First Fret

Today, while sitting in the doctor’s office with nothing to do, I tried to be a good patient, a patient patient. Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty. As I watched the minute hand make its forty-fifth lap, I began to wonder if they’d forgotten about me. I eyed the door in anticipation of the next unsuspecting victim to be caught off guard by my presence.

The lab-coated escort would come up with some improvised excuse. “Oh, hi. Dr. Waitfurevuh is swamped, but she'll be right with you,” glancing at the clipboard, “uhh, let’s see here, Justin.” That person never came, but the doctor did six minutes later.

The reason for my visit wasn’t because I was ill. Rather, it was to avoid future illness. In May, I’ll be venturing with my sister to Costa Rica for a three-week post-graduation trip, a celebration-to-go we’ve been discussing off and on since late ’07. When choosing vacation destinations, she and I talked about the climate and culture and natural beauty of several countries, and though I knew I’d be exposed to many wonderful things, I chose not to think about exposure to the mosquitoes carrying the less wonderful things.

I don’t fear much in this world. I kill venomous spiders and repel swiftly into dark caves. I fly my bicycle off of ledges and speak fairly comfortably in front of large audiences. When I sit in an exit row, I verbally agree to the flight attendant’s request for assistance in the event of a water landing, which we all understand to mean plane crash. “You can count on me,” I say with a look of sincerity, as if I know more than the first thing about inflatable slides and changes in cabin pressure.

What I do fear with every atom of my being: needles. Not all needles, just the ones that inject pathogens into my bloodstream. I’ve never had stitches or an IV – please pause while I knock on wood – and each time I’ve had blood drawn, an elaborate production of nurses has gathered around to fan me and elevate my legs.

Sitting in the immunization room, I did my best not to think of myself as a pin cushion, not to look at the biohazard bin full of used needles or the cold steel tray about to wield the syringes or the poster on the wall that, far too graphically, showed three images of a needle under someone’s skin (captioned with a Goldilocks theme: too deep, angle too sharp, just right). Mentally, I’d been preparing for such a moment from the time I made the appointment a week ago. I even listened to a soothing playlist of songs to allay my anxiety, but it must not have been enough. In the final moments before viral invasion, I listened to the sound of my own breathing. Deep in through the nose, slow out through the mouth. Good, I told myself. That’s good. Keep that going.

The nurse interrupted this hypnotic trance by sliding a few pieces of paper onto my lap, clearly making the effort to respect my space, but also hoping I would look it over. The papers were explanations of what the vaccines prevented, and also what they caused. In the case of Hepatitis A, some of the shot’s side effects were no different than the symptoms of the disease: nausea, vomiting, stomach pains, mild flu-like illness. I continued down the list. One reaction to the Tetanus vaccine labeled as “severe” was death. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I consider death to be a very, very severe reaction. In truth, the most severe reaction one could have. They were unpleasant sheets to read at any time, much less before a double-dose of nasty.

My medical history with needles is not exactly admirable. I’ve collapsed to the floor, cried, vomited, and left the doctor’s office having never received the shots I’d already paid for. At 14, I remember thinking that there was no way I would be afraid of needles at 21. I’d be a man then, and men aren’t afraid of needles. Much to my dismay, some still are. This man, in particular.

Anticipating an embarrassing scene in which I fainted, threw blunt objects, or ran screaming from the room (very unsettling for other patients), I told the nurse about my fear. To her credit, she did a marvelous job of comforting me. Gatorades, a cool wet washcloth, and a reclined chair were set up in a curtained corner of the ward. I took my seat, leaned back, and rolled up my sleeves. She went through all this trouble, I thought. Might as well go through with it.

The first one wasn’t bad. The alcohol-dipped cotton ball felt cool against my arm, and I felt the needle go in and come out. Quick, mostly painless, but I’d built up the trauma to be so outrageous that every one of my fingers tingled. One down, one to go. The next shot came with less warning and more pain. It pierced my skin effortlessly. I swallowed hard.

