The DAMM Truth

I loved going to summer camps when I was a kid. Loved them. These were week-long, overnight summer camps, away from my family for the most part and almost always accompanied by my longtime best friend, Dave Johnson.

The first camp was Illahee, and I have no idea what kind of affiliation it had, Scouting, Church, YMCA, Shriners, Knights of Columbus, no idea. All I know is that the year after Dave and I attended between our 3^rd and 4^th grade year, it closed down. I do not mean to imply that we had anything to do with that. I can also report that to our knowledge, nobody died or was lost in the woods during our session week. But as 3^rd almost 4^th graders, I doubt we were very keyed-in to current events.

So with Illahee shut down, and my parents, Jonesing for one sweet, sacred week during the summer for their motor-mouthed son to be someone else’s problem, they hunted for another summer camp option. They found it at a place called Camp Lutherhaven in the far away Inland-Empire Idaho land of Lake Coeur d’Alene.

Camp Lutherhaven was a little bigger than Illahee, offered more camp type activities, and huge added bonus, was attended by my elementary/jr. high school crush, Sandy Fairburn. Dave was roped in, and our summer camp adventures would continue, this time with more opportunities to try new things and have fun.

And have fun we did. For the next three years, Dave and I, along with various other kids we knew would enjoy Lutherhaven and get into all kinds of hijinks. But those stories are for another time. This story is about my last adventure at Lutherhaven, the summer before my 8^th grade year, and it was a doozy.

What made this year different from past years were a number of things, the biggest one was that Dave wouldn’t be there. I can’t remember if he had a conflict or if he just didn’t want to do it, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t like he was my sidekick, Dave isn’t sidekick material. I didn’t think I was his sidekick either, which meant I almost certainly was, but whatever the case may have been, I wouldn’t have him to lean on during what would be the most difficult camp experience I had ever encountered.

The other big thing that set this camp apart, was that we wouldn’t be staying in the relatively safe space of the main Lutherhaven campus of cabins. This year I would be part of a small group of campers that piled into a tiny armada of Gruman canoes to paddle all the way around the rather large Lake Coeur d’Alene and sleeping in small camping areas as we went. The brochure made it sound awesome, and the fact that Sandy would be in one of those little canoes made it even more appealing.  

In order to take full advantage of this unique opportunity to win the heart of this 8^th grade Aphrodite, I asked my mother to take me to a real barber for a real flat-top buzzcut. The kind all the coolest teenagers from my favorite TV shows sported. You know the shows: Ozzie and Harriet, The Donna Reed Show, Father Knows Best, My Three Sons, etc.; the television programming every young teenager loved to watch in the late 1980’s. Rol, the barber, did not disappoint. He gave me a crewcut so precise that I would have been automatically drafted into the US Navy had it been 1941. Sandy would surely find it irresistible.

I learned early on in life that overpacking had benefits that I felt outweighed the negative aspects. I never wanted to be somewhere without something that could possibly be needed. I like having items that are multi-functional as well. My Swiss Army Knife does an incredible amount of heavy lifting in these situations. On top of that nimble and useful tool, I planned to stuff my giant, water-resistant army duffle full of useful items.

I had a little tent, extra large garbage bags, lots of underwear and socks, toiletries, a small pharmacy of medications, rain gear, bucket hat, camping dishes kit with utensils, camera, clothing for every climate (baring arctic temps), toilet paper, canteen, bug spray, sun block, towel, sleeping bag, pillow, and a collapsible fishing rod with tackle box. I think I even brought an extra folding knife. It all fit in my duffle, though the fishing pole case did stick out considerably. For a canoe trip, I was ready to rock, and by rock, I meant row. I was ready to rock and row. (I know you paddle a canoe and you row a boat, but I really wanted that joke to work.)

From our town, Lutherhaven was about 3 hours away and because many kids went to that camp from Ellensburg, carpools were organized for the trips there and back. I’m not sure with whom I rode there with, but I don’t think it was Sandy. I do know that when we arrived there Sunday afternoon, all the campers were organized into the camps and areas where we needed to be, and the canoe trip group was no exception.

The camp wisely took everyone’s picture the first day when we arrived, not just because it would be the happiest and cleanest all the campers would look for the entire week, but also to have a current photo to distribute to any search and rescue teams in the unlikely event that a child would wander off unattended into the Idaho Panhandle wilderness. Our canoe group took our place in front of the camera as soon as it was complete.

In addition to myself, there was of course, Sandy, along with fast friends of hers, Hillary and Angie. Two other campers from Ellensburg, that I knew a little bit were Ross and Colby. Colby was in a play group I was in from the diaper age, so I knew him a little better I guess, but we hadn’t exchanged many words with him living in Ellensburg and me in Kittitas. Ross and Colby were both better at being teenagers than me. Kurt and Casey were two guys that I got to know quickly and liked them immediately. They were a little taller, maybe a year older, and definitely brawnier. They had brought the style of a thin gold chain worn with a non-descript baseball cap from the cosmopolitan fashion hotbed of Bozeman, MT. Matthew was an old friend I reunited with there through happenstance from early elementary school, and we got along great. Travis was a kid along for the ride because his mom worked at the camp and I had met him the year before. He was a little different but fine. Last and certainly least was Anthony. That wasn’t his name, but to avoid picking on a kid at a time that should not define what kind of person they are at their core, I’m changing his name. This little disclaimer should not be considered foreshadowing, but hey, draw your own conclusions.  

The two people in charge of supervising this expedition was Counselor Tim, Mid 20s with a receding hairline, and Gretchen, a German exchange counselor that probably learned she was on canoe-trip duty that afternoon.

The remainder of the day, the canoe group learned basic canoe safety, the many different paddle strokes to control a canoe while in the water and what our trip would look like. And it would look like this: Our group would be roughly two to a canoe and spend five days to make a big loop of Lake Coeur d’Alene. The lake itself is impressive, as mountain lakes go, it is 25 miles long, and ranges from a mile to 3 miles wide in places. There is over 109 miles of shoreline to explore and enjoy, with camping areas, private homes and a wide range of wildlife to be seen. Our canoes would make morning and afternoon trips taking us from campsite to campsite, hauling all our gear and food that we would need with us. There would be scheduled stops in the middle of each day for meals. There would not be access to showering, however washing in the lake was encouraged.

Did not having access to showers tip me off that we may not have options for other bathroom opportunities as well? No, it did not. I guess in my mind, I believed that every stop would have a freshly cleaned restroom. Naïve would be the kindest way to describe that thinking. Foolish would be a better word choice. It wasn’t really talked about, or if it was explained, I was either too busy trying to think of the next funny thing to say or attempting to get Sandy to look at me.

That night we would sleep in a cabin at the main camp, and we would leave early the next morning to canoe around Lake Coeur d’Alene. We would be doubled up in our canoe assignments and I had all night to scheme my way into Sandy’s boat. It was also the last evening I had with a flushing toilet.

We were all smiles the next morning as our group prepared to launch from the camp’s beach. The camp director was down to see us off and the canoe’s had been pre-loaded with food and rations from the main camp in heavy duty plastic milk crates. Each canoe would carry some part of a day’s meal. We were given strict instructions to not touch the food.

I don’t know what happened when it came to canoe assignments, but it was absolutely clear that not only I not get assigned to Sandy’s canoe, but Sandy had taken a liking to one of the other guys on the trip. Which, if you’ve ever been an insecure teenage boy, is about as close to the end of the world as you know it. In terms of how that can affect a young man’s demeanor, the swing from self-hatred to jealousy is as lame a character arc as there can be and it is certainly unbecoming or a young man or an improver of that young man’s mood.

Adding insult to injury was that I was partnered up with the kid that I knew the least about, Anthony. Which was no big deal, I thought, because I generally got along with people well and made friends quite easily. The first thing I learned about Anthony on that beach as we pushed off the sand and into the lake, was that Anthony absolutely didn’t want to go on the canoe trip. He didn’t think this was going to be fun, he was hungry, he didn’t like canoeing or camping and he didn’t get enough to eat for breakfast.

Anthony was a little smaller than me, so he sat toward the front of the canoe to basically add a little paddle power while I paddled and steered from the rear of the narrow boat. By adding a little paddle power, I mean he added little. His paddle was certainly in the water a lot as he talked about nothing in particular—I couldn’t hear him very well because he was facing forward and I was not interested in any of the things he was saying. His paddle was doing more to slow us down than move us forward, and it was starting to get difficult for me to steer and propel us forward, so I asked Anthony to pull his paddle out of the water.

The group had a lovely first hour or so on the water, laughing and cruising alongside one another. We were making good time and the early morning was pretty on the lake. It was a little breezy at first  and as the distant dark clouds started to roll in, we noticed the breeze turn into a wind, and that wind was kicking up some pretty intense lake movement. Tim hollered at all of us to get moving because that day would be our longest leg of the trip to our first overnight camp. The mood quickly changed from light-hearted pleasure cruise to something with more determined purpose.

Anthony and I were starting to fall behind, and about two hours into our canoeing adventure, it was starting to get serious. I asked Anthony to start paddling again, and to his credit, he did. It just wasn’t moving us forward into the wind where we needed to go. The rest of the canoes somehow managed to make it around a particularly rough point out of an inlet, and try as we might, Anthony and I couldn’t get around. Neither of us were having a very good time and we both desperately wanted to keep up with the group. And if I’m painting a picture that Anthony was terrible at canoeing and I was a canoeing masterclass PhD Professor and 6-time Olympic canoeing champion, please know that I’m a terrible painter and that this is not the case. Anthony was doing his best, I was doing my best, and our bests did not get us where we were going.

It took all the canoes far longer to get around the point that was the objective than it should have and a couple boats lingered back with us until they finally made it around with power and/or teamwork. I realized that we didn’t have enough of either and really poured on the power from whatever reserves we had. I was a little panicked that the group was gone, because once around that point, it was much smoother paddling in a semi protected area.

