Followed, because I'm an ass, by a long pause then a different subject

Tonight at dinner, after what was obviously a rough day with the kids, my wife said, "It really hit me today, how miserable I must be to be married to. I'm not interesting, I have nothing to offer to anyone other than my kids. I get it. I get it."

Teach your children well

When my friend and next door neighbor was made our bishop, he said that one of his biggest shocks was how common sexting was among the kids in what is, according to a recent visiting G.A., one of the highest tithe-paying stakes (meaning, percent of members who are full-tithe payers, not in total tithes paid) in the Church.

I've mentioned that my boss was recently made a bishop, and that we've shared our thoughts on wondering how today's kids will survive today, both of us freely admitting that things would likely have been very different for us if we hadn't actually had to have connections to track down a tattered Playboy back-issue or bribe a friend's big brother to go rent an R movie with a few, fleeting frames of flesh. I've assumed the self-appointed role of his Eyes On The Street, providing him with intel that he can use to understand what the kids are up against. Maybe because it makes me feel like something good might come from my encounters with the gutter. Or because the pretense of the greater good gives me another excuse to linger around the gutter.

The other day, I sent him a batch of three items that I'd seen over the last little while.

The first was the cover story of a recent Weekly Standard, a report of the trenches of the singles scene:

Thanks to late marriage, easy divorce, and the well-paying jobs that the feminist revolution has wrought for women, the bars, clubs, sidewalks, and subway straps of nearly every urban center in America overflow every weekend with females, young and not so young, bronzed, blonded, teeth-whitened, and dressed in the maximal cleavage and minimal skirt lengths that used to be associated with streetwalkers but nowadays is standard garb for lawyers and portfolio managers on a girls’ night out.

(As an amusing side note: My mother-in-law gave us the Standard subscription as a gift, in part to ensure--she said basically as much--that I was being exposed to "balanced and objective" reporting. While she was staying with us to help after the birth of our baby, she expressed concern that our daughter had mentioned having read an article in a news magazine to which I subscribe about, among other things, platonic-yet-weird "sleepovers" Elvis had with teenage girls in Memphis during the early years of his career. I agreed that I wasn't thrilled that our daughter had read this, but disagreed with my wife and her mom that the only solution was to cancel the subscription and not allow that kind of stuff into our home in the first place. Literally within a week of that discussion, the Standard issue arrived, with cover art that would undoubtedly pique the curiosity of a ten year old and content that would leave little to her imagination. I solemnly expressed my concern that our daughter may read articles of this nature in this magazine and that the only solution was to cancel the subscription and not allow that kind of stuff into our home in the first place. I couldn't resist. Cruel. Hilarious.)

The next was an article about hooking up:

What is hooking up? If you don’t know, then you’re probably at least 40. Hooking up can involve anything from kissing and heavy petting to oral sex and intercourse, but what all hookups have in common is that the physical involvement precedes an emotional relationship—if the latter develops at all. “In the dating era, students would go on a date, which might lead to something sexual,” says Kathleen Bogle, a sociologist at Philadelphia’s La Salle University. “In the hookup era, students hook up, which might lead to dating.”

Finally, I sent him a link to a Frontline series called "The Merchants of Cool," about the relentless and astonishingly innovative efforts of corporations to own the hearts, minds and wallets of teens. I'd first been made aware of it several years ago, when I spent most of my working day doing advertising. As a marketing professional, I was fascinated. As the father of a too-soon-to-be-teenage girl, I was petrified. Evolving technology has already rendered some of its elements a tad outdated, but it should still be mandatory viewing for anyone who has any stewardship over any teen. In fact, at one point I was going to give a fireside to parents of our YM/YW using core elements of this documentary as the feature exhibit and discussion catalyst, but found that I was having to edit so much of the content (for fear of someone being offended by the tree and missing the message of the forest) that the effect was utterly neutralized, and I ended up canceling the fireside.

As I hit Send on this message that would help my boss to help other peoples' children, I was reminded that I need to prepare my kids for this, and that it will become increasingly difficult to improvise my way through their adolescence. That night, I read an article in the current Ensign about being an influential father:

In addition to teaching gospel principles, there are a number of things fathers can do that will influence their children for good, no matter what stage of life they are in. These include living a gospel-centered life, showing appropriate affection, disciplining with love, listening effectively, spending one-on-one time together, and seeking creative ways to participate in a child’s life.

21. And the dad said, Most of these (the primary exception being the "gospel-centered life," as it is most likely defined by this author -- a life that demonstrates Christian behavior and is, on the surface, generally obedient to the strictures of the Mormon faith, yes; but one that is immersed body and soul in the Gospel as interpreted and promulgated by the LDS Church? Can't say that I am.) have I kept from my youth up.

22. Now when Jesus heard these things, he said unto him, Yet lackest thou one thing: abandon thy lust, and cleave only unto thy wife, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, follow me.

23. And when he heard this, he was very sorrowful: for he did love him some killer kalves and wondered, "How can I be that person, that 'influential father,' in full sincerity and with any degree of effectiveness, when a big part of me is pulled forcefully toward the things I'd admonish against? When for every 'That's evil and contrary to The Plan' thought, I have two 'Why wasn't I in on that scene when I was single? And why can't I be a part of it now?' thoughts?"

