The Dating Dad

5.5: January, 2013

It was one of those unseasonably warm evenings in Denver. The winter sun had just melted into low-slung clouds that were hugging the mountains, lighting them up in a halo of orange and silver, and I was standing on a balcony. Not just any balcony. I was 22 floors above the city in the iconic Daniels and Fisher Clock Tower, taking in panoramic views of the front range, chatting with a few close friends and my WideFoc.us team.

In another 30 minutes or so, the penthouse floors of the tower would be filled with a healthy crowd of more well-wishers — clients, colleagues, agency partners — joining us at 5.5 thousand feet above sea level to celebrate the 5.5-year anniversary of my social media consulting agency.

But for that moment, early in the party, a warm breeze swishing my hair around as I watched the sunset, with just a few special people around me, I had the time and perspective to take a deep breath and think back on the strange and wondrous road that brought me to that perch above the city.

The winding journey from biochemist to chef to corporate trainer to teacher to author to newspaper editor to social network creator/publisher/editor to PR agency account executive to VP of marketing at a startup to business owner (phew!) is a story unto itself. If I said that I started out working as a scientist in pediatric hematology and ended up, years later, as an author and the owner of a social media strategies company, it would seem like an enormous leap. But the narrative of small steps from one career to the next makes its own sort of logical sense. Mostly.

But when I thought back to that fateful moment, five and a half years ago, sitting on a terrace of a favorite coffee shop on a perfect summer morning, doing project work from friends and business associates while applying for jobs...that moment when I said, “Screw it. I just want to do this,” I’m sort of in awe of the balls I had to just go for it. 

With next to nothing in the bank, a new credit card, and a couple of small writing and strategy contracts in the works (copywriting and overseeing the development of printed collateral for one friend, drafting press releases and writing advertorial articles for another), I decided I wasn’t going to work for anyone else anymore. 

That very day, I brainstormed company names (making sure their URLs were available), paid a designer friend to brew up some logo concepts, and started designing a website on a blogging platform. Writing my own website copy was easy, and within a day of going live, I had emails and calls for contract work.

But it wasn’t until the owner of an interactive agency in Boulder called me for help in pitching the social media aspects of a larger contract that my new career really took shape. 

We’d worked together briefly, when his agency built the website for my previous startup. I was the problem child, throwing wrenches in the works by asking for functionality nobody understood. I wanted the site to be what I called “social media friendly,” with opportunities for users to make the brand more than just a utility in their lives. But my specs were vetoed by the startup’s CEO — an indicator that our working relationship was not to last much longer — and the site was built without them. But the owner of the agency somehow picked up what I was laying down, and when he found out that I’d gone indie, he was excited to put me to work.

That was the first fortunate step toward building my company — someone recognized a set of competencies in me that I didn’t know were worth much.

The second fortunate step happened over a dirty chai with one of the venture capital investors from the previous startup — a super-smart but grounded sage who asked me to pull up my website on my computer so he could show me something.

“See how you list ‘marketing strategy’ and ‘PR’ at the top, and ‘social media strategy and execution’ buried way down at the bottom? Get rid of all that other stuff, and move ‘social media’ to the top. Then start figuring out how you’re going to scale and hire more people, because you’re going to be busier than you can handle faster than you realize.”

I took the first part of his advice, but almost crashed and burned within the first six months of working for myself because I waited just a few weeks too long to make my first hire.

The first couple of years were all about survival — getting enough business to pay staff and mortgage and childcare expenses, taking responsibility when we messed up, figuring out pricing and proposals, taxes, and profit and loss. Social media consulting was in its infancy, and we developed new models and processes, refining them year over year. 

The cycle of busyness waxed and waned, but continued to grow over time, due to happy customers referring us on, professional relationships cultivated with love and attention, and some particularly good luck. We got screwed by the occasional deadbeat charlatan or badly negotiated deal (I learned, I grew), but mostly we got better at what we offered our clients.

I’ve learned so much about running a business in the last five years. Mostly from my own stupid mistakes. From sorting out how to bill and collect payments, to struggling with keeping staff productive, learning, and motivated (and knowing when/how to let go), to workflows, office organization, bookkeeping, and maintaining my own daily drive and motivation when I was blue or overwhelmed or heartbroken or just damn tired, I’ve somehow managed to keep the company growing and thriving in spite of my shortcomings and screw-ups.

This month, due to an unprecedented influx of new business since the turn of the year, I’ve staffed up to a crew of five at differing levels of employment. We may need to expand even further, if a couple of new contracts come in. It’s exciting and daunting at the same time. 

We’re also moving into new core competencies, which is even more exciting to me. Social media platforms and tactics constantly morph and shift, but the essential strategies stay the same — identify your audiences, set specific measurable goals for your efforts, identify tactical approaches that support those goals with those audiences (choosing platforms that are most resonant and effective), and then sort out your content and conversation plans for said platforms. The tactics can become more or less complex or creative, depending on the goals, but the essential strategies rarely change much. 

But with the advent of transmedia in storytelling — whether it’s a brand story, or a creative narrative — a whole new set of strategies and tactics are emerging as effective ways to build awareness or tell a tale. That’s the kind of thing that gets all of my pistons fired up!

On the creative side, the slow process of selling my second young adult novel has opened up opportunities to build buzz by telling side stories in different ways (starting with two novellas...now available on Amazon, and in need of reviews, if you’re so inclined: the first is “The 3rd Caper,” and the second is “Sarah Tuesday on the Run.”). The novellas, some mysterious websites, and some other secret storytelling tactics are all in the works.

On the professional side, strategic partnerships and intense conversations mean that we’ll be rolling out a slew of new approaches. That means better results for our client base, new opportunities for my company, and a bunch of valuable experience for my team.

And that’s another unforeseen effect of being in business for five-plus years — gaining experience doing the work we do has become a valuable career stepping stone for several of my hires over the years. They’ve come in unproven, have learned how to be strategic in social media (and have actively contributed their wisdom during brainstorming and developing strategies and processes), then have moved on to next-level work at larger companies. WideFoc.us has been an incubator for talent, and that makes me happy. I’m a teacher at heart, after all, so watching people I care about grow and transform is supremely rewarding. Even when I have to say goodbye so they can stretch and take their skills elsewhere.

As our anniversary party guests found their way to the upper floors of the tower, awestruck by the interior design and exterior views, providing me with congratulatory hugs, I let myself enjoy the moment and stopped thinking too hard about what we’d been through and what challenges were on the way. Instead, I asked the cute bartender for another glass of rum punch, took a bite of steak tartar catered by a favorite local restaurant, and surrendered to the evening.

Deep Winter: December, 2012

It’s a warm day in Denver (nearly 60 degrees), a breeze blowing the last shreds of autumn’s leaves around, the sun reflecting off the Platte River and through the windows of the only Starbucks in the city that doesn’t feel corporate and sterile.

But it still feels like winter to me. I can feel the doldrums trying to break me.

Simone is off on her annual pilgrimage to Omaha, and I won’t see her for a week. Dad’s dealing with new health issues, and I can’t be there to keep him company. Hanukkah is long over, and the proximity of Christmas is making lonely Jew time especially poignant (curse you, Starbucks music!).

And I’m here, in beautiful beautiful Colorado, far from family, alone.

Damn, that’s way too much self-pity.

The good news is that Heebonism is tomorrow night, which means I’ll be drinking and laughing with 600 of my favorite people (and then it’ll be over, taking the planning stress away with it), I’ve landed my company a slew of healthy contracts for 2013, I have awesome friends nearby, a Roku box full of guilty pleasure TV shows and movies to keep me occupied, and the Broncos are going to the playoffs. Oh, and I have two novellas that tease my next young adult novel on Amazon.

But I’m blue. It’s nothing acute, but I can feel that winter sadness slipping in through the cracks, pangs of ache drifting through when I let my guard down.

I know the sources of my pain, and I know that having someone to hold my hand isn’t a silver bullet. But, damn, it sounds like just what I need.

I’m relieved that, when things start to feel sideways, my sisters have spouses and family who can circle the wagons for them, pick up the slack with the kids, and hug them close. I have a network of warm and loving friends, but it’s not the same as having someone at home who knows what I need and wants to take care of me for a little while.