I was incredibly angry at the whole situation. Anthony was of little help and I convinced myself I could get the canoe around the point if I didn’t have the weight of him in the canoe with me as I paddled. Where the hell had my counselors gone? Surely they would see that they were a boat down, it had been at least 45 minutes since I had seen anyone else from our group. Even if I could get our canoe around the point, would I even be able to catch up? My arms were starting to get really tired.

“Don’t swear at it, do something about it,” Anthony said to me.

Apparently I had started cursing at myself, the canoe, the lake, the shore, the birds, the rest of the campers, and at Anthony’s inability to follow even the simplest instructions, for a solid hour or so. I don’t know how aware of the swearing I was, but as I tuned into it, I was a little surprised at the quantity and volume of which the swearing occurred. It wasn’t the filthy dirty, sexual type of swearing, but rather the angry, exasperated and powerful expletives that more like dynamite than poison. There’s a little overlap in the Venn diagram of naughty words, but swearing has everything to do with context, and the context here was frustration mixed with exhaustion and just a pinch of wanting to break a canoe paddle over the head of the person that just told you that the thing you’re doing that they find rather unhelpful is probably also the thing that is sparing them from my wrath.

After my umpteenth attempt at piloting us out of the rough inlet, we parked the canoe on the beach in front of a very nice lake house and I walked up to ask to use the phone. I was very tired, very hungry, and I thought I would call the main camp to see if there was anything they could do to help us out.  Or maybe I could convince them to take Anthony to wherever he would have rather been, which was anywhere. A nice couple let me in to use their phone and I was able to leave a message with Lutherhaven Staff that we were having some trouble, not an emergency, just looking for a little help. I thanked the couple and didn’t hang around. I went back out to the beach where Anthony and the canoe were to find that he had helped himself to some of whatever was in our forbidden food crates.

“Dude, that’s not ours, that’s for everyone. What are you doing?” I asked him.

“I’m hungry and they left us,” he said. And he just kept eating graham crackers that looked like the most delicious food I had ever seen. I refused it though. I knew we would be in trouble for falling behind, and in recent hindsight that I had called the main camp and asked for help—which wouldn’t make Tim and Gretchen’s job review exactly sparkle. I wasn’t going to add “food thief” to the list.

It was incredibly windy now and the swells of water on the lake were around 3-4 feet high. Water was getting all over us but not exactly “swamping” the canoe as we made final attempts.

Something new was happening to me. The exhaustion gave way to nausea. I was getting very motion sick. My last few attempts to paddle around the cursed point were pathetic, not just because I was paddling my arms off, but I was doing so between puking over the side of the canoe and into the lake. This was the end of the first half of Day 1 of canoe camp. At least Sandy didn’t see the puking.

Tim appeared around the bend coming back for us with another canoe and a couple more paddlers. They were able to get us around the point and into slightly calmer waters. That was about the same time the camp director appeared in the familiar Lutherhaven speedboat to make sure we were all okay. Tim had a few words with her and I too let them know all was alright and that I prematurely called for help, just to smooth it over for Tim and Gretchen, because they didn’t deserve that extra grief.

The rest of the group was not all that far away and had stopped to wait for the lunch that was in Anthony’s and my canoe. Once we were there, and the crates opened, it was revealed that there wasn’t much of a lunch left for them to eat. Anthony pretended to not know what happened to all that food, and I was so out of it with motion sickness and exhaustion that I couldn’t defend myself in front of everyone. Anthony didn’t want to get in trouble, I get it. But that meant someone had eaten a big portion of the food, and if only Anthony and myself were in possession of this food, and Anthony swore up and down that he didn’t have any, that left only two choices: Our canoe had been robbed by professional ninja lake pirates in search of carrot sticks, graham crackers and sandwiches; OR the person in the canoe other than Anthony must have eaten the food. It may have been the exhaustion or the nausea, but I was getting the idea that the entire group was pretty sure I had eaten their lunch.

What was left of the food was eaten by the group. I didn’t have much, either because the sight of food was too much for me or because the group believed that I had already had my fill and then, like a jerk, was just wastefully throwing it all up into the lake. But anyone looking closely at my vomit would easily be able to see that it was entirely made up of eggs and toast, not sandwiches and carrot sticks. It turns out that nobody in that group was interested in working at a forensic crime lab and therefore uninterested in my exonerating bodily fluid.

My body was done, yet I still needed to spend the second half of the day in a canoe. Tim wisely broke up the canoeing teams and with an act of mercy, put Anthony with someone else. I’m sure he was just as tired of me as I was of him. I was placed in the middle of Hillary and Angie’s canoe, which I certainly didn’t argue with. I laid back in the middle of their boat and tried to sleep through the rest of the day’s journey.

Angie and Hillary worked well as a team and I was able to paddle only a little here and there. I was having vivid fever-dream hallucinations from the exhaustion, several of which I remember well to this day. One was of a small pyramid appearing in the lake, where I walked through to find Elvira, Mistress of the Dark guiding me into the pitch black hallway. There I was chased by the lizard creatures from Land of the Lost called the Sleestaks. They chased me through mazes, and even when I was awakened by our canoe getting jostled or somebody yelling, I would still fall back into the nightmare.

Every once in awhile I would try to politely warn Angie and Hillary that I was about to vomit over the side, and then I would violently wretch what little was in my stomach. I made sure to get it all in the lake though. Nothing came back in the boat with me. I believe Hillary was in the tail of the boat and had to paddle through it and did so like a champ. She did it with empathy rather than disgust. It would have been so much easier for them to just whack me over the head with a paddle and let the lake ease them of their burden by dropping my body over the side. But they had that night’s meal with them and rocking the canoe enough to dump a body would have made whatever dry goods they were transporting wet and soggy.

The waves did not stop. I was utterly useless to those two strong young women entrusted with one of the first of many times they’ve had to work extra hard to get some dumb man where he was going. And to drive that metaphor home, they had to paddle against the wind, through vomit, while listening to him moan on and on about some other woman—in this case, it was Elvira.

The three of us fell behind the group and the two young women decided they needed a break, either from the paddling against a relentlessly windy lake, or from the insufferable animated cadaver they were doomed to transport, or probably both.

Angie and Hillary helped me out of the canoe and up on to a rocky beach strewn with driftwood located about 100 yards from a moderately lovely lake house. It was a lake house that said, “my owners have a lot of money, but they don’t spend it on me.”

After propping me up against a log, Angie and Hillary disappeared, probably to pee or scream about me into the trunk of a dying ponderosa pine. Because of our lack of bathroom opportunities around the lake though, I believed they went looking for a toilet. They may have even told me they were going up to the lake house. I was rather delirious at that time, so I could be forgetting or it could have been another of Elvira’s tricks.

Sitting there on the beach, and looking out the 1/3 of daylight I had left on day 1 of 5 of this canoe adventure, a few things were starting to occur to me. The first was that I preferred to be on land rather than in the canoe because my stomach felt better and the nauseas feeling subsided. As my strength grew, I realized I was very hungry after graciously donating the entire contents of my stomach to the fish of Lake Coeur d’Alene. I also realized that although Angie and Hillary were two very bright, strong, kind and empathetic junior high students, they were still junior high students and would most definitely paint a picture of Steve Damm with so much vomit and resentment that not only would THEY never show any romantic interest in me, but my crush, Sandy Fairburn who would be back at camp tonight would be forced to permanently eliminate me from her list of possible suitors.

All I had done was try my best to get myself and a nerd with a black hole for a stomach around a corner in a canoe and I had utterly exhausted myself to a state of “uh, gross?”

After about 10-15 minutes motionless on someone else’s private beach wallowing in a low hanging cloud of my own shame, I heard Angie and Hillary return to the canoe area. Although most believed I was guilty of eating most of the day’s lunch (which Angie and Hillary would have known was untrue if they had bothered to inspect my vomit as they paddled through it), it was not lost on me that asking for just a little something to eat would be in poor taste, but I was in bad shape. I had only ever felt that terrible one other time before in my life and I never cared to be there again. So I threw the idea out there casually, you know, like a simple investment opportunity I’m only letting a few close friends in on.

“Hey, glad you’re back. Do either of you know if there’s just a little something I could put in my stomach to settle it down. I’m pretty hungry.”

“Uh,” They both said as they looked at each other and then back to me, “why do you ask that?” Angie finished.

“Just wondered, this motion sickness and exhaustion has done a number on me.”

“No,” Hillary said and gave me a look that was more final than annoyed.

But I had thought that I really bothered them because they walked a good distance away from me. Far enough that I couldn’t hear them eating crackers had they chose to NOT walk upwind where the crunching sound was carried easily from their smacking lips on the shoulders of the gusty winds of Lake Coeur d’Alene to the hungry ears of a middle school boy, finally breaking his spirit as he realized they lied not because of the wrong they were doing, but of the wrong they thought that I had done to them.

I was pretty pissed at the whole situation, and it wasn’t a good look for me.

It turns out, where Angie and Hillary had gone, was to ask if they could use the restroom at the lake house. Finding nobody home and believing their need to use a toilet was greater than their need to not be arrested for criminal trespassing, let themselves in to use the restroom…of a stranger’s house.

It would be another 3 days before I would be on the edge of doing the same thing for the same reason.

On their way out of the house, Angie and Hillary grabbed a few saltine crackers from the kitchen. I doubt any judge would consider that even “light burglary”, and years later the women would easily justify the act as something the owners would have graciously offered them anyway. More than likely, yes, but only after the owners mistakenly shot the two women dead. This canoe trip was already proving to be desperate times in regards to food and lack of bathroom facilities.

The wind died down and we decided to get back into the canoe and catch up to the group. I was able to paddle again, despite the lack of crackers in my stomach. I bravely pressed on in hopes of finding the night’s camp and possibly a warm dinner for the wrongfully accused.

It turns out that the rest of the group were right around the bend, just out of sight of us and someone was even getting ready to come back to see where we had been. By that time, enough people had interacted with Anthony enough to not only apologize to me for thinking I had eaten most of the day’s lunch, but to compliment me for not killing him while we were in the situation that made me exhausted and motion sick. It may have been that Anthony did me a solid and tried to smooth any ideas of me eating everyone’s lunch over. I’m not sure what happened, but everyone was overcompensating in the “Steve’s a good guy,” direction and that took quite a bit of the sting out of the day.

