LifeTime Fitness

I’m constantly impressed with my friends that possess athletic abilities superior to mine (which is basically stating that I’m impressed with all of my friends). While I have long written off my hopes of becoming a world-class athlete or Olympian, I still dabble in the art of kinesiology. Living in Ghana, I’ve been able to exercise at Pippa’s Health Centre to maintain my athletic pretense. And in this setting, I have been provided with ample time upon the treadmill to reflect upon my personal athletic timeline.

I am pretty sure that it began (and ended) in elementary school, fourth-grade. I was just entering the first season of kid-pitch baseball, where strikes are as abundant as Siberian tigers. The team’s strategy was to walk our way to victory simply by relying on the inaccuracy of the opponent’s pitcher. See, my coach was all about skill-development. Before we went to the plate, we had to first agree not to swing the bat. Even if you spotted a strike, it was best not to swing because (a) the umpire might still call it a ball, and (b) even if it was a strike, odds are the next pitch would be a ball.

It wasn’t much better for me when it came to fielding. Let’s not kid, being positioned in the outfield was never because you were the next Kirby Puckett. The outfield formula in fourth-grade was part unfortunate fielding skills, part poor depth perception skills, and part lack of speed, which, in total, had quite the charming effect on the opponent. Of course, outfield was my specialty. I preferred right-field where I could put some distance between myself and the vitriol of my coach. Needless to say, my team failed to book a win all season, so instead of putting myself through another year of torture, I cut my losses (which were many) and threw in the glove.

Well, hindsight is 20-20 right? My Pippa’s treadmill overlooks a soccer pitch, and I am often entertained by pee-wee soccer practice. Just the other day, I was watching a scrimmage where the goalie grabbed possession and decided to practice his punt. The only problem was that there was a shrimp from the opposing team standing two feet in front of him. It all happened so quickly, but the trajectory of the soccer ball was interrupted by the young face, off of which it quickly ricocheted, toppling the runt and throwing the Lilliputians scurrying in a new direction. It was at this moment that I had an epiphany. I realized that my former coach was really just looking out for my own safety. Walking to first base pretty much eliminated the possibility of a collision with the first-base man. And as an outfielder, I was far less likely to be injured by a line drive.

Well, regardless, I now stick to the treadmill. One might suspect the treadmill to be a relatively safe venture; definitely safer than kid-pitch baseball and pee-wee soccer. Let’s just say that when you’re running at 8.5 miles per hour and the power goes out at the gym, kid-pitch doesn’t sound so terrifying after all.

Caffeine Please

Bookended by two red-eyes, Dulles to Heathrow, and Heathrow to Accra, I found myself in London for a short 19 hours. Not wanting to let my precious time go to waste, I planned to meet my friend Rachel for lunch, and leg it across London all afternoon.

She suggested meeting on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, to which I swiftly agreed. After having spent one sleepless night on the plane, I was running on adrenaline and prepared to sight-see, so I bought a day pass for the Tube, and set off for St. Paul’s. While on the Tube, I snuggly squeezed a second fleece over top of my first (since winter-weather clothing did not make the packing list) and was prepared to embrace the frigid air. Catching up with Rachel was great; she took me to a quintessential London pub where we both ordered fish and chips with a Kronenbourg lager. Her life as an expat mirrored mine in myriad ways. For example, we commiserated over the difficulty of starting anew with zero social capital.

After lunch, we walked along the Thames until she had to report to work. She pointed me in the direction of the tourist attractions, and off I went. Prior to departing, I casually asked my parents what I should see in the afternoon I had to explore London.

Mother: Well you should see Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge and London Bridge…

Me: Let me tell you a little something about London Bridge

Mother: …oh, Parliament and Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and you should go to the National Gallery, Hyde Park is beautiful, the London Eye, Oxford Street…

Father: Probably Abbey Road and don’t forget to see Wimbledon.

Me: You realize that I’m there for an afternoon right? Does your recapitulation come with cliff notes? Wait…shouldn’t your recapitulation be the cliff notes?

Well, finding myself with the afternoon at hand, I set about my checklist. Unable to bear the arctic chill and with my adrenal glands taking a nap, I decided to reward myself. After each sighted landmark, I found a coffee shop for both stimulus and warmth. After splitting my time between Starbucks and UNESCO World Heritage sites, I stumbled to the underground in the direction of Heathrow, doing everything in my capacity to fend off slumberland.

Two sleepless nights and one hectic day as a tourist had me landing exhausted in Accra at sunrise. Lucky me, I arrived just in time for my first day back at work. Instant coffee. Blimey.

Perfectionism

In 8^th grade, my English and Civics class required us to write a joint thesis. At the time, the task hovered over my head like Morena Baccarin in ABC’s V. Well, one of my classmates, friends, and neighbors, Greg, wrote his first thesis on how procrastination was a sign of perfectionism, which I’m sure he wrote mere hours before the semester-long deadline. So it is no coincidence that this thesis invaded my personal space. I ossified as a perfectionist around the same time as my first bout with braces.

Whenever I’ve needed an excuse for pushing something off until the last minute, I have always had a scapegoat – my perfectionism. Procrastination has a habit of crawling into all my business, including the time leading up to my flight across the Atlantic back to Ghana. When it comes to international travel, I told my parents it would be prudent to arrive at Dulles two hours before departure. So three hours before departure, I pulled myself away from Franzen’s Freedom (deeper meaning?) to begin packing for the next seven months of my life. Reserving the final hour for frantic packing for the next seven months definitely falls under my perfectionism umbrella.