When my father called to talk to me about what’s going on, all I wanted was to fly out and be there with him. But parenting and other commitments kept me in Denver. I spent the rest of the day feeling aimless and powerless, unable to focus on work stuff. Picking Simone up after school meant getting my head back in the game so I could be present for her; asking about her day, helping her with homework, making dinner. As we were sitting at the table after finishing off our tilapia and Brussels sprouts, I gave her a safe synopsis of the news, letting her know that Zaide was doing well but needed our prayers. Simone got up from her chair and hugged me, knowing that I was sad and worried.

It was a sweet gesture, and was comforting, of course. But it would be wrong to depend on my little girl to be the person to help me through when times get tough. I’m the dad and she’s the child. I’m her caretaker; not the other way around. I am overjoyed that she has the generosity of spirit and empathy to help others when they’re feeling down, and her hugs go a long way. But it’s my job to be strong and positive for her, to be open and honest about my feelings, and not to let them get in the way of being the parent.

I am a kick-ass caretaker. I learned that well from my family.

But, damn, it would be a comfort to have someone I love and trust take my face in her hands, tell me everything is going to be okay, kiss me on the forehead, and offer to make dinner.

It’s okay, though, because being aware of the signs of my winter doldrums means I can take steps to keep them from taking root right away:

• I’m going to talk to my best friends, and ask them to make me leave the house for food and fun when I start acting the hermit. 
• I’m going to intersperse my daily to-do lists with tasks that make me happy, like walking down the street for an espresso, wondering to the river and skipping rocks, taking chocolate breaks, and Skyping with people in my life who make me smile. 
• Not like this has been a problem, but I’m going to pay special attention to eating well and hitting the gym. 
• Oh...and I’m going to pick back up my yoga practice, because that has always been an effective method for chasing away stress and sadness. 
• I’m not going to go looking for a girlfriend, but I am going to keep my heart open to the possibility that she’ll find me when the time is right. 
• Simone and I are going fill our winter days and nights with grand and small adventures — snowboarding, dessert outings, movie days, video games, even a trip or two. 
• I’m going to Skype with my family more often. Feeling so far away from them is one of the things that make this time of year hurt most, especially when I’m feeling overwhelmed with bat mitzvah planning. We have some big family gatherings coming up, so supplementing with video calls will keep me feeling like I’m not so far away. 
• I’m usually so good at recognizing something magical in my life every single day — so I’m going to put up some post-its reminding me to do just that. 

Last year’s doldrums were the worst I’d had in recent memory, in part because they took me by surprise. I see those little assholes this time, and I’m going to do my best to chase them off before they can settle in.

Do you get weighed down by wintertime blues? Do you have go-to strategies or activities that keep you from going over the ledge? I know I’m not the only one who’d appreciate your thoughts in the comments below.

I hope your winter months are filled with snuggles and movies and fireplaces. And snowboarding. And comfort food. And joy. Lots and lots of joy.

Dinogirl: November, 2012

I'm on another airplane. This one is taking me to London, by way of Dulles. It's a crowded, Thanksgiving week flight, where the 30 square inches of real estate that is the shared armrest has launched a battle of wills — a territorial Cold War with a total stranger, with nothing more at stake than a bit o' comfort. I'm normally a window person, but am on the aisle for this leg. I don't know why people like this seat — the constant jostling during boarding, the hazard to elbows and kneecaps as the flight attendants rattle their carts up and back, no place to lean your head, and no control over the window shade (We're flying! Aren't you at all curious about what's below us?). 

It's my year to be Simone-less over Thanksgiving, and though I do relish my off-duty pajamas and movies holidays (turning down all invitations for orphan turkey dinner), I needed a few more miles to maintain my elite status. 

Because I'd met a London-based literary agent at a conference who was interested in my newest creative project (meeting set for Friday), had no reason to stick around Denver (aka nobody local in the picture), and was missing my lovable cousins who live in the center of the city (except they'll be gone a big chunk of the time), I figured I might as well book a trip out.

So here I am on a turbulent flight, just got my elbow crushed by the snack cart, and the dad sitting next to me has colonized the entire armrest and a bit of my space, besides.

It would be different if I had my new favorite travel companion with me.

When I hit London this time around, I probably won't visit Simone's second-favorite London destination (after her uncles' sweet flat). As much as I loved the Natural History Museum, I don't see a reason to visit without my dino-loving daughter.

Simone has wanted to be a paleontologist since before she could even say the word. All kids go through a dinosaur phase, but Simone started early (before she was two), absorbing books and educational programs like Prehistoric Planet and Walking with Dinosaurs, learning names and eras, and drawing rudimentary illustrations of parasaurolophuses and tyrannosauruses. 

In fact, when she had just turned three, I was able to set up a meeting for her with the chief curator of the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. I was working as Youth Content Editor for The Denver Post at the time, and had a strong relationship with their director of marketing. When I expressed a desire for Simone to meet a real paleontologist, my friend made it happen.

I still remember driving to the museum that morning, thinking how funny it was that the chief curator had agreed to meet with a 3-year-old. 

When we arrived, Dr. Russ Graham introduced himself to Simone, and she managed to put out a tiny hand and say, "Nice to meet you." The paleontologist took us into the back collections rooms, where bones and casts not on display are kept on rows and rows of metal shelves. Simone was thunderstruck by the mural along one wall, depicting some sort of pastoral scene during the age of dinosaurs - lumbering apatosaurs munching on tree branches, while delicate hadrosaurs sipped at the edge of a lake. 

She was so tiny that I carried her during our tour, and when Dr. Graham showed her a jawbone on a shelf, it was just below eye level for her.

"Simone," he said, pointing to the horseshoe-shaped mandible, "what do you think of this?"

Simone leaned out of my arms far enough to get a closer look, pondered it for a second, and said, "Flat teeth. Must have been an herbivore."

Dr. Graham raised his eyebrows at me, maybe wondering if I'd prompted her. I just shrugged.

"Okay, Simone," he said, getting into it now, "take a look at this." He gestured across the aisle to another metal shelf, where a long, birdlike skull sat, empty eye sockets looking nowhere.

"With that crest," Simone said, not hesitating, "it must have been a pteranodon." 

Now the paleontologist was truly intrigued. He walked us through the stacks, pointing out old bones and casts, and began laughing as Simone continued to identify their origins, even getting their place in time right, for the most part. I still barely know the difference between Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous, but dinogirl has it down.

As we stopped so I could put Simone down and rest my arms a bit, Dr. Graham looked at me, and smiled.

"Tell Dr. Graham what you want to be when you grow up," I said.

Simone was still working on her 'L' sound, so it came out like this: "A payeontoyogist."

The chief curator nodded as he crouched down to shake her hand. "I have no doubt you will be, Simone," he said. "And when you start writing papers, I want you to send them to me." 

Simone shook his hand gravely, and nodded back.

Her obsession with prehistoric creatures has waxed and waned over the years, but there's never been a time when dinosaurs haven't graced the walls of her bedroom. From cartoons, to video games, to books, and scientific TV shows, Simone has helped herself to a steady diet of dino content. Of course I’ve fed that passion over the years, but I’d like to believe I would have done the same if she’d become obsessed with horses or ballet.

As her artistic ability began to manifest itself, Simone started to wonder how her love of dinosaurs and illustration could somehow be combined. So when she read about a paleo-artist in one of her magazines, it felt like something more than luck. It felt like fate.

A paleo-artist is a scientist who designs museum displays, scale models, and renderings of prehistoric life. It’s the perfect confluence of analytical thought and artistic expression. That one article, from Muse magazine, inspired Simone to work toward a new goal — now she could be a paleontologist AND an artist. 

It changed the way she looked at her education — she went after an artistic major at her school that would give her the foundation for museum display creation; in her seven-year stagecraft and design program, she’s learning set design and construction, costume design, lighting and sound.

And it changed the way she experienced museums. When we were in New York City last month, not only was Simone hungry to learn about the dinosaurs featured (at least the ones she didn’t know much about), but she was equally attentive to the way they were displayed — how the models were built and presented, how the bones were mounted on wires or other materials. The photos she took were rarely of the whole displays, rather they were detail shots of scale models, backdrops, and plates.