The nurse stood by with smelling salts for a few minutes, relieved that her patient hadn’t spewed blue Gatorade all over her shoes. As I welcomed the idea of another ten years without the need for a Tetanus shot, the nurse and I chatted at length about my trip. She’d been to Costa Rica on a medical mission two years earlier and insisted I visit a coffee plantation I’ve now forgotten the name of. If she hadn't been a 35-year-old wife and mother of two, I might have asked for her phone number. As it was though, I pulled my sleeves down, took a lollipop, and headed to the pharmacy to fill my prescription for Malaria pills and Typhoid Fever capsules.

“Keep these refrigerated. The virus needs to be alive as you ingest it.” I cringed. “I’m sorry, alive did you say?” “Yeah, they’re not much good to you dead.” No, of course not, I thought. It’s probably best that they wriggle their way down my throat for a fresh chance to replicate.

“Stay healthy,” he said as I carefully nudged the door open with my hip. Having just been squirted with potentially-lethal fluids, this action stuck me as absurd. Sickness avoidance has been reinforced so strongly in our culture that weak immune systems are becoming the norm: filtered water, anti-bacterial soap, triple-bleached countertops. To me, it seems a bit much. I hate to overcompensate, but it might be best to spend part of tomorrow licking germ-infested surfaces. I’ll start with this keyboard.

I’ve just returned from the grocery store across the street. I brought home a backpack full of organic produce (it’s not all I buy, just all they sell), mainly ooples and banoonoos and the fixings for an authentic stir fry. But I could have brought home a lot more.

I went there on an empty stomach, which I’ve been told is a major no-no. Supposedly, shopping while hungry causes people to buy way more than they need, but really, what was I to do? I had no food, so I couldn’t eat before going to the market; that’s why I was going in the first place. Another one of life’s cruel ironies. Thankfully, I was able to keep myself under control and resisted most urges to splurge.

That is, of course, until I came to the part of the store that I think other people frequently overlook. One of my favorite teachers growing up described this area as the “free candy aisle” because anyone can lift a lid, reach their hand in, and pull out a quick snack. I speak, as you well know, about the plentiful land of the bulk bins.

Just listen to that word. Bulk. It’s so American, isn’t it? The bulk bin aisle is the only aisle in the store where you can really pack it on, where you can endulge your hunger with scoop after scoop after scoop, where you can load a bag as fast as your eager hands will let you, where you can say to yourself, “I’m tired of getting my food packaged in nice round numbers. Today, I want 3.37 lbs of dried apricots, and no one is going to stop me.”

I think people avoid the bulk bin aisle for several reasons. First off, there’s the issue of safety. If anyone’s hands can reach in and touch the food, then it might not be clean. Good point, but I see plenty of people eat apples covered in germs and wax and stickers without even so much as a quick shirt shine. (Don’t even get me started on sneeze guards). Second, people like brands, and they’re weirded out when they encounter a product without a name slapped on the front. No familiar cartoon spokesman? No catchy typeface? No subliminal colors? Something must be wrong! Take it from an ad major when I say that stuff affects buyer behavior. Third, there’s the labor factor. Nothing in the bins has been boxed or sealed or shrink-wrapped. It’s your labor that’s going to get all those banana chips in the bag and out the door, and nothing else. Customers are usually compensated with savings of a few cents per pound. Score.

Last, but not least, there’s the gluttonous sensation of shoveling your way into the depths of a bulk bin. As I loaded up on granola today, I noticed that I was being observed by a wide-eyed young boy. He seemed absolutely fascinated by the bloated bag I continued to fill like a bear stockpiling for hibernation. What? I thought. Ain’t ya ever seen a twenty-something shop before?

The other stop I made – past 16 kinds of beans, 5 kinds of rice, 4 kinds of raisins, prunes, apple rings, pineapple chunks, shredded coconut, papaya spears, figs, peanuts, almonds, various trail mixes, and an assortment of candies – was for dates.

Dates became a staple of my diet while I studied abroad in New Zealand. They were dirt cheap and an outstanding supplement to oatmeal, my main breakfast food over there since cereal often wavered around six dollars per box. After sharing them with friends and visitors, I had soon hooked everyone on my floor of the apartment. It didn’t take long before my flatmates and I realized we could humorously take advantage of a double-meaning.

"Hey Alison, do you wanna date?"

