Exercising My Demons

Earlier this week I had to do a treadmill stress test at my cardiologist’s office. I was terrified. Not because I feared the results of the test, but because I feared the exercise. I’m out of shape…badly. And with a stress test comes the high likelihood of embarrassing myself in front of the cardiology tech, pulling a hammy, or probably, both.

How did I get here? At 55, I’m no spring chicken, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to keep up with a treadmill for ten minutes. Back in the 1990s, when I lived and worked in Manhattan, I walked constantly. My apartment was about 1.3 miles from my office and I made that walk twice a day, every day. Unless it was raining…or snowing…or really cold…or I was hungover. Okay, so maybe not every day, but probably a good 70% of the days. Of course, not weekends or holidays, but I think you get my point. I walked a lot back then, and not just to and from work. There is so much to do in Manhattan and oftentimes it was just faster to walk somewhere than to take a bus, train, or cab. (Hi Gen Z-ers: A “cab” is like an Uber, only instead of getting it by pushing buttons on your wireless telephone, you get it by waving your arms frantically in the air and then pushing other people out of the way to get in.)

So, in my early to mid-twenties, while living in New York, I was in great aerobic shape, without ever having to intentionally exercise. Then, when I was 25, I moved to Arizona. You would think, given the constant sunshine, natural beauty, and ubiquitous hiking trails, I would get into even better shape once I moved out here. You would be wrong. I arrived in Arizona on July 11, 1995. It was 104 degrees that day. I found a really well air-conditioned apartment to rent and stayed inside…for the next three months. Whatever level of fitness I brought with me from New York had dwindled to nothingness. But my TV got quite a workout.

Eventually, after I cooled down, I met some people out here and went hiking from time to time. But these intermittent adventures occurred infrequently and would hardly be considered an exercise routine. I continued to fall into aerobic decline until, surprisingly, my late 30s, when a major life event forced me to exercise whether I wanted to or not. There was now a toddler in my house! No, he didn’t get in by accident through a vent—he actually belonged to me and my wife and was supposed to be there. And eventually, another one came along. And while “chasing toddlers around with wild abandon” may not be a well-known exercise routine like say, Pilates or Calisthenics, trust me when I tell you that doing that for two hours a day will improve your aerobic stamina in a hurry.

But here’s the interesting thing about toddlers that nobody tells you—they eventually grow up and don’t need you to run around with so much anymore because they get something called “friends” that they do that with instead. Now, of course, my toddlers are teens and even if I wanted to run around with them, there would be no possible way for me to keep up. And so, I haven’t really exercised that much in over a decade. Mostly, I still give the TV a good workout.

This brings me back to my recent treadmill stress test. A test that gave me stress just thinking about it. I warned the tech beforehand that I am very out of shape and I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to last. She looked at me skeptically. The thing is, I’m quite thin, so people assume that means I’m athletic. I am not. That’s just my body type. In fact, after the tech gave me the skeptical eye, I told her, “I know to look at me, you would think that I’m in incredible shape, but nothing could be further from the truth.” She giggled and told me to get on the treadmill.

The first three minutes were fine. The treadmill was going at a comfortable walking pace that I could keep up with. I mean, it’s not like I never walk. I don’t want to give you the impression that I have hired someone to carry me around from Point A to Point B. I walk all the time—from my house to my car, from my car to my office, from my bed to my couch, etc. There is some walking, though not much.

After three minutes, the tech pushed a button that increased both the speed and steepness of the treadmill. My casual walk suddenly got more challenging. I could still keep up, but had to make a significant effort to do so. The last time I walked this fast was in March of 2020 when I was trying to beat an octogenarian to the last package of toilet paper at Target. (She won.)

As I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill, I glanced over at the monitor that showed my heartrate. I was at 112. Crap. The goal was to get me to 165, so I knew she was going to have to push that button again. And sure enough, at the 6-minute mark she did. The pace and steepness increased and I was now running with the wild abandon of my long-ago toddlers. All I could think of was George Jetson yelling, “Jane, stop this crazy thing!”

I think at this point I might have been making some strange sounds, because the tech looked at me and said, “How are you doing over there?”

“Naaaahttt…greaaatt,” I gasped. “Ayyy caaaaan baaarely keeeeep up.”

“Do you think you’d be okay if I pressed the button one more time?” She asked, in a way that didn’t sound at all sadistic.

“Noooo waaaay,” I wheezed. “Neeed tooooo staaaahp.”