No problem. Trying to pack lightly, I began gathering my belongings and started to strategically divide them according to weight and value between travelling bags. I ignored my parents’ incessant berating of Brian, shouldn’t you be packed by now? No. Brian, do you have a packing checklist? No. Seriously? No. Brian, are you a perfectionist? Why yes, I thought you’d never ask.

As it turns out, my total travelling volume exceeded my luggage volume. Well shucks. But through a series of rearrangements to optimize my luggage and through forced containment not seen since President Truman, I was able to secure my belongings. Perfect, given that now I should have been at the airport 10 minutes ago. But I was ready to leave, and thankfully my blessed birthers live mere minutes from Dulles.

Brian, what about this home haircutting kit? my mother shouted from the top steps. Shit. For Christmas, I asked for a an electric razor with the description “something I can cut my own hair with.” Papa Garv turned out to be quite the giver and bought the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe set. So instead of a relaxed and sincere send-off from my family, I frantically spent the final moments with my parents unpacking and forcing items into my one suitcase, my one travel backpack, and my one carry-on.

We sped (maybe I made this part up, my father is a law-abiding citizen and driving five over the speed limit provides as much thrill as eating an entire peach cobbler provides to Dudley Dursley) to the airport and quickly got in line at the Virgin Atlantic counter. Standing in a stationary line, I started nibbling my nails, beginning to think that my streak might come to an end at the Virgin counter. I was no longer using my perfectionism as a scapegoat, but rather the Brady Bunch at the ticket counter. The number of questions they had for the Virgin ticket agent was only outnumbered by the number of their checked bags.

My mother sarcastically conjectured Maybe this will finally teach you a lesson. Perhaps perfectionism and procrastination have their limitations. I was beginning to believe her until I finally arrived at the ticket counter. Mr. Gavron. Unfortunately this flight is overbooked and there are no more economy seats. So we’ve gone ahead and upgraded you. Upgrade? Perfect.

Backpack from Santa

I asked Santa Claus for a backpack. After conducting some online research, I sent Santa an email, attaching a Christmas Wish List with the link to a possible backpack. I cautioned Santa on making a purchase before I was sized and fitted, so I was not surprised when, on Christmas morning, I found an I owe you stuffed in my stocking. With Santa’s go-ahead, I locomoted to REI, my favorite all-purpose sports cooperative, to make a Christmas purchase. I brought my friend Serena along with me to provide company and a second-opinion.

Upon walking into REI, Serena and I were immediately distracted, Serena, by the bikes on the left and I, by the headlamps on the right (not because I needed one, since Chelsey gave me, along with the rest of her male friends, a headlamp for Christmas). Finding humor in our promenade across the REI floor, Keith, a floor assistant, immediately took a liking to us and asked how he could be of assistance. I immediately became enamored of Keith because of his graspable extremities; his handle bars were the perfect complement to Serena’s bike.

Wyatt Earp proved knowledgeable in the backpacking arena and I was soon testing the REI Passage 65 Pack. He talked me through every feature, we filled it with sandbags, I harnessed up, and started trekking the REI floorspace. This provided Handle Bars McGhee uninterrupted time to showcase some additional gear I might be interested in purchasing. At the top of this list was his favorite pair of underwear. So cool that he relayed the story of a guy who used just one pair for an entire three months in Iraq. (Not so cool).

Instead of hearing other riveting testimonials, I decided I should address my lifetime REI benefits package. You see, here’s the thing. About five years prior, I was persuaded by the cashier to spend the $20 to become a lifetime member, which allowed me to reap dividends (literally) in the form of a 10% refund distributed on items purchased. Well, five years into my lifetime membership, I was still using my temporary membership card and, more importantly, had not ever received a dividend. No problem Whiskers tells me. We walk over to the computer to pull up my account information. After verifying address and phone number, he asks, is your last name Garin. Of course not. Could this really be the reason REI has been withholding my annual dividends? After correcting my last name, I was informed that my account information had been successfully updated in the system. No longer would I fail to receive my rightful dividends.

I thanked ‘Tache Twister for his assistance, and went about the store to add a few other items to my cart in the hopes that Santa might be generous enough to pick up the tab for the entire excursion. I went to check out, feeling that freedom was mine, and paid for everything. As I turned to leave the store, the cashier reviled me. Thank you for shopping at REI Mr. Garin.

The Wonderful Life

One of my favorite things about the holidays is their ability to bring my friends together. Some of my favorite holidays include Dranksgiving, Foxfields, and of course, New Years. When these holidays arrive, I have to constantly tell myself that it’s a marathon and not a sprint, as the day passes in a complete blur. Often I am unable to recall the specifics of any one conversation, but my memory records the day as one terribly blissful day in the life. I envision I’m much like George Bailey in his famous run home at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. This New Year was no different, although telling tales is probably NSFW.

Interestingly enough, I received an invitation from my dear friend Katie for a night out at Sign of the Whale, one of our favorite DC bars, scheduled for the evening of January 1^st. Sign of the Whale is not the type of bar you would usually go to on a date with sobriety. It has the perfect location, a five block walk from the metro, and neighbors with DC’s finest, Camelot (voted as Readers’ Choice “Best Strip Club” by Washington City Paper). So my presentiments had me questioning Katie's date selection and whether I could manage a night out following such a large holiday.

In good form, fifty of my favorite twenty-somethings turned out for a sober night of dancing, each of us showing up only out of fear of missing out, nobody setting high expectations. But my presage was quickly abated as we weren’t so fancy and just got dancey. Over the course of the evening, we evacuated the dance floor; we danced an Irish jig, danced the cupid shuffle, danced the dougie, and just danced. It ended up being a great night for everyone. Well, I guess everyone except the bartenders, who worked extra diligently to keep our glasses filled with ice water and coca-cola. It really is a wonderful life.