk ties of every color in the rainbow. I currently wear three of them, approximately 20 times a year at the office (never with a jacket) whenever I want to feel more professional. Its all part of yet another trend thats been with us for quite a while now…the drift away from formal and towards casual. I fully expect this trend will one day reverse itself, probably two weeks after I take all my suits over to Hope Thrift.

So, my collection of pants were old and unstylish. Big deal. I would just run over to Joseph A. Banks like I did the last time five years ago, spend ten minutes or so roaming around then see what I want, buy it, and be back home in less than an hour. Only…something strange and disturbing has happened to men’s pants over these past five years. Its as if a group of rogue tailors have colluded among themselves and decided what American men need is 15 different cuts of pants. 

The guy who drew the short straw over at J.A. Banks says to me, “So, you want dressy casual pants, do ya? What cut would you prefer?”

I look at him with a blank expression. “Wait…what?”

“Well, lets see, you can get this particular pant in straight leg, classic cut, athletic, trim fit, slim fit, or skinny cut.”

Having zero patience for this nonsense, I walked out and decided that Kohl’s probably had exactly what I wanted and would be cheaper too. I drive over to Kohl’s and discover the same dizzying array of cuts. Different brand, cheaper prices, but still with the cuts. Plus, what the heck has happened to Kohl’s? That place used to be a pretty buttoned up place. Now there are clothes laying around all over the place, picked over and disorganized. When I went to the changing room, every stall was full of discarded clothes from whoever had used the place over the last week! 

Undeterred, but feeling slightly annoyed, I went across Broad street to another of my old reliables…Men’s Warehouse. Here I was confronted not only with the cut business, but a new vexing problem. Color. I’m a rather conservative guy. For me, pants I’m planning to wear at my office, among other places, need to not be…how shall I say this…loud. When did men’s clothiers start offering khaki pants the color of pumpkin pie? Where was the great hue and cry among men for    Mauve and magenta? Who among us has ever walked into a clothing store looking for banana yellow pants? 

At this point I am completely annoyed and ended up going home. As I drove down Three Chopt I thought about all the times my wife has gone out clothes shopping, only to come back three hours later in tears. I wasn’t crying at this point but was beginning to feel an introduction to what I had always referred to as the shopping blues when it was happening to Pam.

The next day I go out again with a new game plan. I have done some googling and now had a better understanding of the subtle differences between Slim, Trim and athletic. Further, I had discovered that L.L. Bean might work out quite nicely. I had found a type of pants I might actually like on their website.  “Breathable fabric, water resistant, appropriate for the office and the golf course”, the sales pitch went. I show up over there and found more appropriate colors for a 63 year old man…black, gray, navy blue. Also, after an eternity in the changing room, I decided that straight leg in a 35x30 worked just fine. While I was at it I bought a new pair of stonewashed jeans using the same tyrannical new cut regime. However, L.L. Bean had no khakis that were khaki-color. if I wanted to walk around looking like yellow squash I was in luck, but since I don’t, I had to go to yet another store…Dillard’s, where I was commandeered by a super aggressive middle aged woman with a thick and menacing Russian accent…

“You not need skinny pants. They make you look like fool. You  need straight or classic. These. You try these on…now!!”

I hurried into the changing room as fast as I could and locked the door! The pants she had given me were actually perfect khaki pants. They fit beautifully and were exactly the right color. When I exited the changing room the Russian woman was standing like five feet from the door. She took the pants from me quickly, “You buy these now!”

When she rang them up they were insanely expensive…but there was no way in hades I was going to give this woman any trouble. I paid for them while flashing a nervous smile. To break the considerable tension I attempted to make conversation…

“So, you have an interesting accent. You from Russia?”

At this point, my mask-wearing saleswoman stopped what she was doing, stared at me while slowly lowering the mask, revealing clinched teeth, “I am Lithuanian.” She spoke the country of her birth an octave lower…then smiled broadly, replaced her mask. “You nice man.”

Finally, my two day pants buying mission was over. An international incident was avoided and I spent more money on a pair of khakis than I ever have my entire life.