"Huh? Umm, the thing is, I, errr, no thanks. Listen, it's not that you're not a nice guy, but–"

Then, as we coolly pop one into our mouth with a snicker, “Suit yourself, but they’re mighty tasty.”

What started as a horrible pun followed the natural course of the inside joke: a knowing giggle, a jaded courtesy laugh, and finally, an outlawed expression. Back State-side, I still get dates – the edible kind, that is – when I see them available. At the store, I nonchalantly checked for cameras above and sneaked a sample before spinning a half-full bag and fleeing the scene of the crime.

On the way to the checkout counter, I was distracted by an end-of-aisle display for Craisins. In case you’re not familiar with what this innovative company has done, let me bring you up to speed. Craisins has come out with cherry and orange flavored dried cranberries. So now, very ridiculously, you can buy your fruit in other flavors of fruit.

Which leaves me so bewildered that I have no words with which to comment further.   

I was once involved in an experiment for my psychology recitation. The experiment was to see how people pair up, to see who ends up with who, and why. Each member of the class was randomly given an index card with a number written on it, 1-20. The scale was a measure of desirability with 20 representing most desirable. We were not allowed to look at our cards, and instead, we had to put our desirability on display in the style of Indian poker, with our cards on our foreheads. For a few minutes, we were turned loose to try to rope in a person of the opposite sex with the highest number possible. Naturally, not everyone could pair with the high numbers, so what the experiment was supposed to demonstrate was that people of similar desirability would end up together. For example, 5 would end up with 6 after striking out with 16, 12, and 8.

My strategy was simple. Approach the 20, and ask her to pair up. I didn’t need a pick-up line or a fancy tie, just the opportunity to get her before anyone else. Even in class, and even though these numbers meant nothing, I remember feeling nervous. At first, she declined my offer, and I watched her wander aimlessly away. She stood on the outskirts of the action like the girl hovering near the veggie platter at a party she's attending as a favor to a friend. By then, the other participants had been rejected at least once, and they knew they weren’t good enough to end up with a 20, so they had settled for less. It was around this time that she came back to me. Holy guac, I thought. I must be the 19 if I’m ending up with the 20 chick.

After our TA announced that time was up, we stood in a line with our mates and scanned the room to see the results. The experiment had gone as planned with one exception. Everyone looked my direction with a look of perplexity, like “How the heck did he end up with her?" I pulled the card from my forehead and turned it over in my hand.

Eleven. I smiled.

Love, we know, isn’t as cut and dry as a 1-20 scale. Though we often refer to someone as an 8.5 or maybe a perfect 10 if she didn’t have her baggy overalls tucked into her cowboy boots, we really don’t know what the heck we’re talking about. Love is a many-sided die. There are no sure things or fool-proof features or tricks of the trade. It’s subjective, never the same for any two people, even two people who share the same love. Nothing works every time; no two situations are identical. The successful people adapt, learn, innovate, fight, and still lose. Sometimes, they lose big. And yet? It’s addicting – a gambling problem of the worst kind, where the odds are so rarely in your favor. We shake and blow on that die in our hands and let out a “Woooo-weeee bigmoneybigmoneybigmoney” with the hopes that luck will turn our way. Each morning, I walk out the door hoping I meet a girl who will inspire me to put this blog on hold. As much as I love writing, I know my time is better spent elsewhere, on someone else.

I have this ongoing joke with myself – I know that sounds lame – about what the girl of my dreams is doing right this second. Of all the things that she could be doing – acing the BAR exam, runway modeling in the latest nightie from Victoria’s Secret, dogfighting in an F-22 at 29,000 feet, finishing the last sentence of the next great American novel (which, of course, later earns her the Nobel prize for literature) – I like to think that she’s just thinking about me. Of course, I don’t know this girl. At least, I don’t think I do. If I did, I’d probably be plotting my next move to win her heart.

Like taking all the marshmallows out of several boxes of Lucky Charms and putting them into one entirely-marshmallows box, so that when she pours a bowl of cereal for breakfast, her day is a tad sweeter. Say what you will about it being silly and trite and small, but it's the the kind of stuff that I imagine rounds an 11 up to a 12.
 