From the age of two to about 14, I wanted to be an astronaut. It was my fervent dream, and I collected memorabilia and books about the Apollo missions, the Space Shuttle, and NASA. But it was never something I worked at — I didn’t focus on being better at math, or consider engineering as a stepping stone. I loved flying, but never worked toward getting a pilot’s license. My dream gradually evaporated over time, as I found other interests. I still get pangs when I watch a rocket launch, or hear about cool stuff happening in space. But I gave up my aspirations when I let my bad study habits take precedence over my dreams of flying to the moon.

So maybe I feel a special responsibility to Simone. I’d never force her to work toward a certain direction — I have no interest in stage mothering her to become a paleo-artist. But I will encourage her, and provide her with the experiences and tools and introductions that will keep her fed and moving in a direction that she’s passionate about.

I’m not going to visit the British Museum of Natural History this trip...but that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about dinosaurs and flying reptiles.

Travel Buddy: October, 2012

When my close friends in Brooklyn sent TWO save-the-date postcards for their early December wedding — one for me, and one for Simone — they made it clear that they hoped I’d bring the girl along to their big day. And Simone has been talking about visiting NYC since she was a very little girl. The city holds so much that interests her — from the dinosaurs of the American Museum of Natural History, to Ellis Island, to some of the best street food in the world. 

So I gave the idea serious thought. The logistics would be daunting, because not only would I be a groomsman, which meant Simone would have to hang while we did wedding party stuff, but I’d also have to give up on big chunks of fun adults activities to make sure she’d get to bed on time. Plus, we’d be in New York, but wouldn’t have time to explore the city together. It just didn’t make sense.

But what would make sense was to take her to the city over her fall break.

So that’s what we did, leaving on a Wednesday afternoon and returning the following Sunday morning (beating Sandy by a few hours). I was still a little apprehensive as we boarded the airplane — concerned about staying with our friends in their one bedroom apartment (which turned out to be easy and roomy), squeezing in enough activities to make the short jaunt worthwhile, missing time in the office, and making sure Simone got to do what she was hoping to do. 

But thinking back to our trip to London and Paris a couple years ago, I remembered just how flexible and fun Simone can be on a new adventure.

We landed at LaGuardia in the evening, and Simone and I were both more than ready for a late dinner. As he was driving into Brooklyn, my friend told us he had a great Turkish restaurant in mind. Simone gave me a quiet look of concern, not saying anything out loud. But as soon as my pal mentioned that the place had the best lamb he’d ever tasted, Simone gave me a big smile, and said, “That sounds great!”

The next day, Simone and I took the subway to a diner in Brooklyn right near a TKTS office, so we could scoop up tix to a show that night. Breakfast was indifferent, but we had that happy, “We’re someplace new!” feeling, and could already laugh about the experience. By the time we exited the subway station at Rockefeller Plaza, Simone was a giddy bundle of excitement. She loved seeing the iconic Prometheus at the base of 30 Rock (“We call him Pro-Pro in school,” she said to me), but the real reason we were there was so she could make a pilgrimage to NintendoWorld, a two story store and museum packed with more Pokémon stuff than we’d ever seen in one place. 

To Simone’s credit, although she would have been happy to spend hours at the store, she eventually settled on a plush toy to take with her, and we hit the city in earnest, making our way toward Central Park and the American Museum of Natural History. Along the way, Simone was cool while I stopped at a couple stores to look at clothes, and then we couldn’t pass FAO Schwartz without wandering through the legendary collection of toys and games. 

By the time we were hiking through the park, Simone’s feet began to ache, and she started to complain.

But not in annoying way. Which was awesome.

A couple years ago, I would have had her climb on my back, and we would have continued on our way. And, yes, I felt a deep pang of grief that I can no longer rescue my little girl by picking her up and carrying her.

So instead of powering through the park to get to the museum, we stopped several times along the way to rest on benches and take in the autumn views — scenery you don’t see much of in Denver — maple and oak leaves at their most resplendent, moments before they begin to fall off the trees; wooden bridges with that musky cedar smell that you only find on the East Coast; vendors shilling food, billows of steam laden with scents of cured meats and fresh bread. Forced breaks allowed us to place ourselves firmly in the present moment, rather than on our agenda.

I pondered aloud the idea of scrapping the museum and slowing the pace of our day, but Simone was intent on seeing some dino bones. So we lurched our way to the edge of the park, finally locating the hidden entrance to the museum (because the main one was closed), and buying our tickets. Simone’s sore feet were immediately forgotten upon her first view of an elasmosaurus skeleton hanging from the ceiling, and she wanted to start taking photos and exploring the collection right away, but I insisted we stop in at the café and find some sustenance, first.

Watching Simone’s energy return to her as she took in the old fossils — she started talking about being a paleontologist at three years old — renewed my energy as well, and I realized that she was finally old enough for us to support each other in our joy of travel. 

By the time we were on the subway back to Brooklyn that night, after a delicious deli dinner and a Broadway show (“Spider-Man,” which had incredible sets, great costumes, and...not terrible everything else), we were both wiped out. Which gave us an excuse to have a less intense Friday — roundtrip on the Staten Island Ferry, a wander through SoHo to visit a friend’s shop and investigate the MakerBot store (I want a 3d printer, but Simone wants it even more), before meeting up with our friends and making the traffic-intensive drive out of the city for a family Shabbat dinner in New Jersey.

Although I knew Simone would be polite and appropriate when we arrived at my pal’s parents’ house, I wasn’t sure she’d be terribly animated after another long day. But I needn’t have worried, because she bucked up, put on her game face, and charmed everyone with her manners, opinions, and insights. The next day, my friends received an email saying just how much the parents enjoyed Simone’s company — they were impressed with what a gem she is. 

Man, I love my little girl.

We finally got to spend a day with our friends on Saturday, and it was truly epic — we called it the NYC Tasting Tour, and basically ate our way from Chinatown, through Soho, and all the way to the East Village. Simone tasted everything along the way, and even though she got tired toward the end, she managed to remain upbeat, making us all laugh with her sophisticated observational humor.

Any maybe that was the best takeaway for me from this getaway — sure the food was spectacular, the experiences were special, and the time with our friends was warm and familial. But I can’t remember a trip in the past few years where I laughed so much and so often.

From almost getting mowed down (twice!) by a woman riding a bicycle while she was eating a hot dog (really), to catching a guy in a gladiator outfit leave a high-end condo building, to attempting to top off our already at-capacity stomachs with bites of rice pudding that our friend insisted we try, Simone and I collected a slew of great stories and inside jokes. 

Even at our most exhausted, when our legs ached, our feet were screaming, and our brains were about to explode, we found things to laugh about. Simone is so observant, and her critiques of everything from branding to street-level oddities required me to stay sharp and witty as well. Our laughter and sense of adventure kept us going.

I’ve often written about the joys and disappointments of my solo adventures around the world. I desperately love to travel, but the drawbacks of going it alone have started to weigh on me more and more with every new trip. But what I really miss when I’m on my own — someone who understands that travel is all about laughing, muddling through, being in the moment, and laughing some more — is what I’ve cultivated in Simone when we’ve traveled together.

So maybe that means I shouldn’t wait until she’s with her mom or at summer camp to visit new cities and run away to find the best tastes in the world. Maybe I shouldn’t put off the trips I only want to take with company until I have a girlfriend to travel with.

I was talking to my friends about the fact that I need to fly 6,500 more miles this year to maintain my elite status with United. I mentioned flying to London or Thailand, or someplace in between, before January 1. 

Simone said, “You take all of your best trips without me. Why is that?”

Why, indeed?

Middle Ages: September, 2012

I’ve been stretching the concept of “young adult” for some time, but the birthday coming up next month makes it pretty difficult to maintain the pretense any longer. Sure, age is just a number, but this number has me rattled.

It’s not like anything is changing — my life is a lively stream of magical experiences and mind-boggling adventures. I hit the gym several times a week, make great memories with Simone whenever possible, and can still out-carouse just about everyone I know.

My best friends — all of whom are younger — have taken potshots at me for years now, leveraging any opportunity to have people guess how old I am or using my age as a foil for their own romantic pursuits; but it’s all done in fun, with just a trace of jealousy over my kick-ass genes. 