Remember when I described Angie and Hillary as kind and empathetic? Remember how I said they would more than likely talk to the group about how gross it was to deal with Steve while he basically slept and puked while they had to get him where he was going? I don’t remember them doing that. I don’t remember getting teased about being weak or too sick to “do my part” which I was certainly afraid of. They could have, and they wouldn’t have been wrong. It was gross, I did make their day more difficult, I did talk a little too much about Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. But they were actually quite cool about the whole thing. That brought peace to me at the end of the day…The first day.

Oh my goodness this is only the first day!

To be continued next week in “You Canoe It!” Part 2:

In that episode: Fishing, donuts, rain, cholesterol tests, I NEED a bathroom, I MAKE a bathroom, I’m scared out of my mind, body, and soul.

Every year during the holidays, people settle in to watch and re-watch the touching story of my brother, George Bailey, learn that “no man is a failure who has friends”. Well, I’m in that story and I’m here to tell you, that movie is a load of horse shit. I was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. Where’s my movie?

First of all, this business about George losing his hearing in one ear from saving me when I fell into the ice is nonsense. Any doctor worth their salt will tell you that you cannot catch a cold from exposure to the elements. I was in the icy water longer than he was and my ears were just fine. If anything, he caught the cold from not eating his vegetables. That ear thing ended up keeping him from going to war like Bert, Marty, Ernie and me, but whatever. A cold is a virus, not an evil curse that hides in ice water. He probably caught it from that stupid megaphone he was always yelling at me with.

Look, I love my brother, but where was he when Pop had the stroke? I’m racing all over town looking for George during the last minutes of my father’s coherence to find my sainted brother holding a naked teenager against her will in the hydrangea bushes. I mean, what kind of sick bargain was about to happen there?

Did you see the part in the movie where George came to watch me play football at college where I made Second Team All-American? No? That’s because he never did. I played there for four years. The campus was an hour-and-a-half away by train. Even Sam Wainright made it to a game, and that guy was an asshole.

Maybe a movie about me wouldn’t have skimmed over my offer to take over the Building and Loan from George. Maybe my movie would have showed George begging me to let him stay after I mentioned I would have put Uncle Billy in charge of jigsaw puzzles instead of handling all the financial assets. Maybe my movie would have shown me asking George to stop referring to my wife as a “peach”.

A film about my life would have spent more time showing what I went through in the War. I shot down 15 planes and two of them were about to crash into a troop transport. The film failed to mention that I was out of fuel and on fire while I did it. No big deal. After all, it was the fire and the fuel part that clinched me getting The Congressional Medal of Honor. Who wouldn’t want to see that?

When President Truman hung that medal around my neck, he asked if Ma was my only living family because all the other recipients had a big crowd of people. I told the President that George didn’t feel like making the trip even though the Navy was paying for it. Truman felt so bad he asked his wife to take Ma to lunch before they her home. Little did I know, George was busy giving money to Violet Bick for some reason and NOT depositing the lifeblood of the family business at the bank.

Instead, George entrusts our goofy Uncle Billy with enough money to buy almost two homes in Bailey Park. Look, I love him, but Billy needs a map to cross the street to the bank, and another map to get back. I would bet the squirrels in Uncle Billy’s office would have had a better chance of depositing that cash than Billy did. 

But, you know, it’s all about George. He has half of a bad day where he screams at his family, gets drunk, and plows his ancient car into a tree before deciding to throw himself off a bridge. Oh, the drama! Seven hours of panic and he completely falls to pieces.

Keep in mind, I know none of this as I arrive home from receiving the highest honor our military can bestow for bravery above the call of duty. I walk in to find half of the town literally lined up to dump piles of money at my brother’s feet, for nothing more than running the family business into the ground. 

By the way, I ended up taking over the Bailey Building and Loan. I used things like “math” and “accounting” to build it into a chain of 14 locations and bought Old Man Potter’s predatory-lending bank for pennies on the dollar. It may have been what finally killed him.

I mean, come on! Who wouldn’t want to see that scurvy little spider ruined just before he died? That’s how “American Hero: The Harry Bailey Story” would have ended.

 

 

In Star Wars Episode VII, we were introduced to the giant hologram form of a new big evil villain who is corrupting the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa with the dark side of the Force. There have been many theories on who the new Star Wars villain truly may be. Everyone on the internet has a theory about who this Supreme Leader Snoke is and they all kind of stink. They are also all correct. Here are all of my theories as to who Supreme Leader Snoke really is.

 

R2-D2

 

R2-D2 has to be Supreme Leader Snoke. Think about it, Snoke has only been seen as a hologram. Who do we know can project holograms? That’s right, R2-D2. Furthermore, everyone’s favorite astromech droid has been around since Episode I, and if you remember the end of Episode III, Bail Organa doesn’t wipe his memory. He has ALL THE HISTORY! Sure, people will say that R2 was at the Resistance’s base the whole time, seemingly mothballed, but who is to say that R2 couldn’t access a hologram projector wherever he wanted to project some weird figure out of a Tool video?

 

C-3PO

 

Take a good look at Supreme Leader Snoke. That’s probably what Anthony Daniels looks like after 40 years of squeezing into that robot suit.

 

Chewbacca

 

Chewbacca is Snoke because he became jealous of Han Solo’s son, Ben, after he was born. Chewie missed flying around the galaxy with his favorite smuggler so he decided to create a new persona to manipulate the little brat out of the picture. We’ve never heard Chewie speak the “Basic” language, but we know he understands it. We also don’t know what Chewbacca looks like under all that hair. My bet is that he looks just like Snoke. Also, Chewie is big, Snoke is big…

 

Luke Skywalker

 

You know that guy that plays chess against himself in the park because there isn’t anyone good enough to beat him? That’s Luke Skywalker after Darth Vader dies. Luke is tired of being “The Last Jedi” and decides to start some drama so that he would be relevant again. Bored, with nobody to swing a lightsaber at, he creates the Snoke identity to not only for something to do, but also to get revenge on Han Solo for stealing the love of his life from him—his sister.

 

Anakin Skywalker

 

We only saw Vader’s suit and helmet burning on the pyre at the end of Return of the Jedi. I know, we saw two different force ghosts of Anakin as well, but doesn’t that kind of tell you that anything goes in these movies?

 

Han Solo

 

The famous smuggler and general always had an angle, and getting his son Ben back would be no exception. He becomes Snoke to trick Ben into loving him again, only as another person. Ben becomes Kylo Ren and desperately needs Snoke’s approval; Han’s wish is fulfilled! Only now it’s getting too complicated, with Han re-booting the Galactic Empire and not being able to keep up the charade any longer. Han realizes he has to fake his own death and to do so convincingly, has to make Ben think that he killed his father.

 

General Leia Organa

 

Leia is Snoke for the same reason Han is Snoke. She wants to get Ben back. She stumbled on to Han’s Snoke plan and started taking over the role while Han was a way. That’s why Kylo is so conflicted: BECAUSE BOTH OF HIS PARENTS ARE FIGHTING EACH OTHER THROUGH HIM!

 

Lando Calrissian

 

How could Lando NOT be Supreme Leader Snoke? We don’t know where Lando is. He’s got motive. After feeling the unbelievable rush of blowing up that second, bigger Death Star in his old ship, the Millennium Falcon, he gets bitter about losing the ship to Solo in the “best game of sabacc” Han ever played. You lose a sweet ship like that in a card game and you too might think of turning the son of the man that bested you into the new dark power in the galaxy. Also, I imagine that sketchy gas mining deal Lando had going in Cloud City probably produced the chemicals to not only deteriorate Snoke’s appearance, but also made him twenty feet tall.

 

Uncle Owen

 

First of all, you don’t know whose skeletons those were on Tatooine in Episode IV. Also, becoming Snoke seems like something that grumpy old bastard would do.

 

Mon Mothma

 

Haven’t seen Mon Mothma in a while, have you? It’s because she’s totally Snoke.

 

 

Rey

 

Perhaps you noticed that Supreme Leader Snoke and Rey are never in the same scene together. There’s a simple explanation for that. Rey and Snoke are the same person. Rey uses the technology she steals from the wrecks of AT-ATs and Star Destroyers on Jakku to project herself as Snoke to use the military might of The First Order to find her mom and dad.

 

Wicket the Ewok

 

Have you ever seen what an Ewok looks like when you crash a moon-sized satellite into its home world and burn all its fur off? Motivated to learn the language and destroy both the Empire AND Rebellion for putting them in the middle of a war they didn’t ask for, Wicket becomes Snoke to steal the baby of the woman that got him into that whole mess in the first place—Princess/General Leia!

 

Jabba the Hutt

 

Jabba has a huge bone to pick with all of the Star Wars gang. The Hutts certainly had the scratch to keep the Empire running as the scaled back First Order. I know you think you saw him die by Leia’s hand, but come on! How do you strangle Jabba’s neck? Where was his neck? He may as well have been all neck. The Hutts are highly resilient and I’m betting he was just faking that disgusting tongue roll and tail flap. You don’t think he does that all the time? That’s a Tuesday for a Hutt. If Jabba isn’t Snoke, he’s pulling the strings.

 

Finn

 

I never saw Finn and Snoke in the same room together. That’s all I’m saying.

 

The Clone Troopers

 

They each take a turn as Snoke and they all look alike, so it works. It’s part of their new collective army approach to ruling the galaxy. It’s also why Finn feels singled out. He’s not like the others.

 

Han’s Frozen Tauntaun

 

We know surprisingly little about tauntauns. It is entirely possible that Han’s tauntaun didn’t freeze to death or die by the horrific lightsaber belly-wound. Tauntauns might be brilliant shapeshifters that are comfortable with humans riding them around. That’s why this is the most likely alter-ego of Snoke, because of what tauntauns might be capable of.