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When we moved to Colorado from California, I didn’t think I’d turn into the nature-lover that I am today. The outdoorsy side effects of living not just in a mountain state, but in a mountain range came gradually. Before long, the San Franciscan in me had mostly fallen to the wayside. By the time I finished middle school, I had a bike with shocks, an inner tube for the river, and a medicine cabinet full of sunscreen.

The closest big city to my small hometown, Durango, isn’t even in the same state. It’s in the northern part of New Mexico, about an hour away by car. Farmington gets a bad rep, but I’m not sure it’s entirely deserved. Durangutans use Farmington as something of a scapegoat, as though whatever faults Durango has are merely by association with that place over the border. In all fairness, I haven’t really spent much time there. A few lackluster trips for fireworks and cheap bulk groceries – Farmington boasts a Wal-Mart supercenter and a Sam’s Club side by side, an eye sore if there ever was one – didn’t entice me to make a swift return.

On the contrary, it made me appreciate having been raised a good distance up the road. I can’t speak for others, but Farmington isn’t the kind of place I see people falling in love with and declaring, “Honey! Our search is over! This is where I want to spend the rest of my days!” Though I strongly believe in giving and getting second chances, I’m hesitant to bop on down there again.

Wouldn’t you know it, Farmington must have a few good things going for it. In 2000, 37,844 residents resided there. Six years later, that figure was up to nearly 44,000. So clearly, with a growing population already three times that of Durango, people are hanging around for more than affordable real estate. I couldn’t pin down what was keeping people from fleeing to the other three 4-corner states, so I conducted some quick research.

Truth be told, my findings indicated that the city has much more to offer than questionable doses of lingering radiation (In 1967, an underground nuclear test took place about 50 miles to the east of present day Farmington). It boasts great weather; natural resources like coal, oil, and natural gas; plenty of room to spread out; Navajo, Aztec, and Ute culture; not to mention a very tolerable proximity to Colorado. I don’t recall seeing much agriculture, as the name would imply, but then again, Las Vegas translates to “fertile valleys,” and it doesn’t exactly have many of those either.

The border between Colorado and New Mexico may look like an arbitrarily drawn straight line on the map, but don’t be fooled. Just because the state lines don’t follow any winding rivers doesn’t mean the cartographer just got lazy, pulled out the ruler, and said “To heck with it.” I’m sure the scouts in the field took superb notes about the change in climate, topography, and geographical features. If you take Highway 550 south out of Durango, you’ll find yourself in the grace of a supremely gorgeous setting. Valleys, plateaus, jagged peaks, red rocks, and an abundance of plant life. Come Fall, the turning Aspens staggered throughout the pine forests make for quite a spectacle.

About 30 minutes from Farmington, things change. Fast. The difference is startling. The mountains, the trees, and the good drivers halt abruptly (Coloradans say New Mexico license plates are yellow to indicate caution). As soon as you pass the “Welcome to the Land of Enchantment” sign, you also find yourself in the land of the visually lacking. Brown desert all the way to the horizon with only billboards advertising casinos and the occasional waist-high shrub vary the view.

Not all of New Mexico is like this, but a lot of the area surrounding Farmington is. With so much flat, open, homogeneous terrain, the space is really only limited by the creativity of the user. Which got me thinking.

As a fairly creative individual and frequent brainstormer, I decided to close my eyes just now and come up with some land-conversion ideas. Nothing really sticks out, but if I get some positive replies, I’ll pass them along to the mayor of Farmington. Here we go. Ready? Brace yourself.

Giant Karesansui garden – you know, the Japanese kind where you rake the sand, but on a much grander scale. Think of it like dust circles (crop circles, but no crops), a primitive means of communication with the galaxy. Or the world’s largest mandala. That’d be sweet. And talk about tourism dollars. The press and internationals would really put Farmington on the map. No? Too artsy for ya?

How about the largest designated area for metal detector enthusiasts in the US? The coin-collecting community would just go nuts with this. You could bury priceless stuff randomly in the ground and charge visitors to try their luck against 3000 acres of arid earth. I know I’d go…once.