A few weeks ago, a pal of mine and I were roped into going to a singles event in the suburbs. The organizer said she had way more women than men signed up, and asked if we’d please help even out the distribution. How could we say no?

As we stepped into the elevator in the parking structure, I held the door for three women who were hustling to catch up. One was small and pretty, with kinky brown hair and freckles on her nose. They thanked us as we all walked into the bar, and then disappeared into the crowd. 

What a crowd it was. We almost turned around and left, but were spotted by the woman who’d invited us, which meant we were stuck.

It was that douchey, overdone crowd you only find in certain bars — the men were as done up as the women, and everyone wore a facade of jocularity and affluence: the tell-tale bronze of a fake tan, hair carefully coiffed to look messy and unkempt, the faux-casual mix of high-end clothing matched with shitty footwear (on the men). Everyone seemed to be on high alert; any sense of genuine humor and authenticity was undetectable.

My friend and I agreed that we’d put on our game faces and see what kind of trouble we could stir up.

I ended up talking to the pretty, kinky-haired woman (continuing my new regime of talking to strangers), who looked a little more weathered outside on the patio, the last rays of sunlight picking out her eye crinkles and smile lines. Honestly, I found that charming — like there was more to her than her studied coolness. But when she told me I was too young for her, and that I should go back to the bar and find someone more appropriate, I almost laughed out loud.

I thanked her for her honesty, and told her I was probably older than she thought. But even after I told her my age, which surprised her, she said, “Well, you’re still too young for me. I only date older men.” I smiled, thanked her again for being open with me about what she was looking for, and I went to find my pal...

...who’d just scored the phone number of the hot, young bartender who’d taken a shine to him.

We left the gathering a little while later, each with a few sets of digits we’d never follow up on.

But I was pensive as I drove us back to the city, thinking about the other men in that bar — the targets of the kinky haired woman. “Older men.” Late forties on up, with waxy expressions, ass-less in their designer chinos and untucked shirts, sweating desperation, Old Spice, and vodka. Were they future versions of what my friend and I would become?

Please, I thought, don’t let me turn into one of those jokebags. 

How do I avoid the slide into the starched sleaziness those single older men have made their home?

Finding the right girl would be the most obvious solution, halting invitations to “mixers” and events aimed at well-heeled single middle agers, while shifting the energy of boys’ nights out in a significant way. That one right girl wouldn’t be interested in a stale domesticity that made me feel like I was giving up on the active, ridiculous, full-throttle life I find so dear. No, she’d be equally energetic, socially active, and spontaneous. She’d fight by my side, taking big bites out of life every day.

The good news is that this is not a mid-life crisis (though lately I have been coveting a motorcycle to ride around town). I’ve been living the anti-mid-life life for almost ten years. The question is whether I could really give that up, or if I should have to. My therapist says I’ll do what I’m doing until it doesn’t work anymore (or someone comes along and my priorities change), and then I’ll do something else.

But phuck if I’m going to age gracefully. I am going to fight it every step of the way. 

I’m going to stay out too late on weeknights, closing the bars with my best friends, then get up and hit the gym in the morning, or make it to that 8 a.m. client meeting fresh and alert.

I’m going to travel as often as possible, taking last-minute weekend escapes, impractical getaways, and long vacations.

I’m going to maintain the status of kick-ass dad — concerts and adventures, structure and learning, delicious packed lunches with a notes in every one, world travel, laughter and magic everyday.

I’m going to keep eating and drinking the way I like to eat and drink.

And I’m going to go snowboarding, SCUBA diving, camping, surfing. I’m going to drive too fast with music playing way too loud and all the windows open. Maybe I’ll pick up lacrosse again. Or join a crossfit deal.

I don’t know if all that stuff is going to save me from becoming one of those older, single men who just seem creepy and out of place, cruising the bars with their slick smiles and stupid facial hair. 

But at least I’ll be fighting the good fight.

Delicious: August, 2012

 “What did you eat?”

That’s the first question anyone in my family asks when one of us returns from vacation. It’s not, “How was the Eiffel Tower?” or “Did you get to surf?” Nobody in my family asks if you saw one of the eight wonders of the world. They just want to know if you ate wonders of the world of food.

But I wouldn’t call my family “foodies” in the traditional sense. And I sort of loathe that word, anyway. We just grew up with open minds about what we ate, and learned that dining together, eyes wide over the flavor of that toro sashimi or aged ribeye, was a special way of acknowledging how good life could be, if you were open to the possibilities.  

“Try it, you may like it,” was my family’s mantra, and making my father proud with our achievements in eating was always a goal. 

My mom and dad are terrific cooks, and I learned my skills in the kitchen from both of them equally. In fact, what I learned from my parents, and what they passed on in genetic talent for imagining flavor profiles, helped me with my first college job — working in one of the food service kitchens on campus. I figured, the way I liked to eat, actually working my way through school in restaurants would be a good way to stay fed. 

I learned commercial kitchen basics over the course of two years with Marriott University Food Service before taking my talents down to the city of Santa Cruz itself, cooking on the line right behind the bar at a fun beachside burger joint, then moving to a new and extremely busy surf diner. As the owner’s trust in me grew, he left me running the restaurant more and more often. I loved being able to see the full lifespan of a product - from raw materials to preparation to consumption. I loved being able to see, right away, the success or failure of what I’d created.

And, of course, I loved learning to prepare and eat deliciousness every day of the week.

When my job as a scientist in pediatric hematology didn’t pan out (using a micropipette isn’t as sexy as dusting a dish with a pinch of fleur de sel), I went back to cooking, running the line in one of the best restaurants in Denver before making my way up to the gambling towns of Blackhawk and Central City, where I managed entire kitchens. 

But something was missing from my life (what little life I had, commuting 90 minutes each way and working six or seven days every week). And when winter came, I was told to fire half of my staff to cut labor costs. Sending 15 financially unstable cooks to the unemployment line in late December is not something a 25-year-old should have to handle. It wasn’t long after that episode that I found myself with a career counselor, looking for an exit strategy. 

Many years later, I still wake up from dreams where I’m running the line, calling out orders, and working magic in a kitchen.

But, through all of that, as much as I always loved food, and finished one meal thinking about the next one, you’d never have pegged me as a member of the foodie subculture. I loved putting good stuff in my mouth, appreciated the restaurants of my city, and taught Simone from the time she could eat solid food to try everything (actual conversation before her 2nd birthday: “Simone, do you want Noodles & Company for your birthday dinner?” “No, Daddy! Sushi!”). I was just a guy who knew how to eat well. 

So it’s pretty interesting to me how my eating habits have become so wrapped up with my identity. 

Mostly, I blame social media. 

At first, Facebook made it easy for me to share the occasional photo of something special I’d cooked up in the kitchen, or a restaurant dish that blew me away. It was a slippery slope from there to using Twitter and Foursquare to brag about the latest restaurant opening I’d found my way into, or the meal that was so perfect it almost made me cry. Whether I was in Sevilla or London, Denver or Cleveland, I worked harder and harder to seek out food experiences worth sharing. 

And, of course, as my online reputation grew, my identity as a resource for all that is yummy in Denver expanded, as well. You want to know where to eat? I’m your man. 

But I’m pretty sure Forkly, which I’ve been using for almost a year, is what turned me into that guy. You know the one — the guy who takes a photo of everything he orders in a restaurant or bar. The one who asks you not to dig into the small plates you're sharing until he gets a picture in just the right light. The one who takes inordinate joy in broadcasting his every bite.

Forkly is my enabler, providing me with a sense of purpose for my obsessive food photography...an excuse, some would say. (And Pinterest is my dealer, giving me way too many ideas for food to cook, and kitchen items I can’t live without.) With Forkly, every food or drink item I describe and rate becomes a resource for restaurant guests who eat there after I do (and, damn, I got a TON of good advice from Forkers for delectable dishes when I was in San Francisco this month).  

But the more “tastes” I post, the more responses and followers I receive. Comments, “wants,” new Twitter friends, and free meals for being a “Tastemaker” make for a pretty intoxicating feedback loop. Nothing like getting validation for eating something delicious.  