 

Padme

 

Padme is back, and she’s making her big play. The Grandmother of Ben Solo just wants some quality time with her Grandson. We don’t know what she went through to become a giant disfigured hologram, but a whole lot can happen in forty years or so. She’s got no love for the Jedi. They got her into this mess in the first place. If she would have just paid the trade federation the extra 3% they were holding out for, the Jedi never would have shown up and started “aggressive negotiations.”

 

Yoda

 

Say that you’re 900 years old and you’ve been a good little boy all of your life, then, towards the end, a narcissistic, power hungry, maniac ruins everything you built, forcing you to spend your retirement years alone on a swamp planet. Your only visitors are a whiny kid who is trying to cram all of your 900 years of knowledge into a weekend of training, and an old friend who appears as a ghost, but only when the kid is around. You would probably snap too, make yourself disappear, and take a shot at being the baddest badguy in the galaxy. That’s why Snoke, Yoda is.

 

Snoke

 

So far, Snoke is the only character to identify himself as himself. He looks, sounds and acts like Supreme Leader Snoke. The only thing that points to Snoke not being Snoke is the fact that he’s just a hologram.

 

 

Grand Moff Tarkin

 

Tell me Snoke doesn’t look like the decomposing body of Peter Cushing.

 

So there you have it. When the big reveal happens in Episode VIII or Episode IX, you won’t be surprised.

Welcome to the 2016 Sales Kickoff! How was that dinner out there? Wasn’t that salmon amazing? The Marriott really outdid themselves tonight. Let’s give the kitchen staff a big hand!

Great meal, but I’m telling you, I could use a Thin Mint right about now. Anybody else? Craig over there knows what I mean.

Some of you might be wondering why I have my nine-year-old daughter up here dressed in her Girl Scout uniform. Well, I’m here to tell you, it has everything to do with our aggressive sales goals this fiscal year. She’s here tonight as a symbol of what we need to do to crush our competition by showing us how to be prepared.

You see, that’s the motto of the Girl Scouts of America: Be prepared! Megan came prepared tonight. Not only is she in her spotless uniform with spit-shined shoes, she came prepared with the paperwork needed to sell a ton of cookies. We have fifty-seven tables in this ballroom and you’ll notice that each table has ten cookie order forms, or one for each of you. That means she came tonight with almost six hundred forms. That, my fellow employees, is being prepared.

This is the kind of spirit that needs to be with each of you this next year. Frankly, it’s a spirit that I found lacking particularly in the third quarter of last year, table twelve I’m looking in your direction. Because, whether you’re selling software or delicious, coconut Samoas, you need to be prepared.

“How prepared?” you may ask. Well, just take a look at those order forms in front of you. Notice how painstakingly each one has been filled out with your personal names, addresses and home phone numbers. Megan did that herself, with the help of our HR department and many nights at the kitchen table. That’s preparation. That’s spirit. That’s commitment; knowing that if you pull this off, not only will you be able to go to camp this year, but you can sponsor other, less fortunate girls to attend camp.

“That’s a lot of preparation,” you’re saying to yourself. You’re darn right it is. But is it enough to get you to select at least four boxes and return your form to the table in the back? The one with the cases of every type of cookie the Girl Scouts sell, including the new Toffee-tastic which is gluten-free? I think it is.

The key to getting your customers to commit their software budgets to you, is making it as easy as possible for them to do so. How about being prepared with some sort of free trial or demo of some kind? Something like the plates that are being delivered to your tables right now by members of Megan’s troop. Notice how there are plenty of samples and how well they are labeled so that you can tell the Tagalongs from the Shortbread, the Trios from the Savannah Smiles. Go ahead, try some. They are only available for another week and then good luck finding them for another year. It’s a good thing you can freeze them.

As we go into this year’s selling season with the kind of goals we have set, if we aren’t prepared, we won’t survive. Our software is good, just like these chocolate-backed Thanks-A-Lots are, but it doesn’t sell itself. If you’re not prepared to make the sale, not only will we not “go to camp” as a company, but our company might need to downsize, just like the Girl Scouts will, if they don’t hit their goals.

Finally, as your VP of sales, I’m committed to watching out for each and every one of my salespeople in this room. Please take the time to shake my hand as you personally turn in your order forms to me at the back table. Megan, her troop and I have every confidence that each one of you will do what’s expected of you this year, starting tonight. Good luck in your individual territories, and any checks you may write tonight should be made out to Troop #883.

It didn’t go away. Everyone said it would go away, but it had not, as yet, subsided. The pain of losing Oscar, our dachshund of twelve years, had left me in a low funk, of which the likes of Earth, Wind and Fire, Bruno Mars, Tower of Power, and The Dog-Father himself, George Clinton, could not funk up.

It had been three months since that little, warm roll of doggie dough had smiled and wagged at us. His little paw prints, still fresh in our hearts. Everywhere we turned, there was a sad reminder of something about Oscar. His smelly harness we couldn’t throw away, the bed only he would sleep on, or briefly, the food that would no longer vanish after being accidentally dropped on the kitchen floor. We even missed his farting.

“What’s that smell?” Wendy would ask me while sitting quietly in our living room.

“That’s fresh air, honey,” I would reply, and Wendy would nod, understanding that she could no longer smell the stale mustard gas aroma that used to the air.

Gracie, our other far more nimble dachshund had slowed down considerably. Her Alpha-dog status now only honorary after losing the only other dog she commanded. Leading a pack of one is still far more important than just leading yourself, and Gracie knew it. So, needing to be faster and jump higher slipped away, replaced by slumping through the house with head held low.

The loss of Oscar had created a void and melancholy in the atmosphere around our family that was palpable. His shadow touched all we attempted to do. Our hearts were all heavy and sore from the shock and pain of losing such a bright spot in our lives, which Oscar was. It was a bright spot that was missing from our lives that Wendy intended to do something about.

Saturday morning, March 14th, 2015 our family had opted for a late wake-up in the master bedroom. How this works, is around 5:40 am, our son Zachary comes into our bedroom and fires up a movie on our TV. I then try to sleep through whatever he chooses. After about an hour of that, Wendy noticed what was on and changed it to something better.  Grace is usually in our bed too, and she will either stay under the covers or lay right across the bed. But on this day she opted to curl up between Wendy and I.

Wendy had chosen Best in Show, one of our family’s favorite comedies. It’s a mockumentary style film about competitive dog shows featuring a great ensemble cast. I casually watched with one eye as I lounged about. Wendy, ever the multi-tasker, crushed her way through tasty after delicious level of her candy-pattern game, while laughing at the jokes we had heard many times before from the movie.

“Do you want breakfast?” Wendy asked me.

I immediately over process this question. She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t want breakfast but can clearly see I’m trying to sleep. So that means she’s hungry and wants breakfast. When I wake up and want breakfast, I get up and make breakfast for everyone. Wendy knows this, and likes when I make breakfast. I make good breakfast. But I am not hungry and don’t have an impulse for breakfast. Does Wendy mean donuts? No, because her question did not contain the word donuts. Wendy is purposeful with her words. Why does she want to know if I want breakfast? She rarely encourages me to eat. Shoot, there are times when she actively tries to stop me from eating. But she’s bringing it up, so she must believe that breakfast should happen. Is she offering to make breakfast? No, she is just asking if I want it. She is very thoughtful, but wait—why now? Why breakfast and why me? She doesn’t like my pancakes. That’s insane! I make THE best pancakes in the Western United States, but I’m sure she doesn’t want those. I would want them. The boy definitely would want them, but Wendy doesn’t. To me, breakfast and pancakes go together like breakfast and pancakes do. Why doesn’t Wendy like my pancakes? Everyone loves my pancakes. Kids want to sleepover—not just for the company of my delightful son, but realistically there’s a strong case for my pancakes. But Wendy likes eggs. My eggs ARE pretty good. No, they’re great. My eggs are fluffy, never scorched, incredibly tasty and made with cream cheese, chives if I’m feeling fancy. Am I feeling fancy today? No, today is decidedly non-fancy. Wendy wants my eggs. She might want them in a wrap or burrito of some kind. Do we have the ingredients? No, we are out of cream cheese and milk but might have a couple eggs. Not good enough. If you attempted breakfast this morning, everyone would be disappointed. No donuts for me, no pancakes for the boy and no fluffy, awesome eggs for Wendy. Still, what she said was, “Do YOU want breakfast?” Me. It’s a clear question that I can answer “no” to, but that wouldn’t be true, now that I’ve spent this two seconds thinking about this. I really do want breakfast. But everyone will be disappointed. Go with a grunt, but not indicating an answer either way. See if she will give you more information. Maybe she’s offering to make breakfast.

“Hrmmpf,” I grunted.

“That’s it!” Wendy said sharply, “we are getting a dog today.”

“No,” I said firmly, snapping up meeting her gaze. “I mean, no?”

“Yes, we are getting a dog today,” Wendy clarified.

“We are getting a dog?” Zach chimed in from the floor at the foot of our bed, “can we get a puppy?”

“Hell no,” I said, “everybody just go back to what you were doing.”

Zach, understanding the family dynamic and where to apply pressure, crawled up next to Wendy, opened his eyes extra wide and cuddled into his mother, “Please Mommy? I’ve always wanted my own puppy.”

“Let’s take a look online,” Wendy said as she swiped off of her game and began her search.

To be fair. I had admitted earlier to Wendy that I did log in to petfinder.com just to see what was out there. When I did, I was reminded what a tremendous job taking in a pet can be. Having just finished with a dog that had many health ailments and all that comes with them, I remembered that being free of that was very nice. I mentioned that I looked at dogs to empathize with Wendy wanting another dog, but also to build the case against it. No dice.

“We are not getting a dog today and we are certainly not getting a puppy,” I attempted to assert.

“No puppies, but we are getting a dog today,” Wendy said, pulling up adoptable pets in our area on the Internet, “here’s one…”

“I’m not ready for another dog. It’s too soon,” I attempted to reason.

“You are miserable. You and Gracie both are sad and lost around the house. All your joy is gone. Put some pants on and let’s go get a dog,” she said.

