Hello Dear Reader. Recently, certain people among your ranks have made insinuations. Dangerous insinuations. Namely, that my blog favors video games and movies over, say, the well-being of my wife and myself. There have been suggestions about re-tilting this balance. Some radicals have even called for Corelyn to receive her own weekly column. And to this I reply, with a strong and resilient voice:
Why don’t you love me anymore?
Ahem. Imagine that last sentence in the manliest voice you can fathom.
But seriously, what actually happened was my mom told me she was starving for some rudimentary updates, swimming in a vast sea of dork jargon. I hadn’t really noticed, but it is true that the last five or so entries have been ranting editorials which left little room for personal details. Fair enough. Still, my response was to laugh maniacally, and then advise her to relocate from the kitchen premises if she could not “take the heat” therein. The poor woman, she could barely wrest a description of my day from me when she paid for the house I lived in and the food I ate. Now I’m on the other side of the country, having dozens of experiences every day that are fascinating to her (because moms are like that), and I just won’t loosen the embargo. She must log on every day with her fingers crossed, just pleading to hear something about our weekend plans. You and I both know she is normally disappointed. When is a mother’s suffering done, Dear Reader?
Actually, my desire to avoid that stuff stems not only from the mind-numbing tedium associated with authoring them, although that figures heavily into the equation. Frankly, going “real” gets you in trouble. My father and I both have blogs, and both of us can tell you horrifying stories about just the wrong person happening across a certain post. For me, my employer actually googled the company on the one day I wrote an entry about them. Dad, meanwhile, vilified a local business he found unsavory, and then the daughter of the owner linked him the post. What’s scary about these stories is not just the fact that they happened, but that in both cases, the targeted personages discovered our work within a day of its creation.
Also, there are weirdos out there, I don’t know what they’re capable of, and my wife’s name narrows us down enough already. I’m fairly certain that a diligent stalker could draw together a complete portfolio on our whereabouts using what I’ve already provided on this website, and the idea chills me to the bone. I have developed a sincere understanding of how profoundly amplified consequences can be when you post things in the virtual medium, both concerning people you don’t know and people you do. It’s scary enough to make me hesitant.
Still, I suppose you must have your “details,” right? Sigh. Very well.
Last weekend, Corelyn, myself, and a gaggle of friends retreated to Zuma Beach in Malibu. Let me tell you something: freaking unbelievably great beach. The sand is soft and warm, it’s not that crowded, and the water is just the right degree of icy. We hopped in after some sunbathing, and once our teeth stopped chattering, I commented brazenly on the poor state of affairs in California for the amateur body surfer. Where, I queried aloud, where the early-crashing waves? The elegant monsters that would flick me to the shore effortlessly. Not here, I replied to myself, but I deigned to attempt a few waves anyway.
And then, as if incensed by the challenge, the Pacific gave me a long string of massive, early-breaking titans. These things were pretty mean. The first few, I honest to God chickened out on, abandoning my freestyle “wave catcher” stroke and sinking glumly under the crest. But I knew the ocean had been affronted by my ignorance, and now it was time to fess up. So the next time a giant rolled in, I grabbed it by the neck and let it take its best shot. For the next few hours, I experienced some of the best body-surfing I have ever encountered. The waves would often catch second and third winds during the ride, and they moved me with a purpose. Incredible.
I have a passion for body surfing. It’s probably the least elegant way to hitch-hike on the ocean, but there’s something natural about it that I connect with. I love that it’s literally just your body and the salt water, no intermediary, and while you don’t move as fast as a board of some variety would allow, you are also in some way more vulnerable. It’s a personal experience. I would never make a hobby or sport from it the way surfers can, but as an athletic form of recreation and respite, it’s unbeatable. The experience always cleanses me psychologically, and if you do it for a long time, you can even get a nice workout from it, too.
Anyway.
California weather continues to be better than your weather. It’s okay, don’t feel bad, you guys have, uh…you know…great trees, or something. Seriously though, we are overdue for a fairly bad earthquake, and when it happens you can get some smug satisfaction in your rumble-free homes. You will have earned it by then, because I’ll be calling your cell at six in the morning weeks on end, asking how the scraping of snow off your windshield is going, advising you to “keep warm” with barely suppressed snickers. Some of you (cough Billy cough) like to stand firm with the adorable declaration, “I like the cold.” I’m sure you do. But at least consider the fact that pigs may like mud because they’ve never tried a shower (not that you guys are pigs). Live out here in mid-December, then talk to me.
Speaking of which, my dutifully calendar-centric father informed me today that this weekend will mark a full year’s residence in the Wild West. I think he put it best, “What a year.” What a year indeed. Terrifying, exhilarating, and full of promise. Years like these are why we stay alive: they are not the most comfortable, or easiest, but they are profoundly formative. These are the times that the Lord shoves you around, pushing you to take breathless gulps of life, leading you by your faith alone. He has gone incredibly easy on us so far, but I hope we are ready for whatever is coming next. Being young and married is quite an adventure, as any who have been there can tell you, and even though it can push you to your limits, I wouldn’t trade this ride for the world. Bring it on.
0 Responses to “Beggars and Choosers”