“Do you think you can make it to ten minutes?” She asked, with 9 minutes and 40 seconds on the timer.

“Ohhhkaaay. Fiiiine. Ahhllll dooo iiiit,” I panted. At this point I was holding on to the treadmill rails for dear life with my feet desperately flailing a good three feet behind my hunched head. The last 20 seconds felt like 20 minutes, as I used every ounce of will power I could muster to not let go of the machine and go hurtling into the exam room wall behind me.

When she finally slowed down the machine, my heartrate had reached a peak of 153. While the tech seemed mildly disappointed that I hadn’t reached the goal of 165, I was mildly ecstatic that I was still alive. I sat down on the nearby bench to catch my breath, while the tech finished up her paperwork. My lungs were on fire and my legs felt like they were trapped in an industrial-sized panini press.

When I had finally recovered enough to leave, I staggered to my car, shakily opened the door and plopped down in the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. After just 10 minutes of exercise, I was completely spent. While I wasn’t surprised, I was frustrated. How did I let this happen? Why did I ignore my own fitness? What was stopping me from getting back into New York walking shape? Or at least, toddler chasing shape? As I drove home I resolved to start an exercise routine.

When I pulled into my driveway, I immediately walked all the way from my car to the living room and sat down on my couch. Thoughts of exercise could wait until tomorrow. The TV needed a workout.

Garbage Chicken

From time to time, when my wife is using the master bathroom, I have to use the kids’ bathroom. As the bathroom is primarily used by two teenage boys, it can be a bit…well…unkempt, to put it nicely. I won’t get into much of the specifics, because I want to keep this high-brow, but there is one phenomenon I would like to address today—the never-emptied bathroom garbage.

The wastebasket in this bathroom is kept in the cabinet under the sink, so it is not something you see upon first entering the room. Indeed, unless you have occasion to throw something out in there, you would never even look for it. The truth, though, is that if you wash your hands after you do your business (which you should always do, young man!) then you would have to look for it, because this particular bathroom utilizes paper towels rather than cotton ones. (If you’re wondering, our towel rack fell off the wall years ago and I’ve not been ambitious enough to install a new one, but that’s a story for another day.)

Once you have washed and dried your hands and it is time to throw away your used paper towel, your next move would be to open up the cabinet under the sink and simply throw your debris into the garbage. Sounds simple, I know, but upon opening that cabinet you will be greeted with a wastebasket that looks kind of like a snow cone at first glance. The garbage, full to 150-percent of capacity, collects in an almost spherical shape that seems to defy the laws of physics. Faced with this mind-bending phenomenon, two questions occur to you: 1) Should I attempt to add my garbage to this unstable heap of refuse; and 2) Why doesn’t someone simply dump this garbage?

The answer to the first question is easy. If you are anyone other than my two teenage sons—no, you would not attempt to add your garbage to the pile, but rather bring it out of the bathroom and find a different wastebasket. But if you are one of my boys, the answer to that question is “Yes” and that gets to the heart of the second question.

Clearly my kids are playing a long-range game of “garbage chicken” and they both refuse to blink first. Why would either of them bother to spend the two minutes it would take to simply take the garbage can out of the bathroom and dump it, when they can instead add yet another paper towel or bathroom cup to their Jenga-like tower of rubbish? Perhaps they think that if they were the ones to dump the garbage it would be admitting some sort of defeat.

When I first came across this phenomenon a few months back, I decided not to dump the garbage myself, not because I wanted to enter into their game of garbage chicken, but because I thought it would be an interesting social experiment to see how long it would take before one of them finally took action. Since they are the ones who use that bathroom 98-percent of the time, it seemed reasonable that one of them would eventually address the situation head on. Well, it seemed reasonable in theory, but a week later I checked back underneath the sink and found a pile that looked similar to one of the trash heaps in WALL-E. Unable to stand it any longer, I broke down and had my younger son (lucky him, he was the one awake at the time) finally dump the garbage.

Satisfied that the game of garbage chicken was finally disbanded, I went back to my room, blew my nose in victory and threw out my tissue in my bedside wastebasket…which was completely full, forcing me to squash down my garbage with every ounce of strength I could muster so my tissue would somehow fit in. Exhausted, I sat down on my bed and wondered to myself, “Why are my kids so dang lazy?”