[skiing]

proud of daughter, 10, teaching 2 yr old

angry afterwards, at self
- watching daughter ski with my bad habits
- that I gave up on her (gold medals in small races against older skiers, deer valley course times, etc.) but when she was 7, park city - 80 skiers from all the resorts' teams, she was youngest on the mountain (last month of 3-yr eligibility window), finished in the middle; my feelings shen she crossed finish line pumping fist...an element of shame, embarrassment, "don't do that! You didn't win! Clearly no concept of how far behind the leader..."
- Told friends, family that it was getting expensive, commitment every Sat morning, what's the long-range plan here at the end of this investment? All of which is true, but I would be kidding myself not to acknowledge the possibility that it was about not winning.
- professionally I'm struggling with a career that doesn't come easily to me, that... etc.

Drove home, not wanting to raise these kids or be in the marriage

Shower - Made the connection, perhaps not too much of a stretch, is that the allure of Lindsey Vonn (may have noted that Leno chose guests well for his first week back)--contrary to a theory I mentioned in a previous post--that she represents my own deficiencies, but that she represents success where I have failed with my daughter. Same sport, my daughter will be tall, blonde, more likely attractive than not. Dedication, determination, etc.

Cried as I told my daugher (room was dark, cried silently, I don't think she could tell) that she didn't deserve my anger, that it wasn't anything she did, sorry, forgive me? yes; and that she's a wonderful girl any parents would be proud of.

Staying warm in the winter wilderness

For several years, around this time of year and with fair regularity, a I've gone snowshoeing with a group of buddies in the Uintas. This year, a top-brass meeting at my company's headquarters kept me a couple of hours behind the guys, so I drove up on my own. I bought my permit at the Kamas ranger station from a woman in her early 30s -- tallish, average or even below-average looks, but a big smile and, I noticed when she turned from the front desk to return to her office, outstanding lines along the back, apparent even through her tightish, U.S Forest Service-issue ranger pants. I've commented previously that I imagine (and it may well be strictly my imagination, with no footing in reality) myself to be more interesting to women when I'm in my full, professional peacock regalia and, given that I was still dressed for the big meeting I'd had that morning, I thought I noticed a little twinkle in her eye, her little wedding ring notwithstanding. I needed to change out of the work duds and into my snow gear, and she said I could do so in the restroom there. As I changed, I wondered? hoped? imagined? her coming in while I was changing, and something (as I've said before) quick and anonymous happening against the counter.

I spent that night in the Ritz Carlton of snow caves. I'd built a few front-yard, Webelo Scout-variety snow caves in my time, but this one was in a class by itself, structurally solid and large enough for four or five people but just two of us used it while the others used other, more permanent accommodations. It took about 15 minutes to reach a comfortable temperature, and as I quickly dozed off, I thought (as any still-hormonal male probably would) of how amazing it would be to showshoe up there with my wife, and spend a fully-nuptial night with her there, in pitch darkness at over 8,000 feet, and miles from anyone. And then I laughed at myself for having wasted seven neuron firings on the notion that my wife would ever consider such a thing.

Last night I dreamed that my wife turned over to me in my sleep and, with neither warning nor warmup, proceeded to hastily deploy (how shall I put it?) the primary, powerful pleasuring technique available to a woman who has just given birth -- a technique she'd banished (this is fact, not dream) from her already-limited sexual repertoire several years ago. (As a side note: For some inconsistent reason, she has not placed the same prohibition on the reciprocal, claiming to be uncomfortable with both idea and act but almost invariably allowing the act to be acted out, when I pursue it.) It was so sudden, and so shocking, that the whole thing lasted about five seconds from start to finish -- not a speed record a man will generally brag about, but I share it simply to emphasize the bizarreness of it. It was just the second time (the first time was in the snow cave a few nights before) in close to probably two months that I've even had a sexual thought about her, and, on a positive note, the first explicitly sexual dream that I've had about her in literally as long as I can remember.

At times like this, when I consider this lackluster-at-best/dysfunctional-at-worst element of my marriage--an element that prior to marriage I'd looked forward to as being a central unifier, but now it's a source of alternatively meh or ugh--it seems almost unbelievable to me (miraculous, if you will) that I've neither had an affair nor reverted to porn. I honestly don't know what to attribute either of these feats. It's not fealty to the Covenant or a longing for eternal rewards. It's certainly not an emotional commitment to my wife that I manifest the best way (physically, or in this case through the avoidance of the "wrong" kind of physicality) a caveman knows how. Maybe it's the kids, plain and simple -- that I don't want them to have that kind of dad. I don't know.

Vonnderlust

I think 2002 was the last time I sought out the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue in order to see a specific woman, Yamila Diaz-Rahi, I believe, on that occasion.