Or what if there were a huge outdoor bumper car park? Liability aside, the kids would really love this. Just utter the word go-kart around children and see what happens. Go ahead, I dare you. They’ll be tugging at your shirt for the rest of the night. No? Too violent and destructive?

Maybe we should set up a solar panel field. All that area to spread out, and nothing using the land. Let’s put it to good use. The expense of set-up would pay itself off in no time. It’d turn Farmington into a coal power plant-infested area into one of the most environmental parts of the country. Take that Durango!

These ideas are a real improvement over what's there, which isn't saying much. Still, it's food for thought. Chew it slowly. Spit it out discreetly if you want to.

I returned on Sunday night from an outstanding week in San Diego and San Francisco. In both cities, the weather was exactly what I’d been hoping for. Even the Bay Area – frequently the place where fog hangs out like a bunch of teenage guys who order pizza and watch movies in the living room of one of their houses when the parents have left early for a long weekend, but the guys are too tired to go out because it’s Thursday night and in highs school kids don’t throw parties on Thursday nights because Thursday nights are like Monday nights, and besides, they’re saving their energy for Friday night anyway – boasted mid-60s and comfortable sunshine. I wore sweaters, but I didn’t need to.

Deplaning in Denver, Spring break vanished as quickly as it had come. It’s amazing how just the tiny separation between the jetway and the airplane doors can let in such a frigid gust. On the plane ride out to Cali, our flight attendant had made the whole plane chuckle when he said, “Welcome to San Diego, where the current temperature is 80 degrees with a wind chill of 79.” Landing at elevation in the white-capped Rockies, the flight crew didn’t even make an attempt at humor.

I met two friends at baggage claim. When the carrousel burped up my black duffel, I schlepped it over my shoulder and headed for the electronic sliding doors. They separated as I approached, and in an instant, it all came rushing back. Colorado wind penetrated the same skimpy cotton T-shirt I’d been wearing since California like a Trojan horse.

My mom is such a mom. For years, she and I debated as I left for school about whether or not I should take a jacket. Years of living in San Francisco had made her a strong proponent of at least having one along because “You never know when the weather might change. It might get cold, and if it does you’ll be glad you have it with you.” My rebuttal usually stemmed from poor logic and made-up facts. “Mom. Jackets are a huge hassle. I’m going from the house to the car, from the car to the school, from the school to the car, and from the car to the house. In total, that’s about 100 feet. I think I’ll make it.” These tiffs epitomized the ferocity of my teenage rebellion. Compared to other delinquent kids, I was tamer than a runt kitten.

Under the starry sky, standing on a fresh dusting of snow that sprinkled the sidewalks, I could hear her voice in my ear. My jacket was in my bag, and though I knew it would have made me more comfortable, I still didn’t want to put it on. With goose bumps rising, I walked into the night.

In the car on the ride home, I felt like a child. So often these days, I’m spoiled because I get to drive or ride shotty (that’s my fancy slang for “shotgun”). As the girls conversed about their SB adventures, I strained to listen from the back seat over road noise and the muffled radio DJ. After a while, I gave up and took to staring out the window, an act of surrender that I remember doing routinely on the way to elementary school.

It didn’t matter much. I wasn’t especially in the mood for talking. I’d sat alone at the airport biding the layover with a book I’ve been trying to finish since December and an overpriced sandwich with so much mayonnaise that it oozed out the sides when I bit down.

The flight was quiet too. I’d kept to myself so that I could work on an essay with a fast-approaching deadline. Stuck among a family of tired parents and their needy youth, my focus was frequently interrupted by shrill screams and but-mom!s. With patience spiraling downward, I obliged every request they asked of me. I passed gum, bags of pretzels, tissues (unused, thankfully), and coloring books back and forth without so much as a peep.

Eventually, and oddly all within a few minutes of the alpha female, each member fell asleep. No drool, no snores. Just eyes mostly shut and mouths slightly open. The father was the last to go unconscious. He squirmed his head restlessly, unable to tilt it back due to the verticalness of the airline seat. Finally, he let his head sink forward over his belly. As it bobbed with each gentle bump of our descent, I wished I had had my jacket to use as a pillow.