In fact, never before Forkly did I have total strangers — well-known chefs, food bloggers, and other good eaters — tell me they love the way I eat. It’s both weird and awesome to realize there’s a niche group of like-minded people who appreciate my appreciation, cheering for every delectable moment of joy I share on the app.

Because that’s what good food is for me — it’s a moment in time when I am absolutely in the present. Food is a manifestation of the beauty that exists in our everyday lives, if we allow ourselves to be open to it. When you taste the honey glaze on the perfect bite of Korean crispy quail, you’re nowhere else but in the moment. And you don’t want to BE anywhere else.

I do my best to be present in my life, to recognize the beauty and magic around me every single day (and, sometimes, I’m so enamored about it that I tweet or post a status update). Food is the simplest easy win. The roughest day can be softened and redeemed by the right meal. A bite or two of something tasty can be all we need to restore our faith in the world. Whether it’s a sublime combination of locally sourced ingredients, or a simple casserole topped with crispy tater tots, the right bite allows us to appreciate the present moment.

Hmmm...I feel the same way about kissing. 

So my “foodie” status and my endless quest for that next delicious taste isn’t about gluttony or an elitist approach to the finer things in life. Dropping a ton of cash for a transcendent meal isn’t about being part of an exclusive experience, just like grubbing on a Double-Double Animal Style isn’t about convenience. 

I eat the way I do because I strive to make the most of the magic life has to offer us every day — whether it’s in conversations with the people I love, slowing down to watch the sunset over the mountains, noticing something new about my walk home from the office, or in stopping to take note of what I’m putting in my mouth and savoring the experience, even for a moment.

When I’m taking a bite out of something delicious, I’m taking a bite out of life. Like that first taste of a summer peach, the first sip of hot chocolate on the first snowy day of winter, or the way the skin of a perfect hot dog gives way to your teeth at the first baseball game of the season — eating, for me, is about relish (ha). 

It’s about stopping to taste what the world has on offer, all around us, if we only slow down long enough to be fully present to it.

Don’t call me a foodie. Call me a lifie. Just...um...don’t call me late to dinner.

Travelogue: July, 2012

I made the mistake of looking at the latest TripAdvisor reviews the morning that I left. My ride to the airport was running a few minutes behind, so I thought I'd see if I could find info on transportation from Puerto Vallarta International to my resort, 30 miles north of the city. Instead, I found a slew of negative reviews from the past two weeks — recent guests had hated their bug-infested rooms, found the food "disgusting," and thought the beach was too crowded to enjoy. To make matters worse, I decided to check the weather prediction, and each day had one of those storm clouds with a lightning bolt underneath.

With so many responses to my April column from people who said they wanted to join me on my beach vacation this year, I was sure I'd be taking this trip with company. Maybe even a small crew of company. So I'd set up a special Facebook group for the trip, reached out to everyone, and started to do my research in earnest.

I sought advice from friends (travel experts and otherwise), looked at all of the travel websites that specialized in beach escapes, and even started perusing all of the daily deal emails for something that would work. I assiduously posted everything I found on the Facebook group, for commentary and thoughts. And got none. 

Everything I came across seemed perfect. And sometimes everything seemed suspect. I learned the hard way that making a decision like this by myself was an agonizing prospect. Without a travel companion to help assess the possibilities and express opinions, I was caught up in my own recursive, stomach-knotting internal deliberations, with no acceptable solution.

My first choice had been Tulum, on the eastern side of Mexico, but I was waved off by several people — late July would be rainy and excessively hot. I'd already lived through that last summer. Not what I wanted this year. I looked at Virgin Islands, Jamaica, the Bahamas...and even the Greek Islands. But nothing really clicked for me.

And then the Groupon deal came across my transom. Seven nights for two at an all-inclusive up the coast a bit from Puerto Vallarta. The weather should be hot, but not painfully so, the flight was cheap, the resort looked small but pleasant, and the price was ridiculous. $950 for TWO people in a deluxe beach view room, including food, drinks, free rental of watercraft, and use of the gym. 

And there was a consistent surf break directly off the resort's beach.

I went for it. Nobody had stepped up to join me on my trip, but I figured the price was tasty for one person, and there was always a chance I could recruit a travel pal in the coming weeks.

So, reading the weather and the latest reviews just moments before I left for the airport, I thought, "Great. I'm headed to a shitty resort, with shitty food, a shitty beach, and shitty weather. Alone."

But my only choice was to take a deep breath (which I did), and hope for the best (which I tried to do).

I was fortunate enough to get a first class upgrade, so when I got on the plane and was offered a beverage, I requested a screwdriver. Whatever happened, at least I was on vacation. Time to start making the most of it. Within 30 minutes, we were told we'd have to exit the plane because of mechanical problems. The man beside me huffed and groused, but I just finished off my cocktail and smiled. 

Whatever. Vacation.

We took off a couple hours later than scheduled, but there was still plenty of sun left in the sky by the time my taxi dropped me off at my resort, where I was treated at check-in to a cold and fruity "welcome drink."  

My room, which overlooked one of the three pools and the beach, was spacious and clean. It took me mere seconds to dig out my bathing suit and hightail it down to the ocean. A few minutes later, I was chest-deep in the warm Pacific, drinking a cold cerveza, floating weightless over the gentle rollers making their way to shore, and watching surfers take wave after wave. 

I sat on my butt at the edge of the water, foamy wavelets bubbling up around my feet, and dug my toes into the sand. I said a prayer of thanks. And ordered another beer. And then a Cuba Libre. And a michelada. I met a cool dude named Jorge, who was staying at the resort with his girlfriend. 

Then I got back in the water, dove through waves, floated on my back to watch prehistoric-looking birds wheeling through the sky, catching thermals and playing above the sea, and smiled and smiled and smiled.

I stayed in the ocean until I was too hungry to stand it any longer, then showered and dressed for dinner. My first meal was not horrible, though it wasn't wonderful either. I drifted down to the outdoor theater, with cold caipirinha in hand, and watched a laughable, lip-synced tribute to pop music. 

When the show was over, I stepped up to the bar and made my first vacation buddy. Gandhi (really!) was a 20-year-old federal police officer working on his degree in architecture. He, like the vast majority of guests at the resort, was there with the rest of his Mexican family. He asked me if I was going to hit the disco. 

"Probably," I said. 

"Let's go!" he replied. 

I shrugged, smiled, and said, "Okay!"

---

A few nights before I’d left for my trip, I was having cocktails with a friend, talking about yet another solo vacation.

"You'll make friends there," she said.

"I'm not really a talk to strangers kind of guy," I said.

She shook her head in disbelief — I'm one of the most social people she knows. I seem to be comfortable interacting with everyone I meet, and really good at meeting a TON of people.

"Sure," I said. "But that's different from hanging by myself in a bar and striking up a conversation with people I've never met. I’m no good at that. I don’t know how to start.”

"Sounds like you have a good goal for this trip," she replied, wisely. "I think you should try to talk to at least one new person every day you're on vacation." 

The thought of that made my stomach flip, but I knew she was right. If I didn't make a point of it, it wouldn't happen. It would be a worthy exercise, unless I wanted to spend eight days alone in a crowd. 

"Okay." I said.

---

So by the time I was headed up to the disco with Gandhi, I'd already met two new people. Of course, they'd approached me, so it was kind of cheating, but it was a good start. Gandhi and I grabbed some drinks and wandered around the little disco. Not much was happening yet.  

"Do you want to meet some girls while you're here?" he asked me.

"Yeah, of course!" I answered.

"Okay, me too," he smiled. I think he was relieved to have a wingman with him. He wasn't the only one.

The crowd slowly grew, and Gandhi started pointing out potential targets. But every time he did, their boyfriends would show up with drinks for them a few minutes later. I saw one young woman sitting at the bar by herself, her chair turned to watch the dancing. I gestured over to her.

"Looks good!" Gandhi said. "Go ask her!"

I hesitated. When was the last time I’d asked a girl to dance? Who knew if she even spoke English? What if she said yes, and I'd actually have to get out on the floor? And then I looked at my new 20-year-old pal, and knew I had no choice but to be the man. 

She said yes.