The Wisdom of Puppets

 

I was born about three months before the start of the 1970s, which was a very turbulent decade. I mean, all decades are somewhat turbulent, but the 70s seemed more turbulent than most. Certainly, it was more turbulent than the 50s or 90s, and maybe slightly more turbulent than the 80s, though probably not as turbulent as the 60s. I won’t go back further than that, because then you run into the World Wars, so those decades don’t really count, because those would definitely be more turbulent, so then the argument gets unduly skewed. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten into this whole decade debate in the first place, because that’s not really the point of what I’m writing here and now people are going to feel compelled to take sides for their favorite turbulent decade. Let’s move it along.

The point is, as a kid in the 70s, it was difficult to process the world around me and understand right from wrong. Some people I saw on TV were good (Walter Cronkite) and some were bad (Son of Sam.) And some started off smart and sensitive and ended up as an out of control monster (Dr. David Banner.) I quickly noticed the complexities of human nature, so it was difficult to know which adults to trust. Instead, I learned to trust puppets.

I grew up when Sesame Street had just started on PBS, and I soon saw that the puppet characters were generally wiser, kinder and more trustworthy than humans. They taught me about letters and numbers, about how to eat right, and about being a good friend. And it wasn’t just Sesame Street where the puppets were the wise ones. Shows like Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Captain Kangaroo, and for us East-Coasters, The Magic Garden, each had kind, lovable puppets teaching us valuable life lessons.

So why am I bringing this up now, four decades later? Because I believe the world needs the wisdom of puppets now, more than ever. Remember earlier when I was talking about the relative turbulence of decades? You might have noticed that I didn’t even bring up any of the decades in the 21^st century. That’s because our current decade, and the two that preceded it, have been a complete and utter fiasco.  We need some puppet-sense immediately!

Here’s a thought for next week’s presidential debate. Let each candidate speak through a puppet. Have each of them drop below the podium, shove their hand up a puppet’s bottom hole, stick it up top where everyone can see the cute little bugger, and let their puppet do the talking. I believe that people are automatically kinder and wiser when they speak through a puppet. This may be the only way to have a truly civil discourse. (Note: I’m not suggesting the puppets look like the candidates—that could be terrifying. I’m looking for happy, colorful, non-human looking puppets that instantly engender goodwill.)

I’m willing to bet that if the candidates added “must speak through puppets” to the debate rules, it would increase viewership exponentially. Honestly, I wasn’t really planning on watching the debate next week, but if I knew I’d be seeing felt instead of flesh, you can bet I’d tune in. I’m sure we would all learn a lot more in that format than in a standard debate setting, and the entire audience—no matter your political affiliation—would enjoy the obligatory group sing-a-long at the end.

Ah, who am I kidding? CNN would never go for this. Now, if the debate were on PBS…

How Does This Grab Ya?

 

Not quite three months ago I had hernia surgery. It was an inguinal hernia on my right side and the surgery was performed laparoscopically, using a robot. I didn’t get to meet the robot prior to the procedure, but my surgeon assured me that he would be the one controlling the robot, and the chances of the machine going haywire during the surgery and trying to take over the world were practically zero. That was very reassuring.

My surgery went well, and I was sent home with nifty painkillers and told to take it easy for the next four to six weeks. The first week after the surgery was particularly challenging as I had difficulty with even the simplest of tasks. Open a jar? Not gonna happen. Put on socks? No dice, Chicago. Carry my laptop to a different location? Uh-uh. Fortunately, my wife and kids were very helpful during this time, but I felt guilty having them do everything for me.

Slowly but surely, I was able to start doing things for myself again, but the one activity that remained challenging as the weeks wore on was bending down to pick something up off the floor. Basically, if I dropped something and I happened to be home alone, I was screwed. I tried to enlist the help of our cats, but despite my explaining what they had to do as logically as possible, they would generally just sniff the object I wanted them to pick up and slowly walk away. Jerks!

As my frustration with my unbendability increased, it occurred to me that I could greatly benefit from owning a grabber. Decades ago, when I worked at MAD, the publisher, Bill Gaines, had one of these devices near his desk and he would often employ it to pick something up out of the chaos of his office. Bill was a millionaire genius, so I figured he must have known what he was doing, so I jumped onto Amazon to find one of these handy devices.

I was unsure if there was a more technical term for the tool I sought, so I just typed “grabber” into the search engine to see what I would find. Sure enough, when I hit enter, the exact tool I was looking for appeared on my screen; indeed, hundreds of them did. At first, I was thrilled that I managed to find what I was looking for so easily, but then I started clicking on my options and got annoyed. Almost every one of the products displayed was listed as either “Grabbers for Elderly” or “Pickup Stick for Seniors.” Clearly, at 54 I’m no spring chicken, but I’m surely not “elderly” or a “senior;” at least not yet.