I was shaken from the mental construction of my essay once more when the girls and I pulled up to my apartment. All but one of the lights were off inside, and still the place looked pleasant and inviting. I thanked the girls for their hospitable airport transportation, grabbed my stuff, and shut the car door. Walking under the weight of my bag, I felt bad for how quiet I’d been. A passenger instead of a friend. Two hours of driving, and I hadn’t offered so much as an anecdote from the last week, a week that had truly been riddled with fodder for coffee talks and bar outings.

Today, when I saw the girl who had driven two hours round-trip just to pick me up, I showed her what I’d written for the blog. Since it was partially about her and about to go public, I figured it was the least I could do. After she’d finished reading, she looked up at me.

“I don’t love the ending,” she said honestly.

“Yeah, I don’t either.”

More than average, I’d say, people tell me that I look familiar. Maybe you’ve noticed this already and just haven’t been able to place it yet, but read on, and I might be able to help you.

Really, it’s getting to be a little ridiculous. People take a gander at my shoulders-up and reference me to a person in their life, often someone they barely know. I swear I’ve been compared to “that guy in human resources” so many times now that I’m beginning to think looking like me is a qualification for the job. I guess that would make me a shoe-in.

Every blue moon or so, a girl will come up to me and say, “Oh my goodness, wow! I just realized who you look like. You know who?” I think for a second. “Umm, your next boyfriend?” “No, silly! The man in the khakis and sweater on the cover of Land’s End. You’re practically his clone. The spitting image. Crazy.”

And then, far less flattering and extremely irregularly, people at the bars will say, “It just hit me. James Van Der Beek. You look like the less attractive version of James Van Der Beek.” Which makes me wonder if anyone has ever said to James, “You know, you look exactly like the less cool version of Justin Prugh.” Methinks not.

Another somewhat common dialogue: “Hey, do you know Eddie?” “No, I can’t say that I do. How would I know Eddie?” “He’s the babysitter who takes care of my friend’s friend’s great nephew. You guys could be twins. I mean it. Let me give you his number, just in case you’re in Arkansas next summer.”

So I guess he’s out there somewhere, my twin, hopefully not dragging my good name through the mud. After all, he’s the evil one, right? I’m glad to know that, at least for the time being, he can be trusted with people’s children.

If you’re ever looking to burn five minutes on a website that’s pretty amusing (and you’re all caught up here, naturally), I’d recommend a quick glance at www.myheritage.com, which utilizes a face recognition program to pair you with celebrities whom you share a resemblance. When I uploaded my photo, I got an 88% match with James Van Der Beek, certainly evidence that people are justified in their comparison. Anything less than a 75% match generally means the celebrity shares only the slightest hint of resemblance – a few eyebrow hairs, if that.

It only just occurred to me that these photos I’ve uploaded onto the website may get deposited into a growing database for later exploitation by Girls Gone Wild or the like. Might be worth checking out the fine print one of these days.

After 250,000 years, human genetic diversity has come a long way. Each face has a plethora of subtleties that we note unconsciously and use to distinguish one another. In this way, we are animate www.myheritage.com creatures, but better; we don’t just rely on famous people for matches. We are so good at differentiating faces that over the course of only a few milliseconds, we’re able to attach a name to it, even though the internal file drawer we pull it from is positively massive. How massive?

In any 24-hour hunk of the calendar, how many faces do you think you get a good look at? Close to a thousand? Years of looking at everyone who passes you on the sidewalk has created one heck of a picture collection, really more of a library packed with file drawers. I think that’s partially why we are so excited when a new face has a major shortage of identifying features. When it’s imperceptible from another in the card catalog, we speak up. “Hey dude. You look like the much younger, male, heavyset, Caucasian version of Whoopi Goldberg.”

A deteriorating plastic bag with a two-dollar chess set inside sits beside me tonight as I type. Like all things that make their way onto the shelves of a two-dollar store, the quality is lower than a thermometer reading at the South Pole.  The pieces are of the usual size and shape, but they have knobby protrusions where they were pulled from their plastic molding. Sometimes, flakes of a rook or bishop will come off effortlessly as I set up the pieces. Or should I say, try to set up the pieces.