We danced through the evening, until the bartenders kicked everyone out after last call. As we left, dry lightning crackled across the sky. Gandhi and a couple of Indian dudes were sitting on one of the bar patios, in the relative dark, talking and laughing, so Carla (also 20, also there with family) and I  joined them. When Carla was ready to call it a night, I did the gentlemanly thing and walked her clear across the resort and to her room, listening to the buzzing of insects and calls of jungle wildlife. 

As I was headed back to the main area, the ambient buzz of the jungle suddenly went silent. And not five seconds later, the sky opened up and dropped what seemed like a solid mass of water onto the premises, shaking the fat leaves of the local flora, pummeling the palm-topped overhangs. It was one of only two downpours I encountered, and both lasted less than 15 minutes. I headed back to laugh and talk with the boys until we were all too tired to string a complete sentence together.

 As I dragged my tired ass off to my room, Gandhi said, "See at la playa!"

"See you there, brother," I smiled. 

The next night, after a full day on the beach (splashing around, reading, dozing, drinking micheladas, and surfing), I ate dinner alone at the Italian fine dining restaurant. Pretty delicious, though being surrounded by couples and families had its effect on me. After that evening's show (a review of music from around the world, sort of), I met up with a Chinese dude, named Jimmy, and we started talking.

Not long after that, Gandhi walked over to us with a ridiculously pretty woman in tow. He introduced us to Nancy, a French Canadian woman traveling alone. When I said I was staying until Saturday, she smiled.

"Oh good," she said to me in her sexy, accented English. "I don't have to spend the week by myself."

I kept the ridiculous smile welling up in side me at bay, and said, "Definitely not. At the very least, can we be sure to eat dinner together tomorrow night?"

The relief and joy on her face gave me no choice but to smile back.

Later, as all of us were dancing as a group in the little disco, Gandhi mentioned how sad he was to be headed home the next day.

"Dude," I said, "I have two beds in my room, and paid for two people for the week. Stay with me as long as you'd like." 

It wasn't long after that conversation that Nancy mentioned how bummed she was her boyfriend wasn't able to join her for the week. Gandhi looked at me and grimaced. I just laughed. Of course the one single girl traveling alone had a boyfriend!

Nancy looked at me. "If we hang out together, I'm afraid it'll get in the way of you meeting a girl."

I shook my head. "That's not why I came here," I said. "It'll be nice to have someone to hang out with this week. And, anyway, women make the best wingmen!" 

She laughed, and we all danced and drank late into the night.

Gandhi wasn't able to stay (partly my fault, because I missed his call the next morning and wasn't able to reiterate my invitation), but Nancy and I hung out quite a bit the next couple of days, saving each other's deck chairs in the sand, and sharing dishes at the nicer restaurants on the resort. 

But after a couple of days, our priorities changed (she wanted to visit the city, I wanted to stay true to my beach intention), and, as is the nice thing about meeting a travel pal, we went our separate ways with no questions asked. I didn't see her again until my last night on the resort, and it was just long enough to share a group dance with some other people she'd met and say good night. I'm so grateful for the time I had with her, but I'm also happy it was easy for us to go do our own thing.

I feel like I had a major breakthrough on my solo trip away. Like maybe my internal story that I’m not good at talking to new people is no longer valid.

By the end of my vacation, I’d:

• Dodged waves and had a long conversation with a cool, white-haired, Canadian married dude with an epic mustache, who was the life of the disco every night, danced with everyone, and was beloved by all.
• Had drinks with my Chinese pal Jimmy.
• Played a drinking game with two obnoxious American couples.
• Talked about surfing and drank Pernod with a French Canadian guy I'd met in the lineup a few days before.
• Made friends with several bartenders and the chef at the little snack bar.
• Spent four glorious after-hours with a joyous, warm and funny crew of Mexican 20somethings — from drinking and dancing, to running down to the beach, rolling up our pant legs and letting the warm, moonlit ocean swirl around our bare feet, to playing pool and eating crispy French fries until 4am. I loved those kids. It had to be one of my favorite nights, ever.
• And, of course, I hung out with Gandhi and Nancy, two people I hope will remain friends.

I was on the beach Every. Single. Day (even after my all-day SCUBA adventure). 

I’d sleep in, then find my way down to the water, where I’d camp out under a palapa and spend the next six or seven hours playing in the ocean, reading my book (finished two of them), snoozing, drinking cold beverages, and zoning out.

Maybe my beach vacation wasn’t everything I wanted. Maybe it would have been just a little bit better with someone to cuddle with at the end of a sun-kissed day. Or even a LOT better.

But I did have people around me who appreciated it when I’d say, “Holy crap, isn’t this perfect?”

They’d nod, smile, and take another sip of their beers or daiquiris, and then we’d turn back to the water and watch the waves come in.

Solstice: June, 2012

The solstice in June always makes me melancholy. You may think of it as the first day of summer, but it actually means the days are already starting to get shorter again. It’s midsummer. How did that happen so fast?

I’m not alone with my halcyon memories of summer vacation — days of leaving the house on my bike in mid-morning, tooling around the neighborhood with my pals, making mini dams with mud and sticks in a little creek, eating the smushed sandwich I’d packed for myself and washing it down with a Slurpee, whooping gleefully through the inevitable mid-afternoon thunderstorms plunking heavy rain down on my friends and me, and returning home, sun-dried and dusty, just as my father was pulling the old station wagon into the garage.  

As a grownup, I now understand the look on his face as he’d step out of the car, the manly scent of Old Spice just a bit stronger than the garage smells of cedar and oil. The fond smile and warm hug mixed with a mildly overheated exhaustion after muddling through another perfect summer day as a working adult, coming home to his wife, three kids, and big furry dog. He was 29.  

It breaks my heart to think I may never having a summer like that again. But it also gives me something to strive for, because, well, screw that. Summer is too wonderful to be squandered with long work days. 

Not that I’m shirking my duties, of course — clients, my team, and, of course, my bank account are all counting on me to get more work done and stay focused on the job. I’m fortunate to own the company and have a fairly flexible schedule, but I still feel resentment when I’m stuck in my air conditioned office while summer is going on without me.

And I’m feeling guilty about Simone’s summer, too. There’s no way she’d be allowed to disappear on her own for hours at a time — we don’t let our kids do that anymore. But, when I was nursing my own summertime nostalgia, I realized that Simone is way over-scheduled this year. She had a weeklong writing seminar in a university classroom, and now she’s in week two of a sort of brainiac day camp at a middle school. It’s late June, and she still has the pasty-white glow that comes from more time under fluorescent lighting than summer sun. 

She’ll have a week of freedom, and then she’s off to Vegas to visit with her mom’s extended family (she’ll have plenty of hang around the pool time there, thank goodness). After that, it’s 17 days at summer camp. And then it’ll be August already.

So not only do I need to make sure I’m getting the most out of the season, but I need to build in some real lazy summer awesomeness for the girl. She doesn’t even know what she’s missing.

So here’s the deal: it’s time to stop whining and start living. I hear it from all my friends — summer goes by faster and faster, year after year. When we were young, it seemed to go on forever; but as we grow older, we don’t get to wallow in the decadent boredom that deep summer used to deliver. These days, by the time we realize it’s July, it’s already late August and the kids are all headed back to school.

Enough, already. If we don’t reclaim summertime, it’ll keep passing us by.

Here’s how we grownups can take back summer:

1. Spend a LOT more time outside.
I already walk to work and get around on foot as much as possible, but if you’re eating lunch at your desk every day, you’re screwing up. Let’s all commit to finding shady places near our offices, and spending a good hour out there, eating, reading, snoozing, and relishing the warmth. In my corporate days, I packed a placemat and cloth napkin in my lunchbox, in order to make my turkey sandwich seem a little less mundane. I wonder why I stopped doing that. 

So eat lunch outside. Take a walk on your coffee break. Take a nap under a tree. Leave work early.

2. Make the most of summer nights.
It’s easy to shuffle home, take off your pants as you walk in the door (well, that’s what I always do), and settle in for the evening. But if you’re not taking an after dinner walk to the little gelato place down the block, or slipping out for leisurely bike ride, you’re squandering the little bit of unscheduled time you actually have.