Mistakes

        I mostly remember two things from my high school biology class several decades ago. One was that I was deeply in love with Arlene, a fellow sophomore who was also in the class. Alas, my love was unrequited: She broke my 15-year-old heart by asking one of my best friends to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

​The second thing is the project we did late in the school year called the Vertebrate Study. We had to write a fairly lengthy report on backboned creatures and on the day we turned it in, we were handed a test to gauge what we’d learned from our extensive, pre-internet research. I can’t tell you how many questions there were on that test because I only remember one: Birds are able to fly more easily because their bones are (blank). This was not a fact I’d turned up in my research and I had no idea how to fill in that blank, so I put some spectacularly incorrect answer. 

I will know until my dying day, however, that the bones of birds are hollow. 

​We really do learn from our mistakes. (Well, most of us do. I’m not sure Arlene did.) Our miscues have a way of lodgingfirmly in our memory.Maybe that’s why God seems to revel in using our frequently misguided efforts for good, to teach us some of life’s most important lessons. It’s so in character for him to take something we’ve done wrong and use it to make us wiser and more faithful than we were before. 

​It’s all grace.

​I’ve made, at last count, approximately a zillion mistakes way more serious than the hollow bones thing, and I have a tendency, at times, to think God must be pretty disgusted with me for all that. Lucky for me, and for all of us, he’s never thought the way I do. Maybe it’s that whole “my ways are higher than your ways” thing. His ways are certainly kinder and more patient than mine.

I can cite, for instance, some amazingly inappropriate things that have come out of my mouth at times when I’ve spoken before thinking about it. Some of these episodes are probably where the expression “cringe-worthy” originated. When I’ve consulted with my Maker about episodes like those afterward, I like to think he’s revealed to me not just the errors of my ways but how I might use a more thoughtful, considerate way to communicate in the future. I’ve rushed through events, conversations, tasks, days—all kinds of things, blundering past opportunities that might have been special moments or chances to do my best work. As I’ve thought about those times, I’d like to think that God’s shown me a slower, more present and deliberate approach to the days he’s given me now. I’ve made snap judgments about people and situations many, many times, only to discover repeatedly that this person is totally different than I thought or that something very different than I believed to be happening was really happening. Looking back, I’d like to think that God has used those moments to speak to me about a slower, more present and grounded way to go about my life.

​Spiritual writer Henri Nouwen suggests that we look at our lives with gratitude—the entirety of them. “True gratitude embraces all of life,” he says. “The good and the bad, the joyful and the painful, the holy and the not-so-holy. We do this because we become aware of God’s life, God’s presence in the middle of all that happens.”

​Later, he adds, “Everything that happens is part of our way to the house of the Father.”

​That’s a very redemptive perspective, something else so characteristic of our God. So, despite my life’s wrong turns, I’m working on being grateful for what God has shown me as I live them, and relying on his forgiveness for when my mistakes have caused others pain.

​I think of that sometimes when I see birds soaring by, no longer earthbound thanks to their strong, light, and hollow bones.

       

        Tom Allen

P.S. When I asked Tom to send me a photo of himself that I could put with his column the first one he sent was this…

Robert E. Lee

Yesterday, Robert E. Lee’s monument came down. For me it was a bittersweet moment. Most of my younger friends were ecstatic. Indeed, many of you can’t possibly understand my ambivalence. Much of it is generational. Some of it is the fact that when I was a young history major in college I read scores of biographies about the major players during the Civil War, Union and Confederate. I came away with a profound respect for many of them, great but flawed men. However, my feelings about many of them have changed over the years. The two portraits in the picture below once hung on a wall in my library. They no longer do for a variety of reasons. But in light of yesterday’s events, I remember now a blog I wrote just after the Unite The Right rally in Charlottesville several years ago. I have reprinted the salient passages below:

When it comes to this entire statues controversy, I am not an absolutist. Each generation should have some say in how they interpret history. Although I happen to believe that the Monument Avenue statues are astonishingly beautiful works of art, and think that they are a valid record of the fact that our city was, in fact, the former capital of the Confederacy, I also understand how they might be viewed differently by a rather large segment of the city's population. The legacy of the Antebellum south was one of human bondage, the buying and selling of human beings. This is a fact of history that for many Americans is something that can't and shouldn't be celebrated.