“All of my joy isn’t gone,” I attempted to counter. Wendy responded with an exaggerated look that seemed to ask if I was actually trying to pass that line off as the truth.

Still, all of this felt rather impulsive, and when the impulsivity alarm in someone heavily medicated for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder goes off, you can be sure that the impulsivity is rather extreme. It’s on par with punching someone at a bar. The idea seems very rewarding, but there are many consequences that can be overlooked.

When we first took the doggie plunge and adopted Gracie, we had done hours of research on dachshunds. We weighed pros and cons against other breeds. We had a kennel, collar and leash before we even picked her up. We had books on and read articles on dachshunds and pre-registered for dachshund rescue before getting her from a reputable local breeder.

It was the same deal with Oscar, we took the time and found the right dog for our house. Now, it seemed like all that prep time was to be abandoned in favor of pointing at a furry face full of teeth and taking it home to live with our small child.

Before I knew it, Wendy was on the phone to a local shelter asking about a dog she had seen on petfinder.com. Wendy actually dialed the phone herself, which is something she rarely does. This was a bad sign.

Wendy asked about the dog and was told that it had already been adopted. Wendy’s voice fell and my hopes were bolstered by the news that the dog was now gone. But Wendy stayed on the phone. She should have hung up. “Dog gone” should equal “hang up.”

“Oh, that sounds great!” Wendy told the person on the phone, “We will be there in twenty minutes.” She hung up the phone and popped out of bed with purpose.

“We will be where in twenty minutes?” I asked.

“The shelter, the woman said that the dog we liked was adopted but she just got a big load in from Los Angeles,” Wendy said as she began to get ready to go.

I imagined a dump truck full of stray dogs, tipping a small mountain of them into a chain-link enclosure.

“Load of dogs from Los Angeles?” I said aloud to myself as I pondered what that meant. Was it five dogs or fifty? Were they all in their own travel kennels or were they sliding into each other through their own filth in the back of an old, surplus, former Frito-Lay panel truck? There is no way that the smell was good in any of those situations, but I assume any aroma that may have effected the driver was probably burned off by the radiant glow of the driver’s sainted halo for saving the lives of a truckload of dogs and then driving through the night to deliver them to freedom. That person must be the canine Harriet Tubman.

And these aren’t Washington dogs. What would they be like? Would they be rail thin and need colonics and yoga? Would some of the dogs be bilingual? That would really help Zachary with his Spanish, or possibly another language—though it’s most likely Spanish.

What if there are dogs that are members of gangs? I know not all dogs from Los Angeles are in street gangs. I’m not naive though. Some of those dogs are bound to know what it’s like on the streets.

And all of a sudden, I’m in the car. That happens sometimes when I start imagining stressful scenarios. Somehow we made it halfway to the shelter with Wendy giving me directions. Zach is asking Wendy about different kinds of dogs. Gracie is in her travel crate, probably thinking she is going wherever Oscar went on his last solo outing from the house. I’m still not sure how I made it all the way to a part of town I’ve never been too, which seems dangerous considering that I’m driving.

I’m still very much against this decision.

But now you’re asking, “if you were really against getting a dog, you wouldn’t have gotten into the car.” But you would be wrong. I only went along with this because it has been brought to my attention on several occasions that I say, “no” too much. I do have a habit of shooting down adventurous ideas when I feel the time is wrong. I own that. And when I think of all the “noes” that I have racked up, or when they are brought to my attention during a debate of whether or not a new furry family member should be added to our family…well, it carries quite a bit of weight. So, the leverage was pushed and the coupon for “one big yes” on any family decision had been cashed in.

This feeling of guilt, and the promise that we would be visiting the shelter “just to take a look,” had put me in the car with Wendy, Zach and Gracie.

Many independent animal shelters are operated by good people who work long, thankless hours simply to ensure the irresponsible pet decisions of others are taken care of and shepherded to loving homes. The shelter we headed too was no exception.

It was what they call a “no-kill shelter,” meaning dogs that were about to be euthanized for simply existing would be rescued to these other shelters whenever possible to spare a good dog’s life a little longer. It’s actually more depressing than it sounds.

The place was…humble. The entrance to the shelter had a baby gate added to the security of the main escape hole. This required us to open the glass door and then begin solving a puzzle to unlatch the sturdy, swinging section. It was unsolvable, like all baby gates. But we were quickly aided by a young volunteer, who made it look easy.

The front room had several couches draped in sheets, an oval rug in the middle of the floor, and a fairly well organized feel. There were several small dogs milling about the floor, in varying degrees of breeding. Some were scared, some barked and some immediately wanted to know why I was there.

The initial experience was brought to a screeching halt, as I threw my arms up to prevent my family from following me in.

Danger. There was danger, of the kind that requires absolutely no sudden movements. I felt it first, then rewound the scene in my mind’s eye to place where the sensation was coming from. Urgent danger, but no sudden movement. My hands stayed outstretched as I dropped my gaze and then my chin, down to the desperate situation from which I had absolutely no control.

A pit bull, chocolate in color with a ribbon of vanilla splitting its forehead, stood in front of me with his head between my legs. That is what I felt. This mass of muscle was giving me a thorough examination and I squelched an interjection as I received a muzzle nuzzle in and around my two closest bodily friends.

In that brief moment, my mind went through all the information I had ever seen or heard of on pit bulls, and why a fully grown specimen would end up in a shelter. If given the choice, I think having this or a shotgun pointed at one’s crotch would be a toss up. However, I would have preferred the unreal shotgun situation over the very real possibility of my nest having a couple eggs snatched from it.

“Oh, he’s friendly,” came a voice out of my sight lines. I wasn’t making any sudden moves. “But if you brought another dog, I need to lock this one up. He will rip your dog to pieces.”

She didn’t say, “they won’t get along,” or “the dogs will fight.” What she meant was, no matter what size or kind of dog you bring in, this dog will immediately turn your dog into hamburger. She said it as if she could not imagine a scenario where a dog could defeat this dog; this dog that currently had its unbeatable jaws full of muscle-shredding teeth just one centimeter and some Target-bought khaki fabric away from turning me into a Ken doll.

The woman called the dog away, and just before it pulled away to obey the command, I dropped my gaze to meet his. Our eyes met and he kept my gaze as he turned and trotted off. His face gave me the look a middle school bully gives an oboe player after being proactively stopped from pummeling the oboist by a passing teacher. The muscles under his fur rippled and flexed as he made his walk to his makeshift solitary confinement. The sight made me wonder how much time the dog spends at the gym.

Sharon had an Eastern European accent and gave us an exhausted smile as she shook our hands. This was her shelter and we could tell she was doing the best she could. One doesn’t run a no-kill shelter to get rich. There is a dedication that drives an animal lover to do this, and by this, I mean put every single dog’s needs ahead of their own.

Sharon had been up all night managing a delivery of dogs and now she was happy to take us back to meet some of the dogs that showed up. I’m certain that at that moment, the wildest dream in her exhausted brain was, “maybe these people will take them all and I can retire.”

We left Grace in the entry room in her kennel, preparing to go in and meet the new family member. Several small, but friendly mutts hid and emerged from hiding places like the munchkins of Oz, coming to see the young dachshund who came from afar.

“No puppies,” I said to Wendy.

“We are just looking,” she said. I didn’t know if she believed the lie she was telling me.

“Just… No Puppies.”

“Oh, absolutely no puppies,” Wendy said emphatically.

When the door to the main kennel opened, we were hit with wave of sound and odor. Dozens of dogs were barking, echoing off the warehouse walls. The smell was a mixture of urine, feces and a strong cleanser. Dogs poop and pee, so lots of dogs means lots of poop and pee; it’s to be expected. The cleaner made everything seem alright though.

Why am I holding this tiny dog? Her eyes are so big and she’s licking my face very quickly. She can’t seem to get close enough to me and her eyes…her eyes…

Wait. How did this happen?

I had to stop and think. I walked in, poop and pee, we looked all over the kennels… what happened?

Okay, I walked in, stinky, looked at the lake of fur in several different chain-link enclosures. There’s the tiny dog, doing everything it can to get to me. But it’s a puppy. No puppies. So why am I holding it now? How much time passed?

One more time: I walked in. Stinky. Lots of dogs. Puppy escaping. We aren’t getting a puppy… so I look away at a very sweet looking pit bull.

In the middle of an enclosure, surrounded by a dozen nervous, barking, larger dogs, a tan and white young, but grown pit bull looked up at me. She was calm and curious. She sat still and she watched me walk over to her.

I asked Sharon about the pit bull and Sharon explained to me that the pit bull was a rare Parvo survivor as a puppy. She said when a puppy contracts the Parvo virus, they rarely live without a large amount of nurturing. That means the sick pups must be held and loved a whole lot, in addition to medicine and monitoring to keep them alive over a period of weeks. The result being a very strong dog that is well socialized. This is how you create a 120 pound lap dog.

I put my hand in for the pit bull to smell—my non-dominant left hand, I’m still dog-prejudiced a little. She smelled it while looking at me sheepishly and licked my fingers, either lovingly or hungrily. I got in with her and she let me pet her and then, in the ultimate act of doggie trust, let me rub her belly. She was so soft and very sweet. We are just looking at dogs today.

Over my shoulder, the same, tiny, black and white puppy that had been trying to escape caught the eyes of Zach and Wendy. They started over to it and I could hear Zach start to ask about it as he pointed excitedly. NO! NO PUPPIES!

“HEY!” I hollered back at them, “come look at this sweet girl,” hoping I could break them away from looking at the puppy.

Wendy and Zach snapped away from the tiny Holstein-spotted quadruped trying to get to them and immediately walked over to the dog who had casually stretched out, letting me rub her down.

Wendy got the rundown from Sharon on the pit bull and was very interested in learning more. Zach started to give her some pets too and seemed enthusiastic. The dog was very well behaved in a place where the easiest behavior is misbehavior.

“We should see if she gets along with Gracie,” Wendy said.