I remember one summer when my father had already started a job in another city and my mom was left with the three of us to get the house sold and packed. We had a neighbor — a woman who was older than my mom but seemed to be overflowing with energy and enthusiasm for being in the moment — who taught us about the joys of spontaneity. I remember the first night she broke out her Frisbee and had us all playing catch under the street lights in our neighborhood. It seemed so scandalous and magical to be standing in the middle of the street — crickets chirping, stars twinkling, moving to the side of the road for the occasional car — and launching the thing as far as we could to someone else, three houses down. The air was sweet, and I’ll never forgot the asphalt under my bare feet, gently releasing the warmth it had stored up all day long. I can’t remember the last time I broke the rules like that with Simone — staying out after dark, playing hide and seek or shadow tag.

So let’s be outside every night this summer. Late.

3. Do lots of summer stuff.
You know what I mean — concerts in the park, drive-in movies, picnics, hikes, visits to the pool. I’m not talking about big production activities, like camping or waterskiing (though those should be on your list, too). I mean the easy stuff you could do with minimal planning. It’s all about paying attention to what’s within reach.

4. Wear less clothing. Or more linen. Go barefoot. Or wear flip-flops.
What’s one of the best things about summer? No need for layers! As someone who’d prefer to wear as little as possible, I’m all about summer-weight clothing. Because shorts aren’t always appropriate when I’m working/speaking/pitching, I tend to wear a lot of linen and cotton in the summer. Feels almost like wearing nothing at all!

And what’s better than the season of bare feet? If you can’t go completely shoeless, then wear flip-flops whenever possible. That thunk-thunk sound of you walking down the street is a constant reminder that you’re making the most of summertime.

5. Breathe.
Every time you find yourself about to complain about the heat, take a deep breath and say, “I love summer!” instead. 

It’s 103 degrees outside today. You know who’s complaining? Not me. I’ve been out there already, soaking in the heat and relishing the punishing sun. Before we realize it, we’ll be bundling up against the cold, slogging through slushy streets, and crying over 5:30 sunsets. 

Go play.

 

Chaperone: May, 2012

I'm on another airplane.

But this time, I'm flying west and back to Denver, and within three rows of me are five 6th graders, six 4th graders, and three of their moms. Actually, they're now, officially, a mix of 7th and 5th graders as of Friday, when the school year ended.

Except they all missed the last four days of class before summer vacation, because these two sets of kids were competitors at Destination Imagination Global Finals, in Knoxville, Tennessee. I won't belabor you with a long description of DI (you can follow the link for more information). Suffice to say it's a sort of creative problem-solving competition. A geek bowl of the highest order, with kids from elementary school through college spending months planning, writing, and practicing skits or activities that must adhere to very unique and detailed specifications. 

Simone's team, made up of five kids from her middle school, has been working since last fall; meeting at least once per week, then twice or more as they approached Regionals, where they managed to take first place in their specific challenge, qualifying for States. At that point, their team manager, a driven, focused, mom coaching both Simone's team (with her eldest son, Simone's longtime buddy) and the younger team (with her other son), emailed parents to let them know they needed to start thinking about chaperoning the kids to Globals, if the kids placed at the state level. She believed both teams had a high probability of getting there.

Not thinking too hard about it, I offered to accompany Simone's team. It sounded fun to fly to another city with them, get to know them for a couple days, and watch them compete.

So we were settling in at the States awards ceremony in a giant university gymnasium, when the team captain looked at me and said, "You're the only parent going with the 6th grade team, but we'll have a couple moms coming with the 4th graders. Are you okay with that?"

"Sure," I said. "Sounds fun."

"Great," she responded. "It's a life-changing experience for the kids to be there in Knoxville for the week, and to compete on a global level."

"Uh, the week?" I asked. In Tennessee? 

She nodded, matter-of-fact in her answer. "Yep. We'll fly out that Tuesday morning and return Sunday afternoon."

"Oh." I said. 

"Yes. We'll be bunking in the dorms."

Uh..wait a minute... 

"It'll cost about $1,200 for you, but Simone's trip will likely be subsidized to some degree by the school district."

Are you kidding me? 

"Still good to join us? 

What was I going to say? No other parents had volunteered, and I'd already agreed to do it. 

"Of course," I said. "It’ll be an adventure."

She laughed and nodded knowingly. What she (and Simone) didn't know was that, as the judges announced the winners in the team's division, a part of me secretly hoped they'd get a nice, respectable, fourth-place showing. 

I know. I'm terrible. And I felt a serious pang of guilt about it. 

So when they qualified, and screamed and jumped up and down and hugged each other, I had no choice to but to smile big, give high fives all around, and hug Simone with pride in the fruits of her hard work.

And Simone was so stoked that I'd be joining them. "My friends think you're the coolest dad, ever," she said. "We're going to have so much fun together!"

But the oh shit feeling never went away. In fact, it grew as I learned more about the conditions of the trip.

Last Tuesday, I met Simone, her mom, and the rest of the team and chaperones at the airport at 8am for a 10:30 flight. In an email the week before, I'd given Simone's mother several options for getting the girl to DIA — meet me there; drop her at my place by 7:15; or, which would be truly helpful, pick me up and take us both there, so I wouldn't have to leave my car parked outside for almost a week. 

Her response: "I will drive Simone to the airport." 

I’d known it was a long-shot, but, damn, it would have been kind and human for Simone's mom to suck it up and give me a lift, considering the sacrifice in work, time, and money I was making to be there for our girl. The simple brutality of the response — civil yet cold — made me laugh out loud. After nine years of being divorced (longer than we were together), we get along just fine. But every so often I get a stark reminder that we'll never be friends.

Anyway. 

Chivvying 11 kids and four adults through the airport — checking luggage, guiding everyone through security, taking care of bathroom breaks and keeping a crew of over-excited youngsters calm before dealing with the fun of boarding and seat assignments — was just a preview of what was to come. Without thinking about it, I switched into dad/camp counselor/teacher mode, doing my part to corral the kids, keep them moving forward, and make sure everyone's stuff stayed with them. 

Fortunately, these two talented teams are made up of smart, creative, kind children, which made the job much easier than it might have been. The two hour flight to Nashville went without incident, and the three-hour bus ride to Knoxville was painless. So when we arrived outside the recreation center at the University of Tennessee, I'd been lulled into a sort of pleasant complacency. 

The plan was for us to leave our stuff on the bus, and while the team manager registered, we parents would watch the kids as they ate pizza and joined the pre-opening festival taking place. 

We'd expected rain, heat, and humidity to greet us when we excited the bus. What we didn't expect was water guns and kiddie pool fill-up stations at the pre-opening party. And once the sun went down, we had 11 shivering kids, soaked through to their underwear, more than ready to get warm and dry. But registration took nearly two hours, and it wasn't until sometime after 9pm when the bus finally dumped us off at the bottom of a steep hill leading up to the dorms we'd call home for the next five nights. We helped the kids drag, lug, and hoist their baggage (plus props and fragile structures) up the hill, with more shivering in the air conditioned chill as the team captain sorted out rooms at the front desk.

I was assigned a "suite" with the two other girls on the team in one bedroom, and Simone and me in the other. When we got upstairs, we found two prison-like cells connected by an entryway. The rooms were grim, chilly (the air conditioning was cranked high), and grotty, each with two metal cots hosting wafer-thin mattresses that had some miles on them. Each room had a vanity with a sink, but the weird thing was that the entryway was where the shared shower (with a somewhat opaque door) and the little toilet room were situated. Made for some potentially awkward situations, with that shower located between the front door and the individual room doors.

The floors were made up of gritty, cold, slippery tiles, and on each mattress rested a plastic-wrapped bedroll, containing sheets, a threadbare blanket, and two raggedy towels. A microwave and mini-fridge sat plunked in the middle of each room. 

I'm pretty sure Simone is not looking at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville as a contender for college.

Each girl took a hot shower, but getting warm afterward was nearly impossible, and by the time I had them all settled in, they were shivering under their blankets. Exhaustion took over, and the kids crashed hard. It took a little longer for me to find a comfortable position on my little cot, but I finally settled into a doze myself, though I was cold the entire night. 