As I scrolled through my various grabber options I wondered if there were some that were somehow specifically for the elderly and others that were meant for younger individuals. But there was nothing in the descriptions that led me to believe that might be the case. A grabber is a grabber is a grabber, no matter the age of the user. Eventually I got past the misguided description that implied you had to be old to use this particular product, and I settled on a grabber that seemed just right for me. I put it on my Amazon wish list and got it from my wife on the first night of Hanukkah.

When I received my grabber, I was not quite a month out from my surgery and picking things up off the floor was still a definite challenge. But with the grabber in hand, my life transformed. Accidentally dropping a tissue on the ground no longer led to an hour-long depression. I was now able to confidently retrieve my snot-rag and deposit it in the trash without bending an inch. For the first few weeks after getting this miracle tool, I used it frequently. In fact, I came to enjoy dropping things, because it gave me a chance to flex my grabber.

But here’s the fascinating part…three months after my surgery, now almost completely healed and more or less able to bend without pain, I still use my grabber to pick things up. Why shouldn’t I? The convenience of not having to bend is amazing! It makes me wonder why everyone isn’t walking around with one of these things. I think the marketers of this product who call it a “grabber for the elderly” are missing a golden opportunity here. Who wants to bend down to pick things up when the grabber can do the work for you?  I say, just like mailing checks, using a phonebook, and writing in cursive, in 2024, bending down to pick something up should become obsolete. Take it from me, a guy who uses his grabber more than his cellphone. Just don’t call me elderly.

Experimental Cat Post

It has been a very long time since I have written a blog post. Why? Maybe laziness, maybe exhaustion, maybe fear. Yes, I said fear. But fear of what, you may ask. Great question! Thanks for asking! It's the fear of inadequacy in the face of new technology. Specifically, I'm talking about AI and the fear of robot writers replacing real life writers like myself. They say, though, that you should face your fears head on and in today's blog, I will do just that. I have decided to write a blog post about the fact that my cats are simultaneously cute and gross. I then provided ChatGPT with some specific prompts on the same topic. I will post both versions below without telling you, my faithful readers, which is which. Now it will be your task to: a) guess which version is mine and which is AI, and b) tell me which you like better. If AI wins, I'll hang up my writing gloves. If I win, I'll start my novel tomorrow. (No pressure, even though my entire future is in your hands.) Now, read away...

VERSION 1

Cats are the epitome of cute and gross all rolled into one fuzzy, little package. I should know, because I’m the proud owner of two feline terrors – Muffin and Ping. These two furballs bring a unique blend of adorableness and repulsiveness into my life every day. It’s a never-ending rollercoaster of emotions, and I wouldn’t want have it any other way.

Let’s start with the cute. Muffin and Ping are the poster children for feline cuteness. When they stretch out in the sun, their tiny paws curl and their eyes squint, making them look like fluffy, contented marshmallows. I can’t resist snapping pictures of them in these moments and bombarding my friends with endless cat photos. I’ve even considered starting an Instagram account just for them. Cute cats could potentially be my ticket to internet stardom. So, you see, the cuteness is undeniable.

But then, there’s the gross. Cats have a knack for finding and playing with the most disgusting things. Ping, for instance, has a weird obsession with rubber bands. I’ll be sitting at my desk, working diligently, and then I’ll hear that unmistakable ping of a rubber band being flicked across the room. Ping has managed to collect an impressive assortment of rubber bands from the far corners of our house. I don’t know where he finds them, but I suspect there’s some sort of secret underground rubber band marketplace for cats. It’s a mystery that may never be solved.

Muffin, on the other hand, has a love for hunting. While it’s a natural instinct for cats to catch prey, Muffin’s idea of “hunting” involves tracking down flies and eating them. Yes, you heard me right – eating them. I once caught her mid-bite with a fly’s wing sticking out of her mouth. It was both impressive and nauseating at the same time. I had to give her credit for her resourcefulness, but I also couldn't help but cringe at the thought of fly wings being consumed in my living room.

Cats are also notorious for their less-than-pleasant bathroom habits. The litter box, or as I like to call it, the poop palace, is a necessary evil in any cat owner’s life. It’s a never-ending cycle of scooping out clumps of litter mixed with cat waste, and it always seems to happen right after I’ve cleaned the darn thing. Muffin and Ping have impeccable timing when it comes to leaving their gifts in the litter box.