“I’ll get a harness,” said Sharon before I could protest, and she slipped away to find a leash.

“But we aren’t getting a dog,” I said to Wendy, who looked at me and expertly nodded her head with an expression that walked a line between: “Of course we aren’t getting a dog, this is just for Zach,” and “Of course we are getting a dog, you’re just too stupid to realize it yet.”

We took Gracie and the pit bull outside for a quick walk and let them sniff each other out. Gracie didn’t hate the pit bull, or at least was scared or smart enough to know not to antagonize this dog that weighed seven times what she did. They seemed to get along fine. What would it be like to have a very little dog and a very big dog?

That was when it hit me about our living situation. At the time, we were renting a home from a man who begrudgingly allowed our two wiener dogs to live there after he was placed in an awkward situation by the property management company. The landlord tolerated the idea of our two dogs because we had great references and because they were small. Pit bulls aren’t small.

Pit bulls also have the dubious distinction of being, well, pit bulls. There is a definite stigma attached to these dogs because they are often bred for fighting and aggressiveness. I’ve always thought they got a bad rap, but I doubted our little community would allow one either.

Now I had to explain to the family, which was going to break everyone’s heart and I again would be the bad guy who says “no” and doesn’t want a dog. What was worse, was that this dog was very sweet and I was really starting to like her and could see her being one of the family.

What the hell was I doing at a dog shelter? I can’t handle this. I love dogs. This is a terrible idea.

Why am I holding this puppy?

We took the pit bull back in, all of us a little disappointed, and I explain to the pit bull that it isn’t her fault and I was sorry to get her hopes up. She looked at me like she didn’t understand what she did wrong. Zach and Wendy looked at me like they knew what I did wrong though.

We stood there, and all of a sudden, I see the black and white puppy squeeze out from under her enclosure and in a flash, she was jumping up on Zach who was simply delighted. His pleasure manifesting in a cacophony of squeals and giggles that instantly intoxicate a parent’s soul.

This moment caught us up to what was happening in my arms. That was definitely the puppy I was holding. I ended up holding her after she stopped licking my son’s face and he needed to pass her off. I didn’t want to hold her.

Puppies are absolutely vile and horrible creatures. They crap all over everything, walk through it and step all over your carpet and furniture. They pee everywhere, staining and smelling up the place with their inexhaustible urine supply and they roll in it and then rub up against you so then you smell like you wet your pants. They chew up everything with their cute little mouths and then they are very sorry that they did it, and look at you like they’ll never do it again, but then they can’t help it; they do it again immediately. They’re always licking you and wanting to be near you and they snuggle in close and fall asleep on your lap because they are just so tired from running around, playing with anything they see. Puppies are always loving you and granting you all of their loyalty and constantly there when you’re sad to give you some of the most sincere empathy you’ve ever encountered… It’s disgusting.

This little puppy fit in one of my freakishly small hands. She was vibrating with energy, yet burrowing her nose into my neck. Her soft, pink-padded paws batted at my ears playfully, when she wasn’t looking into my eyes, actively engaged in trying to steal my soul.

It’s all in the eyes for a dog if you look hard enough, even for a young puppy like the one I was holding. If you look long enough, you could see their past, present and future. Whatever simple hopes and dreams a dog has are carried in the glassy orbs planted in the ocular cavities. This dog was showing me fear and hope, swimming in chase around her wide, brown irises.

It would be a pure fairy tale to think that this dog saw us walk in and chose us to be its new family. You want to believe that is true, that it was meant to be that family and dog would have found each other thanks to divine intervention.

Sure, it’s a beautiful thought, but the reality is that this dog wanted out of the horrible situation it was in. The puppy was scared, alone, trapped and probably getting pushed around by all the other scared dogs at the shelter. The puppy did whatever it could to make something happen, and that meant working hard at escaping and pleading its case to us as best it could, through licking and eye contact.

Maybe the dog wasn’t meant to meet us in a magical sort of way, but I can tell you what is real. That dog worked hard for a shot at us and I respected it for that. It broke out of a strong cyclone-fenced enclosure and ran straight for our weakest link, which was the boy, knowing we would give in to whatever he wanted. You had to respect this little dog’s gumption.

Gracie was the last test. Gracie had been lonely without Oscar to kick around the house. The loneliness manifesting itself in grumpy, low-energy days, lounging around our house. So when we stuck this new little puppy with her, it was easy to misread annoyance for excitement. They got along alright, it seemed. Gracie rolled her eyes at us as if to ask, “you’re not seriously considering this, are you?”

Gracie was right. We weren’t there to get a dog and we certainly weren’t there to get a puppy.

“Steve, go get the money from a cash machine to cover this dog’s donation fee,” Wendy asked nicely.

“But we aren’t getting a dog,” I said.

“Just…just go get the money,” Wendy said, using some kind of Jedi mind-trick on me.

I drove alone with my thoughts to extract the cash donation for the shelter. In my mind, I doubted that the money was to be exchanged for a dog. I justified getting the cash by telling myself that no matter what, we needed to help this shelter out and a donation like this would help me walk out of there dog-free, without the guilt of not having helped the shelter.

I returned with the cash. Wendy was chatting with Sharon and holding the black and white, tiny dog as Sharon put away the syringe and medicine from the shots the dog had just received.

“Steve, give Sharon the money,” Wendy smiled and nodded encouragement to me. I handed Sharon the cash.

Wendy now had a purple folder with many pieces of official looking paper. There were papers with codes and stickers marking dates for vaccinations and checkups. “Rat Terrier/Jack Russell Terrier” was the breed designation.

I didn’t know much about either breed, other than the TV show Frasier had a Jack Russell on it and the dog seemed nice. Plus, that show won a few Emmy awards, so a Jack Russell couldn’t be that bad. The “rat” part of rat terrier sounded less appealing. Was it a dog cross bred with a rat? I know there had been several new breeds of dogs that had emerged over the last few years and I sincerely hoped nobody had been crossing rodent with canine species as a hobby that took off and somehow became legitimized.

We took the purple folder, Gracie, our portable kennel and the little dog out to the car and got in. My hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel as I transferred some of my frustration out of my body.

This dog wasn’t anything like Oscar. It didn’t have Oscar’s face or easy-going temperament. It wasn’t even a brown wiener dog. It was just some little puppy that couldn’t sit still and didn’t want to stay where it was. But that was how this dog was exactly like Oscar.

Much like Oscar, when we came to meet it, it was happy to see us and ready to leave and start a life with a family that would love it. Very much like Oscar, it came to us immediately and would not let us leave without them. So we didn’t leave it, we left with it. We left with a new damn Damm dog.

Wendy could see the resentment and frustration clouding my face as we drove away from the shelter. “Steve, we can take her back…” Wendy said, but I cut her off angrily.

“No! This is a HUGE mistake Wendy!” I was upset.

“We can take her back right now if you want.”

“Noooo,” I said in a long, bitter tone, “We can’t take her back.” I squished up my mouth into a tight frown and shook my head as I drove off out of the parking lot.

“We can,” Wendy corrected, wanting me to know that we really did have the option of returning the dog.

“No, we can’t, because I love her and nobody will ever take her away from me,” I said with a finality.

“You said this was a mistake,” Wendy asked with confusion.

“Yeah, I know, it can be both things,” I said, “this is a mistake but I’ll be damned if I’m going to take her back to that shelter. What kind of monster would take that sweet little dog back to a place like that?”

“So, you want to keep her?” Wendy asked.

“No! I don’t want to keep her, but we are keeping her because I love her.”

We drove for a while in confused silence. Wendy confused by my conflicting statements, Zach by the fact that we were leaving with a strange dog and I was just confused period.

(More silence)

“What should we name the dog?” I asked, after a good minute of flipping my attitude.

I kind of wanted to name her something odd and quirky like Banjo or Rhubarb.

“How about Rhubarb?” I asked.

“Like rhubarb pie?” Wendy clarified.

“Hey, it’s pi day, three-fourteen. Maybe we should name her Pi,” Zach said.

It turns out, whenever you complete a circle, even a family circle, you have to get the formula right. So in that perfect moment, we began to rebuild our broken family circle by plugging Pi into the equation, and that’s the Damm truth.

I wiggled for my wife.

It was a silly, playful wiggle I did as I was about to get in the shower. My shirt was off and I was using my body, in what I believed was a humorous manner. It certainly wasn’t meant to entice my wife in any type of arousing way. 

My tummy is not what you would describe as “traditionally handsome.” I believe when moved seductively—not seductive at current size/weight—my belly can be pretty funny. It is too; it is sitcom-funny. My wife doesn’t like sitcoms, and rule número uno in comedy is “know your audience.” 

That little joke was very not what Wendy likes. Specifically, it reminds her of the unfortunate state of my body’s shape. That leads her to question my health. Then she extrapolates the date of my death and is unsatisfied with the idea that today’s date and my dying day are too close together.

But Wendy, she is a woman of action. She believes that she controls our fate and she immediately makes her move.

So what happens in less than five seconds, as I am shimmying my imperfect frame between curtain and shower, is this: 

“Hey Wendy,” I called out playfully to my wife while simultaneously pumping my arms around my chubby torso, “whoop, whoop, WHOOP!”

Wendy glances at me and her eyes wince a little, like eyes do when they come upon something too shiny to perceive or visually unpleasant. “You’re doing Body Pump with me today.”

“Damn it.”

—

Now don’t get me wrong, I have been going to the gym, exercising, seeing my trainer regularly and there have been solid results. My trainer, Danny, explained to me that the people you see everyday have a much harder time seeing the progress you make than a person who sees you only rarely or every few months.

I have received such praise about my physique taking positive shape, from qualified individuals no less. My friend Erica, an extremely knowledgable personal trainer—who also happens to have better jump rope skills than you have ever, ever seen—specifically remarked favorably at certain positive changes in my musculature. We all acknowledge that my stomach requires extensive work, she didn’t focus on that. She thought my arms, chest and shoulders had much more definition than before. I trust her, she’s a professional.