Because the board is no thicker than a cereal box, various crushings over the course of its life have made playing on it similar to playing on a 95-year-old’s face. It seems as though every time I pull it out, the creases have spread in the same way that a cracked windshield does. Slowly as to be almost unnoticeable, but bothersome to no end. To add insult to injury, the factory fold in the center has been flexed so many times that the two halves are now pulling a Pangaea. All of the corners have begun to fray apart, revealing a lame cross-section view of – to no one’s surprise – many pieces of paper glued together. Whoop-de-doo.

Ugly picture I just painted aside, I’d say the set has three things keeping it out of a dumpster. First of all, it’s a complete set. I don’t have to substitute my chapstick for any of the pawns. Second, it gets a lot of use. I play about once a week with my racquetball nemesis, and our battles are notoriously long. We intersperse them with laughs, good questions, and a couple more loads of concrete into an already solid friendship. Third, the set has sentimental value since it was given to me by a friend who drastically changed my life for the better. On top of that, it’s been put to use in four countries, which is a real accomplishment for any board game. Oh, and I kind of like that the checked pattern reminds me of a bathroom floor in a suburban home built circa 1959.

I like chess because it’s one of the only games that require strategy from start to finish. Most other games depend, to some extent, on luck – the draw of a card, the roll of a dice, the random turn of an upside-down tile (that’s almost always Z, Q, or J). With chess, it’s not like that. If I lose to my opponent, it’s because they’re smarter than me. Or because I wasn’t paying attention. I also like chess because it seems like one of those imperative life skills that needs to be learned. You know the ones I mean: how to make pancakes, how to open a futon into a bed, how to do the macarena.

When I’m much older, I’d like to be one of those nice fellows you see at a chessboard in the park on an autumn afternoon. Bundled in a long scarf and peacoat, I’ll sit with a former classmate or coworker, and together, we’ll reminisce about the battles that took place on a grander scale.

“Say Justin, remember when people used to read your blog?”
“Oh no you don’t. Not this time. You can’t distract me like you used to. Now, let’s see here. I think…yeah…it is. Checkmate.”

Baseball is a hackneyed metaphor. It’s been aligned most famously with degrees of sexuality, but I’m sure the list goes on and on. This happens because baseball is a common denominator of American society – anyone who’s anyone knows the fundamentals. Well, I’m throwing another log on the baseball-as-metaphor fire. My apologies.
 
I’ve been swinging the same way since the first time I picked up a bat. I step up to the plate, tap the top of the bat against the ground a couple times, dig my cleats into the dirt, raise the bat, choke up, step into my swing, and let ‘er rip.

It’s a good, healthy swing. When the pitch is ripe for the picking, I knock it out of the park, round my bases, and get high fives from the dugout. Now then, if it were this easy all the time, I’d be famous. Kids would walk up to me swimming in their over-sized baseball caps holding out pieces of paper for me to autograph. “There he goes,” they’d say, “the guy who bats 1000.”

As nice as it sounds, it’s never this easy, and I think it’s for the best. No one wants to see the Yankees kill the competition every time; not even the guys who sleep outside the stadium in their pin-striped sleeping bags. Come opening day, baseball enthusiasts tune in because they want to be surprised, to cheer for an underdog, to see if this season will have a better outcome than the last one.

Pitchers, whatever they symbolize to you, have many arrows in their quiver, and they fire at random. Change-ups, heat, knuckles, curves – the batter’s guess is probably only a little better than the spectator in the top row of the farthest set of bleachers. Sure, my swing is ruthless when it makes dead-on contact, and yeah, the crowd goes nuts. But the big-leaguers, the home run hitters, the guys who have chewed more sunflower seeds than the state of Kansas (whose state flower is the sunflower) have tactics out the ying-yang. They all have the same goal, but they are versatile, dynamic, complex. They read pitches like the Sunday paper, and they get results.

I haven’t been winning lately, and as the song says, it is a shame. To get oneself out of a slump, there are a few things to be done. Often, players seek consultation from sports psychologists, superstition experts, you name it. Another strategy frequently employed is watching videos of past games to analyze what has worked and what hasn’t. That’s what I did.