And let’s not forget the joy of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of Muffin and Ping having a WWE-style wrestling match in the hallway. There’s nothing quite like being jolted out of a peaceful slumber by the sounds of crashing furniture and hissing cats. It’s as if they’ve decided that 3 a.m. is the perfect time to reenact the Battler of the Bastards from Game of Thrones in my living room.

Despite all the cuteness and grossness, I wouldn’t trade Muffin and Ping for anything in the world. They bring endless entertainment, and their antics keep me on my toes. Sure, they may have a knack for finding and playing with gross things, but they also have a way of making me smile even on the toughest days. The ups and downs of cat ownership are all part of the adventure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, here’s to Muffin and Ping, the dynamic duo of cute and gross, and to all the other cat owners out there who can relate to the chaos and joy that comes with these furry little companions.

VERSION 2

There are dog households and there are cat households (and I suppose a few hybrid dog-cat households) and we fall squarely into the cat household category. That means, in addition to the four human inhabitants in our domicile, there are two feline family members walking around. Well, let’s be honest, they’re mostly lying around, but you get the point.

Our cats are Ping (black and lean) and Muffin (grey and round) and they bring much joy to our lives. Their hobbies are being cute, purring when petted, and begging for food every time we sit down at the dinner table. They also have their own little interesting eccentricities. Ping, for example, will headbutt me in the knee when he wants cat treats, while Muffin will aggressively meow at you if you sneeze. (I’m pretty sure Muffin thinks that sneezing is equivalent to roaring or growling, so when it happens, she has to stand her ground.)

As much as we love our cats and absolutely swoon the two or three times per year they show affection toward each other, there is an ugly side to cat ownership that few people talk about. I’m going to be brave, though, and discuss the topic that is often swept under the rug…cats are gross.

There, I said it. Adorable as they are, cats can be disgusting. On multiple occasions I have unwittingly stepped in, or sat in, cat puke. (Well, I guess it would have to have been unwittingly—who would wittingly do such a thing?) In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I had to change from shoes to sneakers right before going to work, because I stepped in a puddle of sick moments before leaving the house. Luckily, even though my work dress code forbids sneakers, nobody in my office happened to look down that day.

And then there’s the litterbox, which must be changed daily. Scooping up another creature’s waste is never a fun undertaking to begin with, but one of our cats, who shall remain nameless (Ping, I’m looking at you) doesn’t know how to cover their own poo. Oh, he tries—boy does he try. He’ll spend a good five minutes after he goes, pawing all around the litterbox, thinking he’s actually burying his business, when in fact, the litter has been sent everywhere except where it should have gone. Then he will casually walk out of the box as though everything is hunky dory, leaving one of the humans (generally me) to finish the burial process for him.

At times I wonder why I put up with such revolting behavior. Why must I spend a significant portion of my waking hours dealing with the bodily emissions of someone other than myself? Then I remember that I have kids and that for the first two years of their lives, I spent even more time dealing with their heinous waste than I ever did with the cats. And the kids aren’t even as fun to pet as the cats.

So, I guess we put up with the gross stuff because they are cute, and because they are part of the family, and because, in the end, love is stronger than poo.

A Voice From the Past

 

Recently I had to call my financial institution to resolve an online banking issue. These types of calls are usually about as fun as getting hit in the kneecap with a sock full of nickels. So, as I made my way through the dozens of automated prompts to get to an actual living, breathing human, I was experiencing a fair amount of anxiety. Eventually, I pressed the right sequence of buttons and a representative got on the line and said: “Hello, this is John. I’m going to be your banking concierge today. How can I help you?” Right away I smiled.

You see, as soon as John started talking, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he must have grown up very close to where I grew up. In fact, the more he talked, the more convinced I was that not only was this guy originally from Brooklyn, but quite likely grew up in the very same neighborhood as me, so specific was his accent. The more he spoke, the more nostalgic I became.

John was tenacious in trying to resolve my issue. In fact, he said, “I’m not going to get off the phone with you until we get this fixed. I don’t give up.” I found his persistence reassuring and his accent comforting. There were moments of downtime while he was waiting for something to update on his end. During these silences, I wondered if I should ask him where he was from. I was conflicted, because asking this question could go one of two ways: 1) he happily tells me where he’s from and we start having a conversation about the old country, or 2) he gets annoyed that I’m crossing a personal line during a business call and is less inclined to help me.