So I have been exercising. I have been going to the gym. I have been improving (do you sense a big “but” coming here? I do). But my belly weight drew too much attention to the wrong centers of my wife’s brain. Straight past the “ha-ha” centers and right to the “he is going to die” centers. 

The verdict had come down. I was going to do this dreaded Body Pump class. It was a class that I had successfully avoided for over ten years. The reasons were simply that I thought it would be a tough class and I couldn’t hack it. Avoiding that class had nothing to do with the idea that group exercise classes are seen by some as feminine or girly. Let me squash that idea right now. I did some aerobics and dabbled in some Jazzercise in college and it was vigorous.

I have no prejudices against this type of exercising. I just know that I don’t want to do it for many reasons.

For those not familiar with the Les Mills branded workout classes, they are popular at gyms and health clubs around the country. The class I will be focused on is a high-intensity, high-rep, hour long program utilizing specialized free weights that have all been labelled with weight amounts far less than they end up weighing. I don’t fully understand how the program works but I can tell you that the weights are made out of a material that manipulates gravity over the course of the sixty-minute class. This means even the smallest weighted “doughnut” becomes almost un-liftable by the end of class. It’s remarkable really.

Wendy has been doing a version of this class for over ten years. It works. It produces visible results quicker than an 80’s movie montage where a down and out character quickly gets into shape over the music provided by the film director’s cousin’s rock band; so, ridiculously fast. 

Body Pump is the only activity that I have seen my wife do, that comes anywhere close to defeating her. You may point out to me that my wife birthed our son naturally, and that was probably harder. I would disagree. My wife was rather jovial after giving birth. She can run miles without even realizing she has. Her endurance is staggering. Body pump consistently hits Wendy hard. THAT is what scared me most.

Standing there in the shower, I began to panic a little. How would my sad little frame handle that class? “I need a plan. I need a plan. I need a plan.”

“You need a plan for what?” Wendy asked outside the door, “you aren’t getting out of this.” 

“I know,” I said, crestfallen, “I’m doing it. I’M GOING TO DO IT!”

“Hurry up,” Wendy said.

Walking through the parking lot at the gym, I felt as though my eyes were taking in everything in slow-motion. Was this to be my final hour? My brain seemed to be making all the preparations. I could feel whole systems in my body shifting and in disarray. My circulatory system began to pump, in preparation for me to flee the situation and not do the class. My nervous system, on the other hand, felt like it was just plain shutting down. I felt numb. My respiratory system switched to manual and I had to think about every breath.

I signed in at the gym and picked up a small towel to clean up the inevitable vomit I would spew just before dropping dead on the polished parquet floor of the exercise studio. 

A quick fantasy flew through my mind, imagining the scene of me dropping dead of self-imposed over-exertion. Wouldn’t Wendy feel awful if I just keeled over in class from a massive brain hemorrhage? She would. She would try to revive me with CPR, but that would just break my ribs and hurt me more. She would be told that I died of a brain hemorrhage and not the heart attack she so wrongly assumed I was having. She’d think I had a heart attack and then be shamed by the coroner’s report that my heart was probably the healthiest he had ever seen. “Wow! Was he a drummer?” The coroner would ask my wife. 

“Yes, he was,” my wife would answer surprised, “how did you know?”

“Because his heart was so strong. He must have had excellent stamina behind a drum kit. His heart could handle anything, but he must have been pushed too hard. His powerful heart put too much strain on a blood vessel in his brain. He must have been very smart.”

“Wait, how did you know that?”

“In brilliant people, the barriers in the blood vessels are thin near the brain. That’s what caused this. Ideally a person like Steve, with such a healthy heart and brilliant mind, shouldn’t have exerted himself at such heavy exercising levels. Light, infrequent movement and lots of indoor activities with snacks would have kept him alive and well for decades. Not to put too fine a point on this, Dr. Iwaszuk, but had Steve not gone to that Body Pump class, he would be alive today.”

I let the scene draw a satisfied smirk on my face as Wendy snapped me out of the dream I was using as a coping mechanism. (FYI, the coroner in my little death fantasy looked and sounded exactly like the munchkin coroner from The Wizard of Oz.)

“We are going to be late,” Wendy said as she directed me past the water fountain I was moving toward to fill my bottle, “There’s water in the room, we gotta go. Don’t get water here, we need to get setup.”

Setup for my doom.

The studio was large, rectangular, with a stage set up against one of the long, fully-mirrored walls. The polished hardwood floor was too nice to puke on. I figured if I could just get a spot behind everyone, in the back, I wouldn’t make as big a spectacle of myself when my body shuts down and I pass out in a pool of at least two, but more likely three or more of my own involuntarily evacuated bodily fluids.

Wendy pointed at the water and immediately began grabbing equipment to get setup. I grabbed equipment and followed her, thinking I would fill my bottle after setup. Wendy got us setup right up in the front row. Front. Row.

I knew I was going to have to do the class. I had accepted it, but the little plan I had made back in the shower at the house had me in the darkest corner, farthest from the stage and in absolutely nobody’s line of sight. This situation was the exact opposite. As I was setting up this fairly elaborate bunch of weights, platforms, mats and a bar, I became extremely uncomfortable with all the people around me. 

Why? Perhaps it was the fact that I knew I would struggle through the program, not keep up and fall behind, like every fat guy you have ever seen workout on TV. Go ahead, picture a fat guy working out and getting sweaty. I knew there was a possibility that I would be that guy, and the show would now be up front for all to see. 

What if I farted? Aggressive exertion of the body has been known to push a little air out of a colon. Mine is no different; accept that it is. I don’t know why, but my gas can be plentiful and rancid. Not only that, they tend to be rather loud. With practice—I will not practice this—my farting would make a suitable 2nd chair trombone replacement in most youth orchestras around the country. A sustained note from my colon would let everyone know where the terrible smell was coming from.

I stood there quietly as Wendy excitedly patted me on the back.

“Are you ready? I’m really happy you’re doing this,” she asked, more to cheer me on than anything else. 

I wasn’t happy, I was quite freaked out. I was a little panicky as My eyes darted from Wendy to around the room and then back to Wendy. “I have some concerns,” was all I could say in a low monotone through unmoving lips.

“You’ll be fine,” she said as she loaded up her bar.

I moved to do the same. Not the same weight my wife did, I’m no dummy. I went with less. This actually was part of my plan from the shower. “Steve, don’t be some macho hero and try to do the same weight as your animal wife,” I believe was my thought. I would check my meager machismo at the door. 

The weights for the Body Pump bar easily slide into one of three spaces on either end. As is tradition, both ends should hold the same weight to maintain balance. To remove the weights, just pull back on a plastic release just inside the bar. It is different from typical free weights in that they aren’t heavy, clanging plates that cane stacked out to a ridiculous level. These are smaller square-ish doughnuts of reasonable size. With the quick movements, the bar prevents the rubberized weights from falling off the bar.

For any weight-lifters out there wanting to ask the immortal weight-lifting question: “Dude, do you even lift?” My confident answer to this question is: “No.”

Judging from Wendy’s bar, I had reduced the weight to about half what she was doing, it was definitely less. Others around me had more weight, but screw those people, I wanted to live through this.

The instructor welcomed all of us through her headset microphone, waved at Wendy and a few others she knew and went right into the exercising. No fifteen minute orientation or safety talk about what to do if you experience chest pain or nauseous stomach, nothing. We were going to fill all sixty minutes with intense movement. 

I was immediately behind. I was behind the movement of the group, the timing on the song, and I was unclear at the directions coming from the instructor. I didn’t know the lingo and I was struggling to keep up. 

The weight seemed good. It was a challenge and I pushed through the last of the reps of the first go-round. I was starting to sweat and reached for my towel and empty water bottle. It was strange, because I remember thinking I was just a little thirsty toward the end of the set, but upon seeing my water bottle was empty, became thirsty like an alcoholic stranded in the middle of the ocean.

“Alright! That was the warmup,” the instructor said, “go ahead and load up those bars.”

The class all dropped to their knees to add weight to their bars. I had two problems with this: I was having trouble not dropping my bar at the end of the set because of the weight I had selected, and also, my thighs were on fire from the lunges and squats I had just done. I wouldn’t be able to get low enough to switch the weights without some kind of audible moan.

“Rowmmeeeeaghppfff,” I stifled the moan as I dropped to the ground to switch out the weights. I quickly looked to see if Wendy was monitoring my performance.  She was.

“Great, wasn’t it?” She said, energized and smiling at me, “hear we go!” She was slapping on extra weight.

I was not going to add extra weight, but I sure wasn’t going to stand there and NOT change the weight. Then Wendy would know just how much trouble my body was in. 

Because everyone was so focused on changing the weights quickly, I figured  I had a shot at pulling this off. I took the weight off the right side and then moved to the left and took those plates off. Then I went over to my pile of weights on the right side again and started picking up and putting down the plates as if I was looking for a particular size. Then I put the same plates on the right side that I had on before. I made the left side look the same.

It worked. Wendy didn’t suspect. By that time we were one rep behind and needed to hustle. I reached for a quick drink of water, but my bottle was still empty. 

This water situation was going to be a problem. I could feel my body drying up. I still had spit in my mouth, but it took awhile to conjure it up.

With the warmup done, I was at least now familiar with the different exercises we were going to do, but apparently we were going to do more of all of them, preferably with more weight than before—wink, wink.

I’m watching the instructor, who is making quick work of twice the weight on my own bar. I was trying to copy her movements as closely as possible. I wasn’t doing it very well. I know this, because Wendy caught my eye and demonstrated to me the correct way to lift the bar. It was very helpful to have two role models to follow during a class I was just trying to make it to the end of. 

“You want to keep your back straight, like this,” Wendy said, breaking formation and coming over to me. “Watch my legs. See how low I’m going? Go that low…or just go as low as you can…GOOD JOB!”

I just nodded Wendy away and focused on doing the right movements, only wrong. I wasn’t angry at that point, I just wanted one person to focus on and one person only and that was going to be the same person everyone else was getting their instructions from. I wasn’t going to go through a Body Pump clinic with my wife in the front row of a Body Pump class that was currently in session.