Last night, I parked myself in the living room with my coach and a bucket of crackerjack, cued up my highlight reel, and talked about it. We admired the footage of my peak moments, those instances where I ripped line drives, shattered the bat, launched cannons to the upper deck. We reminisced about those everyday games that felt like homerun derbies.

Then we tried to figure out how to bring that player back. I wanted to point fingers, but I knew it was me. Not my teammates or the umpires or the heckler who sits behind home plate. Not the equipment or a lack of season ticket-holders or my salary. Not the number of travel games or the length of the grass on the field or the batting order. Me.

I’m introducing a new tactic. I’m still going to watch the third base coach pull on his ear lobes, pat his chest, slap his knee, and interpret the signals. My eyes will stay on the ball. I’ll avoid strikeouts and take my walks, just as I always have. But I’ll be playing a whole different game. Root, root, root for the home team, sports fans. My next at-bat is tonight, and I’m swinging for the fences.
 

My parents looked a long time for the love they now share. My dad came upon it in his late 30s, in the city of San Francisco, in a woman who just happened to be my mom, though she wasn’t at the time. Dad loves to tell the story of how they found each other, of how his bride, then merely an acquaintance, actually mistook him for an ex-boyfriend when she saw him in the street without her glasses on. Their conversation somehow led to a date, and on this date, they both gave each other exactly what they were looking for in a significant other. At midnight, my dad worked up the courage to ask for a kiss from my mom. This was quite a bold move, but good fortune was on his side. Mom, not to be won over so easily, asked why she should do him the favor. “Because it’s my birthday,” he told her. And it was. And so they did. Twenty-five years later, they are still together, still happy, and still in love.

A few summers ago, I sat with Dad on the deck of our home. The afternoon was hot and quiet, and I distinctly remember the sound of ice cubes clinking against the sides of my glass of iced tea. It was just the two of us out there resting in iron chairs, admiring a view we’d both seen a thousand times before. Thinking I might have already found love, I decided to ask Dad about it.

Hey Dad.
Yeah? What is it, Just?
What if Mom hadn’t fallen in love with you?
What do you mean?
I mean, what if things hadn’t played out the way they did? What if you had done something differently or been someone that Mom didn’t like?
I wouldn’t have let that happen. And she loved me for who I was. She didn’t try to change me. That’s one of the things I love about your mother. She loves me for who I am.
Alright, but what if she had been married?
I would have won her heart.
But what if she had already given it to someone else?
Wouldn’t matter. I would have gotten it.
How?
There’s nothing she could have done to stop me. I would have done anything for her.
Ok, but what if she had left the country because of some emergency and didn’t tell you?
I would have found her.
But how? Let’s say she didn’t leave any clues or anything. Not even her family knew.
I would have searched the entire world for her. I would have found her.

This really excited me. When I’m excited, my voice goes up an octave or two and I start to use my hands a lot. The next line of questions got into the nitty-gritty, a real test of what Dad could have endured, what lengths he would have taken to pursue the love of his life. With each response he gave, I adapted the situation accordingly, making the scenarios incrementally more outlandish, just to see how he’d react. Each time, with complete certainty, he responded with variations of the same answer, that he and my mom would have ended up just as they were.

Since hearing of how my parents got together, I’ve been captivated by stories of couples falling in love. Some are really far-fetched, wild, bizarre even. Yet they all tend to orbit around ideas like perfection, fate, and destiny. How else can you explain two people, out of more than six billion, finding each other? Do we underestimate the importance of compatibility? I like to think that I’m a very compatible person, easy to get along with, if slightly harder to fall in love with. Are my chances any better? And what about soul mates? That’s a term that gets tossed around at weddings as often as bouquets from the bride. Is a soul mate merely an ultimate form of compatibility? Two puzzle pieces that fit without awkward gaps or forceful pushing?

Whether you believe in love at first sight or not, seeing that matching piece for the first time must be like taking a long look at the whole image on the cover of the box. It’s that moment when everything has purpose, when all the mistakes you’ve made don’t feel like mistakes at all because they’ve led you to the love of your life.

And not a moment too soon, the love of your life has given new life to your love. Just enough, wouldn't you know it, for you to get that midnight birthday kiss.