 I am conflicted even as I write this. For over my shoulder on the wall behind me are two portraits hung in my library, one of Robert E. Lee and the other of Thomas Stonewall Jackson. I studied each of these men extensively in college and found them to both be fascinating men, complex, and tortured, whose lives were shot through with great tension and contradictions. Jackson, perhaps the finest  tactician in the history of this country, also nearly was kicked out of his Lexington Presbyterian church for teaching a class full of slave children how to read. The ironies were overwhelming. But, I came away from all of that study with a profound respect for each man's character. So their portraits hang in my library. For some of you reading this, you might be nodding in agreement. Others might be scratching your heads. I get it. I understand the tension, and the disagreements that flow from different readings of history.

But, here's the thing. What would I do if I knew that a family of African Americans were coming over for dinner? And suppose that this particular family had just lost a child at the hands of a white supremicist mob. What would I do with the portraits? You know what? I think I would remove them before they showed up. Not because I no longer cared about Lee or Jackson, but because I care much more about the tender feelings of my friends than I could ever care about a couple of dead generals. This is the essence of my position on statues. Let's all be a little less entrenched in our own positions, and more in tune with the point of view of people who might view them in a different light.

I suppose my bottom line is that I’m glad the Civil War turned out the way it did. Robert E. Lee made the choice to defend his home state of Virginia rather than honor the vow he took upon graduating from West Point as an officer in the United States Army, a decision that caused him a great deal of soul-searching anguish. But, ultimately he made the wrong decision. While his primary motivation may have been a sense of devotion to Virginia, his armies also were defending the institution of slavery, a crime against humanity that no amount of post-war rehabilitation can erase. Had he prevailed, thousands of African-Americans would have been kept in human bondage for years longer than they were. Ultimately, this is the verdict of history, one for which I am grateful.

So, where are these two portraits now? In the attic. The thirteen biographies of Lee, Jackson, Grant, JEB Stuart and Sherman are still in my library, but the portraits are not. They are still worth reading about, but the time for enshrinement has passed.

Father/Daughter Conversations

My daughter and I sometimes have strange text conversations. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is the fact that I am a writer and she is something of an expert in the fine art of understanding the English language…not to mention a fine editor. Consequently, a few days ago this happened:

Me: Hey, I found a list of some of the best words of all time. What do you think?

Bamboozled

Flabbergasted

Discombobulated 

Shenanigans

Cattywampus

Lollygag

Malarkey

Kerfuffle

Brouhaha 

Nincompoop

Skedaddle

Pumpernickel 

Kaitlin: ….Rutabaga

Me: And I would add asshattery, balderdash and knickknackery.

Kaitlin…Hullabaloo

Me: Rhubarb…I think that a day should not pass without using at least five of these words in a sentence.

Kaitlin: Agreed. We may bamboozle people with our shenanigans, but there’s no time for lollygagging!

Me: Enough with this discombobulated asshattery! If that rhubarb pie doesn’t come out of the oven pretty soon, there may very well be a brouhaha amongst the guests!

Kaitlin:…macadamia is another good one, and pomegranate.

Me: How about tomfoolery and pollyanish?

Kaitlin:…Flippertigibbet

Me: Wait…isn’t that Flibbertigibbet?

Kaitlin: Quite right!

Me: Not really sure what that even means.

Kaitlin:…Will-o-the-wisp… something you fiddle with, I think. No, actually it is a frivolous, chatty person.

Me: Now we know then…I’ve always been partial to the word Haphazard. Any word with a P AND a Z has to be on this list.

Kaitlin: Look up Batty-Fang—one of Jon’s favorites. 

Me: You should compile this list for your students and challenge them to write a 200 word essay using all of them!!  Yes. Batty-Fang…what Donald Trump did to the Republican Party.

Who says fathers and daughters don’t have anything substantial to talk about these days??