It was strongly suggested to me and the rest of the class that we “push it” and “keep it up.” I had a difficult time doing both, so I alternated between “pushing it” and “keeping it up.” This was only the second compromise I made for the class. There would be more, and they were progressively more shameful.

At about minute twenty-two I looked toward the doorway to see if, by chance, my son Zachary was walking by between shooting hoops and ping-pong. I thought that if he would glance in, maybe, just maybe I could motion him through the sweaty crowd swinging weighted bludgeons around to ask him to bring me a drink of water or fill my bottle. He never wandered by, and I was at a bad angle.

We started into a power-press section where we press the bar high over our heads.  This became significant because it was about that time that I noticed something I found about my workout that was truly horrifying.

In the mirror, as I was raising my bar high above my head, I noticed a tiny sliver of my belly becoming exposed as my shirt lifted over the threshold of my workout shorts. My arms came down and it disappeared. “Oh please tell me that nobody saw my tummy,” I thought to myself. 

“Really push those bars up there!” The instructor called out over the pulsing music. 

I did. I really pushed it up there and I was rewarded with the most unflattering part of my body making a peekaboo appearance at the apex of my lift. I needed to tuck that belly back into my sport shorts, correcting this problem and salvaging any dignity that I might have left.

With my weight bar at the top, I see the lower hairy half of the tiny cave that is my belly button. I bring the weight bar down hard, almost dropping it through my strained, oddly-small hands. My shirt, unfortunately after going so high on my body and coming into contact with untapped reservoirs of my sweat underneath my pecs/man boobs, decides to not make the return trip downward to cover my shameful tummy. 

I wanted to yank my shorts up over the sagging abundance of fat and flesh, to ensure future arm raises would not reveal my portly paste. But because my shirt was hung up on my sweaty body, I decided that needed to come down first, so holding the weight bar in front of me with one hand, I grabbed at my shirt and pulled down hard. While my hand was down there, I quickly released the shirt and grabbed for my shorts to pull up.

Though for a brief instant I thought I had succeeded in fixing an awkward situation, in actuality I had just made my situation worse. It only took a momentary glance in the mirror to see what I had done.

As I was again reaching the top of the rep with my press, when my belly had been at its most exposed, I saw that my shirt was tucked in…to my underpants. I had not grabbed my black shorts and pulled them up under my black shirt. No, that would have worked and been perfectly camouflaged. Instead, my light blue underpants were pulled up and over black shirt. It was a tight, wide and tapering section of blue, that in contrast to the black exercise shorts and shirt, really shined brightly under the studio lights.

Whatever laughter or giggling that there may have been was drowned out by the loud studio music or my own exasperated cry of horror.

When the weight came down, I pulled out my shirt, found my shorts and yanked them up under my shirt, which sounds like I had fixed the problem, but I had actually created another problem. For a split second, there was a suspicious bulge peaking out of the bottom of my shorts. 

Not knowing exactly what the bulge was, and not wanting to risk going to jail for exposing myself to an entire exercise class, I immediately closed my knees, while my feet were still spread out to just under my shoulders. This motion, paired with my bar above my head, made it look like I was  moving into full body collapse. I lost about 10 inches very quickly and I brought the bar down fast to grab at my crotch quickly and tug some fabric over what may have been an edgier corner piece of my slightly exposed genitals. 

My wife looked over just in time to see the end of this little dance I was having with my poorly chosen exercise outfit. She gave a quick, puzzled look, then smiled at me and mouthed, “I’m proud of you.”

The music stopped, and the instructor told us it was time to lie down on our benches and grab two plates to work our arms. I think I was the first person to be on my back. After a quick pat down to make sure all my coverin’ parts were indeed covered, I exhaled and grabbed a plate in each hand to do, what looked like, flailing exercises.

On the upside, I got to lie down. That was welcomed, but I had selected the wrong sized plates to work my arms. By wrong size, I mean too heavy. Again, I selected the weights forgetting that they got heavier. 

“By now, you should feel some burning in your arms,” the instructor said.

I had passed the burning during the warmup. My arms were in uncharted territory of fatigue. I was less concerned about the way my arms felt then and started thinking about how much worse they would feel the next day. My brain immediately shut that down. Thinking of that was too scary. 

Somehow I found myself still moving and doing the routine at minute forty. I had begun to sweat so much that my brain was scouring my body systems for extra moisture to send out to my sweat gland cooling system. I had gone into class needing to pee, but all that moisture was pulled back. So despite everything else in the class causing problems and trouble with my body, I no longer felt an urgency to urinate. My brain was making the rest of my body and organs sacrifice liquid for this terrible endeavor like the rationing and scrap metal drives of World War II. 

“If we are going to survive this exercise class, all you organs are going to have to dig deep, DEEP, I say,” an image of my brain wearing a carnival barker straw hat would call out to my gathered bodily organs. “And now is the time to show your support by purchasing sweat bonds!”

It’s hard to remember if those last thoughts were just my imagination or straight-up hallucinations while I wobbled through our next section, which worked the legs through a series of lunges and squats.

For the uninitiated, squats are simply the motions of sitting down and standing in an invisible chair without the aid of your arms to lower or raise you. Lunges could be described as a particularly long walking stride that you abandon halfway through walking and then move your body up and down in a noncommittal act of either moving forward or back. It’s a very stubborn exercise.

The hard part about the lunges for me was the balance. I would move down slowly into a lunge and then wobble to needing to abort the motion and break the stance. The problem was, every time I would lose my balance I knew I could break the lunge and rest from the burning feeling of my thighs. I was already sore from the lunges I was doing in class. I shuddered to think of what the burn would feel like the next two days.

The instructor, who was very positive and not at all judgmental of either my wardrobe malfunctions or that I kept tipping over during the lunges, had one quirk that kept me guessing and off of the routine. At random times, she would sing along with the song that was playing. Unfortunately the lines were all vague clips of the lines that could have—and were—misinterpreted as directions or cues for directions. 

“This is…” She spoke loudly into her headset mic. Then nothing. No direction, she would just keep doing the reps.

“This is what?” I asked myself. What was I missing? The movements didn’t change. “This is what?”

Then the chorus of the song comes around on its own and I here the line is: “This is, the part where I say I don’t wanna.” Which not only clicked in my head as the line the instructor sang along with, but it made me agree. I didn’t “wanna” be doing any of this.

My water bottle was still empty. 

We stopped again to switch weights and the instructor asked the group how we were doing.

“Are you starting to feel it?” She asked us enthusiastically. 

“Nauseous?” I thought, “yeah, I’m definitely feeling it. 

“WOOP! YEAH!” Wendy cheered and smiled, which, positive as it might have been, was a little off-putting to those of us—just me—unable to enunciate anything as clear as a “woop” or “yeah.”

Oh, how the sweat drained off my head. I finally “got” what sweat bands were used for. Though in my case, some kind of gutter system around my balding patch, with maybe a miniature rain barrel. All that sweating sure made me thirsty. 

“Let’s finish the track up with some push-ups!” The instructor called out.

“I’m going to die,” I may have mumbled, but I doubt it was audible. I dropped down and got into position on my numbing, wobbly arms. The following push-ups were the saddest push-ups anyone has every done. They weren’t in time with the group, they weren’t in proper form and I can’t even confidently say, my body actually left the ground.

Luckily I did not have to leave the ground for the next part. I just had to turn over on my back. It was a challenge, but after a minute of labored breathing, I was able to not only roll over, but to actually end up on part of my mat.

I had never been so thankful to do sit-ups. The core work was easy by comparison to the rest of the stuff we did. Laying on my mat and working anything but my arms and legs? Yes please.

I looked over longingly at my water bottle, still empty.

Suddenly, the music changed from pulsing, rhythmic psychological assault, to soothing synthesizers with low tones and a softer decibel level. The lights dimmed and the mood changed from go to slow.

We stretched, though admittedly I just rolled around on the floor groping uselessly for relief of my throbbing and tired muscles. I had made it. I made it. 

Wendy patted me on the back, and I attempted to move my face to a smile. I tried giving her a thumbs up, but it looked strange when I couldn’t lift my thumb.

I was dizzy. I was nauseous. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t make it home.

My body shook as I slowly shuffled to the water fountain while everyone else hurriedly raced around putting their equipment away. I filled a cup and drained it twice before we left. The water helped, but I still had a long way to go to get to the car. Wendy helped put my equipment away. I made a promise to myself that I would thank her for that when speech returned to accessible abilities. 

“Is daddy okay?” Zach asked Wendy as I lagged behind walking to our car in the parking lot.

“I think so,” Wendy said, trying to sound confident and hiding a concerned look over her shoulder.

The next day, my body ached like star crossed lovers in a Shakespeare play. Getting out of bed was difficult, but only slightly more difficult than lying in bed. Every muscle group was compromised and sore. Raising my leg to get in the shower was an ordeal, because once one was in, I had to make the decision to bring it back out our bring the other in with it knowing I would have to step back out of the tub again. I did opt for the shower. I didn’t take the easy way out. 

Stepping into my underpants was probably the most dangerous thing I did that morning. Balance, and the inability to bend made me have to approach my underwear with far more strategy than I had ever needed in the past. 

Stairs were almost out of the question. Dropping off Zach at his school, I had a total of three (3) shallow, stairs to negotiate to get inside and sign him in. Zach bounded up them as if they weren’t there, and for all I know he leapt over them to the door. To me they meant necessary pain. I won’t say it was an ordeal, but I will say that when I went back to pick him up, I used the wheelchair ramp.

I’m not a fool—at least in this particular case, I’m not a fool—I know that all the effort and soreness and pain would be for nothing if I didn’t go back. So I went back. And I went back again and again. There is less pain, and my water bottle is always full. 

Don’t get me wrong, I hate it. But I feel better and like the progress I’m making. I’ve even gone alone. I’m going to keep going, because it’s important to my family, yes, but also for another reason. I never want to see Wendy wince from watching me wiggle, and that’s the Damm truth.