But in the day or two following Lindsey Vonn's gold medal in the downhill, a friend and I bantered about her: "I told [my wife] that I have a crush on Lindsay Vonn, and SHE TOTALLY GOT IT." "I wonder how much she knows about polygamy, and would she like to know more? At last, a 'restitution thing' worth waiting for!" - Facebook status updates that, as you can imagine, garnered a lot of commentary. Our interests in her developed independently, but once our threads crossed (through his wife, the one who "TOTALLY GOT IT" and called our shared interest to our attention), we compared notes and were surprised to learn that for both of us, it was much more pre-pubescent schoolboyish than hormonal. That she is physically attractive is an undeniable facilitator, but the je ne sais quoi allure seemed to be in her smile, her grace and apparent sweetness, and her obvious strength and discipline, not in her T&A, almost as if this denizen of Olympus were too much of a symbol or even archetype to be the cause of heavy breathing.

So when I heard--or thought I heard--one of the NBC commentators say something like, "...to see a strong, beautiful, fully-clothed woman like Lindsay on the cover of SI in February is a refreshing break from the usual fare..." I thought I would check it out. If you've followed this blog at all, you know that I won't hesitate to call my dog in a race, so you can therefore believe me when I say that I was led by intrigue and awe, not by lust, fully expecting to be informed and further infatuated, rather than titillated. But when the first Google result to my "sports illustrated lindsey vonn" search included the words "swimsuit by...", the fact that my wife and I have for the last day or two been giving each other the semi-silent treatment in the aftermath of a strong disagreement over the appropriate price range in which we should be shopping for houses, helped turn up the heat under the lukewarm kettle of quasi-platonic curiosity, and I clicked away.

So anyway, there was Mrs. Vonn in much of her glorious glory at SI.com. I'm not sure what happened to the "fully-clothed" part, but "strong" and "beautiful" were right on the money.

You call that Progress?

Just a few days after my wife gave birth, I had to go to an industry conference. It's the one event of the year that I really can't miss. Well, in theory, I could have missed it, but it's the conference that corresponds to my specific, unique job function, and by missing this event, I might have risked weakening my position at work, at a very, very bad time to be weakening one's position at work. So, with my mother-in-law in town (thank goodness) to keep the household upright, I went.

As you know from past posts, when I wander for work, my heart and hormones tend to wander as well. Two possibly-significant things happened this time:

1) It's the first business trip of the last few years that I remember, during which the sight of attractive women didn't lead my mind down the path of, "My last meeting is at 6, I have a dinner with attorneys from 7 until 9. If my colleague decides to call it a night, I could feign the same and then hit all the cocktail parties to see if she's there..." Didn't happen, much of which I can attribute to the ever-present thought of my wife's having just passed through the valley of the shadow of death in order to bring my/our child into the world. (In fact, the most major of my infractions was probably forcing myself to stay awake through a worthless romantic comedy that wasn't short on sexual content, just not the kind that gets me into trouble. Although I'm not sure I would have switched it off with lightning-quick reflex had there been a "Whoa-that-sure-
jumped-on-the-screen-quickly-I-never-would-have-imagined-
THAT-would-happen-in-this-show-I'd-better-reach-all-the-way-
over-to-the-nightstand-for-the-remote-here-I-go-reaching-over-
there-all-the-way-over-there-for-that-remote-almost-got-it-
almost-almost" scene that involved Mila Kunis.)

2) That said, there were lots of killer kalves poking out of lots of business skirts. Maybe I'm the only Neanderthal for whom successful hunter/gatherer women and heels are a toxic mix, maybe not. (Someday I'll ask one of them what it's like to be an attractive woman at an event with a 143:1 Male:Female ratio.) So at a risk of anything ranging from significant professional embarrassment to eternal hellfire, I got some shots--and for every one shown here, there were several exquisite sightings that were logistically impossible to record--in the middle of which it struck me that this blog may more of a driver of behavior than a forum for recording it. Meaning, that I've become habituated not just to noticing things (as I always have), but to seek them out in an active effort to memorialize them as Exhibit A, which tends to lessen the therapeutic effect intended by the exercise.

So we'll see if those thoughts stick. In the meantime, I can plainly assert that no man I know and respect would ever do something like this. I'm sure that plenty of men I know and and respect have plenty of other problems. But none of them would walk around a conference (business or Church, for that matter, while we're on the subject) taking clandestine photos of womens' legs. No man. For example, I've admired one of my brothers in law for many, many years. He's fairly high up with a Fortune 500 company and is on the road more than he is at home, and runs in circles where power, wealth and beauty abound. Would never, ever do something like this. Never.

P.S. Special thanks to Delta for the flight delay that yielded several shots of a lovely and leggy fellow passenger.

Fair weather friends

An unseasonable warm spell has melted much of the snow, clearing off joggers' paths and legs alike. This is a particularly shameful pair of shots, for a pair of reasons:

1) Having spotted her running roadside as I drove, I pulled into a parking lot a block or two ahead of her and stood near my car, pretending to talk on my phone, until she passed. (How appropriate that my creepy stalker shadow be memorialized so well in the first one!)

2) The timing. Wow, my timing here was nothing short of abominable. So abominable that I really don't even want to explain it. Maybe later. But not now.