Morning arrived with a vengeance, but it didn’t take much more than the promise of a hot breakfast to get the girls (and me) up and out. Along with the rest of the kids and the moms, we wandered across a courtyard to the cafeteria where we’d be consuming most of our meals for the next several days. Let’s just say that the food was not impressive, and waiting in long lines to get to desiccated proteins and overcooked veggies made the week feel even longer.

The next several days kind of ran together in a haze of hustling kids to different parts of the enormous campus, shoveling down food with a resigned sense that the calories were important, and trying not to overheat once the sun did find its way back to Tennessee. For the kids, it was a grand, exhausting adventure, and though there were minor meltdowns and moments of acting out, all eleven of the youngsters handled the trip fairly well (Simone’s team placed 16th and 4th in the world for their two challenges). 

It wiped me out. Between the sleeping conditions, the long hours on our feet, the laughably horrible food, and the feeling that I was the human equivalent of a sheepdog, barking to keep the kids together - preventing them from falling behind or getting lost in a crowd — left me feeling like I’d never recover. 

But that’s irrelevant, because I was there for the kids, and they had a magical experience due to some incredibly cool and coordinated programing by the Destination Imagination staff. 

And I did learn a lot about Simone on this trip, and for that I am very grateful. Watching her interact with her teammates, especially the two other girls, was eye opening. Simone was both the outsider and part of the team during the course of the week — the two other girls have been best friends forever, and they’re very alike in their pop tween aesthetic and interests. For the most part, they did a decent job of including Simone, but there were plenty of times when the disconnect was very evident — whether it was in sartorial choices or teen idols. Simone was happy to be brought into their circle of silliness, but only to a point, and then she’d (consciously, I think), roll her eyes and step out of the bubble, leaving the other girls to their New Directions gossip. With the two boys, she could banter about video games and The Avengers (pin trading is a huge deal at Globals, and Simone went after Avengers pins, highly coveted by many, with a shrewdness that was both nuanced and childlike), but boys are physical beings, and when she got stabbed in the foot by a needle one of them had come across, she put distance between herself and them. So she was part of the team, and contributed in a big way in competition, but with the genders split the way they were, she was also an outsider.

Which is probably good for her in the long run, because she’s learning early on how to fit in and work with a team when appropriate, but how to maintain a lock on her own personality and preferences. Simone is only in middle school, which means she has much bigger social challenges ahead of her, but I loved seeing my headstrong girl tenaciously be herself. 

Of course, it also breaks my heart, and there were plenty of times when I wiped away tears for her and the heartache that she faces. I’d chalk up my weepiness to exhaustion, but those of us who were the coolest kids very few of our peers appreciated know exactly what I was feeling. Isn’t that right, @fitzwillie?

So I don’t regret the lost work time, the expense, and the privations of the trip at all. I’m not sure I’d volunteer again, if the opportunity presented itself, but the chance to grow closer to my little girl and have a peek into her middle school world was without price.

And, of course, daddy points never hurt.

Adventures: April, 2012

The view out my window right now is nothing but white noise. 

We could be flying over anything at this very moment — ocean, mountain, prairie, desert. The only indication that we’re actually moving is the rumble and vibration of the great engines, their turbines sucking up the cloudy air, relentlessly shredding it, and spitting it out behind us. 

Any minute now, we’ll hit our cruising altitude and pop out of the sea of gray, skimming its surface, the sun shining aslant through the windows of the cabin. 

It’ll be the first sun I’ve seen since I left Denver four days ago. Not exactly the weekend beach escape I’d anticipated.

When I was invited a month or so ago to run a social media training session in Los Angeles, I requested that it be scheduled for a Monday or Tuesday, so that I could a) travel without negotiating a parenting schedule change and b) leverage the free airfare into a weekend escape in SoCal. I could cross paths with friends, eat well, spend a few hours snoozing on the beach and splashing around in the Pacific, and maybe schedule a business meeting or two during the week. 

But as the weekend in question approached, some of the rendezvous that I’d anticipated began to evaporate; people were traveling, others were too busy, and a few didn’t even bother to respond either way. By the time I hopped my plane Saturday morning, it looked like I’d be spending much of my time alone. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it also wasn’t what I wanted.

It ended up being a good trip — I had truly delicious bites, laughed with several friends I hadn’t seen in a very long time, and, in spite of the lowering clouds, did take a long barefoot walk on the beach. I wasn’t alone as much as I’d anticipated, which was a nice thing, too.

I’ve traveled out of Denver at least once per month, every month, for more than a year. I love to travel; I can’t get enough of it. In the past year, I went on a last-minute weekend trip to Hong Kong, took a road trip with Simone to Montana, caroused at TWO conferences in Vegas with my best friends, flew away on a solo trip to Costa Rica, enjoyed a father-daughter camping and canoeing weekend with the girl, and shuffled off to miscellaneous getaways in the mountains. Propose some sort of travel adventure to me, and if the budget, schedule, and my workload are sortable, I’ll hop a plane wherever you want to go.

But, most of the time, I end up traveling alone. Whether it’s work-related, or just a much-needed escape from the routine, most of my trips are me, solo, eating well, exploring, and experiencing whatever is on offer. 

And I’m tired of that.

Today, as I was waiting at LAX, I heard a final boarding announcement for a flight to Maui. I am dying for a real beach vacation, even more now that Santa Monica greeted me with fog and chill breezes. Simone is traveling a bunch this summer, between trips with her mother, summer camp, and “tante camp” with my baby sister, and I want to use some of that non-parenting time for one of those tropical escapes where I can surf/dive/swim and/or read/sip umbrella drinks/walk on the beach/snooze, remaining barefoot the vast majority of the time. I want to smell saltwater and coconuts when I wake up in the morning, not worry about where my next meal is coming from, and spend a week in a gentle haze of well-being. I want to disconnect from Facebook and Twitter (no, really!), but probably not Forkly, and be present to the moment over and over again.

And, at first, when I heard the final boarding call announcement to Hawaii, I thought, “Damn, I’d like to sneak on to that flight.” And, just as quickly, I realized I didn’t want that at all. “Shit,” I thought. “I just don’t want to take another vacation alone.” Even to Maui.

I know the potential pitfalls of traveling with someone else — being answerable to another’s agendas and preferences, subject to someone’s mood swings or allergies or low blood sugar meltdowns. I understand the risks to friendships that a long trip together can pose. 

But I also crave the moments when you get to share in the adventure together. Like when you bite into the perfect croissant, and your eyes roll back into your head, and you realize that the person you’re with has been transported alongside you. Or when you’re standing together at the foot of some iconic monument or landmark, and you look at each other incredulously, and say, “Can you believe we’re here?” And the response is, “Can you believe we’re here, together?” 

Or when everything goes terribly wrong — you’re lost, or delayed, or you realize you dropped $50 worth of foreign currency twenty minutes ago when you were reaching into your pocket for some Chapstick. Or when the hotel doesn’t have your reservation, or the train broke down and it’s 100 degrees in your train car, and you have to breathe through your mouth because not everybody you’re sharing air with remembered to shower that morning or maybe even that week. You commiserate, you get irritable, and then you take a deep breath and laugh, because travel is like that. And, a month later, when you’re safe at home and something reminds you of that one time when you got into a tense negotiation with the cab driver, the two of you can finally laugh about it for real, and revel in that shared story. 

I have a theory that, when you travel, everything is a little bit better and a little bit worse than it normally would be. So a cold glass of mango nectar while you’re sitting on a veranda and watching the tide roll in is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. And when you miss your train to the next city and your only choice is to cool your heels for three hours until the next one comes, it feels like a bit more of a disaster than it would otherwise. 

But traveling with someone whose style and flexibility is compatible with yours makes those highs even higher while ameliorating the lows. When you can depend on each other, it turns the minor (and major) disasters into a great story you’ll be able to tell later.

So, yeah. I miss that. I crave it. I want to run away to the beach this summer, but I don’t want to do it alone. 

I don’t know what the solution is, but I’m hoping it’ll emerge — that one right girl, or a buddy who also wants to get the hell out, or maybe this post will start a conversation with a small group of people who are craving the exact same thing and want to organize a trip together. 

I don’t have my heart set on a romantic getaway (though that would be lovely) — the key is to have my toes in the sand and the knowledge that someone I like is nearby thinking, “This was a great idea.”