People have varying reactions to being called out for their accent. The truth is that many times, people don't think that they have much of an accent since everyone they grew up with talked the exact same way; so if it’s called out, they may get annoyed. I certainly wasn’t aware that I had a Brooklyn accent until I moved away from Brooklyn. The first couple of years that I lived in Arizona it was very common for people who I just met to ask me where from New York, or where from “back East” I was from. This rubbed me the wrong way at first—like a secret part of me was discovered. But soon I owned it, and was happy to reveal my background, which many people seemed to find exciting or exotic. The longer I have lived away from Brooklyn, the more subtle my accent has become, so these days it is rare that any new person that I meet asks me about it anymore. If they did, though, I would be fine with it. But how would John react?

Eventually, John reached a point while working on my issue where he said it could take up to 15 minutes for the online platform to be updated, but he would stay on the line with me to make sure it worked. Fifteen minutes is a long time, so I decided to go for broke.

“John, I’ve got to ask what part of the world you’re from, because I’m pretty sure we grew up in the same neck of the woods,” I said, holding my breath.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” he said, with a chuckle.

“Me too,” I said. “Bensonhurst.” Mentioning my specific neighborhood opened the floodgates.

“I’m from Gravesend. I grew up on East 3rd and Avenue U during the disco era, when everybody wore chains, and all your friends were named Tony.”

I told him where I grew up, which was about two miles from him. For the next few minutes, we waxed nostalgic about the old neighborhood. We talked about going to rival high schools—Lafayette for me, Lincoln for him—and about how cool it was that we could walk to anything we wanted or needed when we were kids. He told me that he loves it in Arizona, but he misses being in a place where he knows everyone in the neighborhood. I was just about to turn the conversation to the virtues of a good slice of pizza when he said, “Okay update your screen and I think you’ll see what you need to.”

I updated my screen and saw that my issue had been resolved. I was grateful for that but was a little bit sad that this conversation was about to come to an end. It was a Saturday morning and I had nowhere to be, so I could have talked to John for hours, but he was at work, so I’m sure he had to help more customers. I thanked him profusely and told him I enjoyed talking to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did some banking; we did some bonding. It was fun.”

It was, indeed, fun. It kind of makes me want to grow my Brooklyn accent back, because not once has anyone ever called me out on my Chandler, Arizona accent.

 

A Tale of Two Concerts

The first concert I ever went to was when I was 16 years and 6 months old. This was way back…way, way, way back in 1986 when the price of a floor seat ticket to see Rush at Meadowlands Arena was $15.50. Yes, there is indeed a dot between those two fives. That’s right, I paid less than twenty bucks to go to that show and sit in the 40^th row.

The monetary cost of the tickets was not, however, the only price I paid to go to that concert 37 years ago. That concert also cost me my integrity. Knowing that my overprotective parents would never let me go to a rock concert in a million years, what with the loud noises and alcohol consumption and people wearing leather, I lied and said I was going to the movies and then sleeping over at my friend Chris’s house. The second part was actually true—I did sleep over at my friend Chris’s house that night, but we did not, in fact, go to the movies. This lie was the most rebellious moment of my young life. I was terrified that I might be caught in the lie, but my excitement over seeing my favorite band outweighed my terror and I did the horrible deed. I felt guilty about the lie and proceeded to have the time of my life.

Cut to last night. My oldest son is currently 16 years and 6 months old, and I took him to his first concert. We paid a mere $75 per ticket to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers in the upper, upper deck of State Farm Stadium. Indeed, if we were any higher up, I think local air traffic controllers may have had to help us navigate to our seats.

Despite the dizzying heights at which we sat, my son and I had a blast. Yes, famed bassist, Flea, looked about the size of a flea from our vantage point, but there were two massive screens on either side of the stage showing close-up views of the band, so we were able to keep track of their frenetic movements throughout the entire 90-minute show. And while there were definitely loud noises, people consuming alcohol nearby, and even one dude wearing leather (despite the fact that we’re in Arizona and it was close to 100-degrees out) I didn’t feel like I was corrupting my son all that much. Instead, we were just digging on the music together. While my first concert was a rebellious moment, my son’s was a bonding moment.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not naïve enough to think that my son is never going to rebel as long as I keep on buying overpriced concert tickets. I just know that for now, I’ve thwarted that rebellion for a little while longer. Truly, I’m fine with him eventually rebelling, as long as he does it when he’s in his 40s when I’m too old and tired to care.

My son and I several miles from the stage at State Farm Stadium

(Photo Credit: Someone sitting behind us who may

have consumed alcohol but was not wearing leather.)