You’ve met the Cleaver’s right? I grew up in that house. Ok, not THAT house with Wally, Theodore and the Beav. But I grew up in a similar house, with two parents who kissed when dad got home from work. We spent quality time together as a family. Now that I am older, I realize that was not everyone’s experience. My sister and I were lucky. We are lucky to have that childhood tucked away in our memories box. Ironman did not grow up in that house. His childhood was much different than mine. His dad was not part of his life. But this doesn’t stop him from being a phenomenal dad, which is one of the reasons I love him. When he comes home from work (which most of the time means a tiresome trek across the house from his home office), he hugs and kisses all over the Littles and says “Do you know why I smother you with kisses? Because my daddy never did.” This fills me simultaneously with both sadness and gratitude. I wish Ironman could have grown up in our house (well, not our house, because that would just be weird). But I am so thankful that our kids are growing up in that house. As you know from A Valentine’s Day Ode to Ironman, we have a weekly trip to Costco. Sometimes, I’ll wander off to look at something and upon reuniting, Little J will be sporting a huge smile, while holding a toy truck that may or may not be remote control and may or may not make some obnoxiously real (and loud) noises. Ironman will buffer my raised brow with a “Do you know why daddy is getting you a truck? Because my daddy never did.” I let it go, because really, our house is anything but quiet anyway and who doesn’t love the noise of a truck backing up while on the phone with the pediatrician? But what Ironman may not realize is that he doesn’t need to buy the Littles anything that he didn’t have growing up. He has already given them everything they need just by doing one thing. He showed up. And one day Little J will hold his littles and say “Do you know why I smother you with kisses? Because my daddy always did.”
You may not want to read this at work. Not because it’s R rated, but because, well, you should be working. Ironman obviously loves triathlon. You don’t get that title by sitting around in your barcalounger watching Andy Cohen on Bravo. Though if you did, I’d have quite a few M-dot tattoos. You earn it, one sweat bead at a time. So I’ll bet you’re wondering where the sex and drugs fit in? Well, triathlon IS an addiction, but I’ve been unsuccessful in locating a tri rehab. I don’t think anyone knows quite how to handle a triathlete in withdrawal. Those of you deep in the clutches of triathletism, and even those in committed relationships with a triathloholic, can agree, it wouldn’t be pretty, friends. The sex. Ironman is always on some sort of handheld device. And if he’s not, he is flipping through a magazine. He’s not much a tv watcher. In fact, I’ll have to explain who Andy Cohen is. Occasionally, while engrossed in his medium of choice, he’ll say something under his breath like “Man, that is sexy!”. Now, any other wife might be suspicious. Or jealous. But not me, because my Iroman is committed. To triathlon. And if I took away his bike porn, he might just turn up in one if those tri rehabs. As he surfs or flips, every evening there’s a new carbon bike on his wish list. And if Santa was real, trust me, he’d arrive on a Cervello. The drugs. Now don’t raise your brow, he doesn’t Lance it. But Ironman meticulously prepares for his races. His water bottles are counted and re-counted. His GU packets are lined up like little soldiers awaiting battle, fighting first in the water, then on the bike and finally on foot. His nutrition litters the tabletop like a DEA’s dream bust, the Ziploc packets of white powder stacked neatly in rows.
This is the life of an Ironman. It isn’t glamorous. And it isn’t easy. But someone vowed to love him in sickness and in health. Who knew they could happen at the same time?
Ironman and I are at a stalemate. He wants to buy us plots. Because nothing says I love you more than neighboring headstones. You may think it’s sweet. You may be impressed even. I’ll admit, his ability to plan for the future surprised me, since most of the time I have to change the clothes over to the dryer when he’s started up a load in the washer. I’m kidding. It’s all of the time. Anyway, his land-buying venture went horribly awry when I informed him I don’t want to be buried. It seemed simple enough. But when I told him why, he didn’t believe me. I think the conversation went something like this:
Ironman: Why don’t you want to be buried?
Me: Because I’m claustrophobic.
Ironman: (laughing uncontrollably) Oh, you’re serious.
Me: Yes I’m serious!
Ironman: But you’re dead.
Me: I’m not dead yet! And it gives me anxiety to think about it. Because I’m claustrophobic.
Ironman: Well, then we can’t be buried together. And just so you know, if that’s the case, I’m free to roam.
Me: Oh no you’re not. Because my urn will be sitting on top of your coffin.
Legal disclaimer: On our wedding day, I argued to have “until death do us part” taken out of our vows since I didn’t believe death would actually
keep us from arguing part us. I didn’t win, but let the record show that when I repeated the vow I didn’t mean it. Checkmate.
Ironman says the smartphone is making us dumb. Not you and I, of course, but the collective us. You know, the teenagers gathered on the street corner, all on their phones texting each other. Or the idiot who checks the weather app to see what the temperature is instead of walking outside (oh wait, that one is me. I should be offended). Or the guy who erroneously winds up at a lake because he blindly accepts google map’s directions to the airport (clearly one of those new trendy underwater airports). But I say, Ironman, the smartphone is making me smarter. I do quite a bit of math when I check the weather app and I need to calculate the percentage of how often the forecast is completely inaccurate. Based on today’s findings there is a 10% chance of rain and a 120% chance it will rain all day. I also excel in other areas. The phone helps me improve my time management skills, such as how often I need to check that my pocket hasn’t accidentally turned it on silent. It helps me enhance my problem solving skills as I have become quite adept at detecting when my iPhone is ringing in a store full of imposters. Not only are my IQ points on the rise, my physical health couldn’t be better. I no longer have to bother the doctor with any pesky questions. With the Internet at my fingertips, my self-diagnosis is at an all-time high. This saves countless co-pays, which you guessed it, allows me to get the latest iPhone. That, my dear Ironman, is what I call smart.
Sent from my iPhone