Dear Future Chuck:
As you sit there comfortably in the Twenty-Teens (let’s not look too far, and also: You ARE comfortable, right?), thumbing through this blog on a slow day, wondering what I, 2012 Chuck, could possibly have been thinking, I greet you with this: Your guess is as good as mine.
As you might recall, we started this here blog thing way back in 2003, when the form was new and the name a mystery (Blog? What’s a blog?), but beginning on July 26, 2012 we decided to jump on a demographic conceit, invent an urgency, and mostly just get the fingers moving in the morning while maybe documenting a year in our life.
It’s been slow going, I gotta tell you. Summers are kind of slow anyway, but we’re several weeks in now and while I’m (this is Me, 2012 Chuck; let’s not get confused here) still unclear of exactly what we’re doing, I feel better about it.
Given the general attention span of at least Americans, and the specific attention span of us, I thought I’d bring you up to speed so far. This is (was) now officially the driest August in Seattle history, with only a trace of moisture, not measurable (meaning 0.01 inch or more). It’s always dry in August, nothing out of the ordinary, just a statistic, something for the weather people to talk about because, of course, nothing else is happening here. No storms, no floods, no ice, no wind. Nothing but mild temperatures, morning clouds, sunny afternoons.
The GOP convention ended last night, although I didn’t watch any of it, which is why you, Future Chuck, don’t remember it. So rest easy on that front. The consensus seems to be blah, nothing new, a couple of excellent speeches (by women, interestingly). There was apparently a remarkable acceptance speech by veep-to-be Paul Ryan, that same Mr-Ryan-Goes-To-Washington, fierce independence and commitment to fiscal sanity and speaking truth to power, who told a stunning number of out and out whoppers in front of the American people and his mother. Even CNN was shocked.
And, finally, they had a “surprise” speaker last night, who really wasn’t a surprise, Clint Eastwood, who wandered on stage and talked to an empty chair. Apparently, again. My love for Clint does not allow me to watch, as I heard it was embarrassing. I do wonder if George W. Bush was pissed because the GOP invited Invisible Obama but not him.
In other news, Future Chuck, Hurricane Isaac was not as bad as feared, but still leaves parts of the country cleaning up and suffering. The rest of us have forgotten (see: Attention Span above). The Mariners are inching their way toward .500 here at the tail of the season. The Seahawks might be interesting, according to our friend Scott, who follows these things. School and church are revving up for the Reverend Missus, and for the Prodigal Son, who actually went to church last week.
And as you well know, Future Chuck, today – August 31, 2012 – is the day I began The Goal.
You know how I feel about goals. They’re stupid. They set you up for failure, disappointment and relapse into old ways. I prefer to make small changes, do them every day and see what happens. Walk more, drink more water, be nice to people, etc. We’re still on the same page, right Future Chuck?
But the world keeps turning and September looms, and I’m feeling a little directionless here in 2012, just a little. And I keep staring at those pants.
You remember those pants? For all I know they’re our favorite pair now in the future, but just to refresh: Our lovely wife bought them for us a few years ago, back when I was strutting around in new jeans with a slimmer waistline and feeling all cocky. They should have fit perfectly, this nice pair of slacks, but they didn’t come close. Not a big deal, just take them back, but cocky is as cocky does and I refused. “That’ll be my goal,” I said, and so I hung them up and decided to slim down a bit more. And that always works.
So they hang. Sometimes they get close to…closing, but this ain’t horseshoes. Really nice pants.
It’s been a summer of blahness on that front, rivaling a political convention. I’ve actually gained a few pounds, nothing drastic. A lot of these sunny days I’ve spent looking at the computer and only occasionally glancing outside, and certainly not taking 10-mile hikes. I’ve done fine, we’re fine, completely unremarkable, all the clothes fit except for those pants, and those pants aren’t complaining.
But I felt the need for direction, so here we go: Give me six weeks, Future Chuck. I’m going to slip on those pants on October 12, 2012, or give them away to some deserving slim person. I need to shake things up, and so going against my nature I’ve decided to make a goal. God help me.
I hope you’re well, Future Chuck, healthy and happy. I hope you’re still exercising every day, being nice to people, kissing your wife, talking with your son, laughing at politics. I hope the unemployment rate is down. I hope Mitt Romney is in the private sector, where he obviously has talent, and not getting us into more wars, which he seems to want.
And I hope those pants aren’t hanging up in the bathroom anymore, one way or the other. They’re just pants. It’s about the journey, right? Here’s to six weeks, then. Do ya feel lucky, punk? A little bit, yeah.