She was a black woman in her 40s, but she could have been any race, age or gender.

I know her type.

The dictator. The bully. The 800-pound gorilla in the room. The person who always gets their way because people rarely stand up to them.

She first caught my attention when she grabbed the bottle of spray cleaner that was right beside the elliptical I was using. There are dozens of spray bottles and towels throughout my gym. We use them to clean the exercise machines we’re using. Most people spray and clean a machine before using it. Many will also spray and clean the machine after they use it as a kindness to whoever uses the machine next.

Even though there were other bottles she could have grabbed, she decided to grab the one next to me (I didn’t notice what had happened until much too late). She didn’t grab the towel, though. No, that was too germ infested for her. Instead, she had paper towels she brought from home.

She walked up to a treadmill and cleaned it. Then she grabbed the only box fan (pictured) in the cardio area of the gym, unplugged it and moved it directly in front of her treadmill.

When she was finished exercising, she turned off the fan (thereby depriving others of feeling its cool breeze) and left without cleaning the treadmill.

For several days, I witnessed the same selfish routine. She acted as though the box fan was for her personal use and hers only. She would take spray bottles near other gym members even though there were other bottles near the treadmill she would eventually claim as her own. And she would always turn off the fan when she was finished and would never clean the sweat she’d left behind.

I observed her actions, but did my best to ignore them since they did not directly impact me.

Until yesterday, that is.

Yesterday, I get to the gym and find the box fan pointing directly at my favorite elliptical machine. A cool breeze while exercising isn’t a necessity, but when you’re on the elliptical for 60 minutes it definitely feels good.

“The Gym Dictator” was on an exercise bike directly to my right. After about five minutes, she gets up, grabs a bottle of spray cleaner, and makes her way to the treadmill directly to the left of the box fan.

No, she didn’t turn the fan away from me and towards herself. That’s what I expected her to do. Instead, she turned the fan OFF.

Why?

Because she was reading a magazine and didn’t want the fan ruffling the pages.

I was dumbstruck for several moments.

“Did this woman really just turn off a fan that was pointed at someone else?!”

No way was I going to let that stand. I paused my elliptical, walked right up beside her and turned the fan back on — on its highest setting, no less.

As I turned to walk away, she took off her headphones.

“Hey,” she says, trying to get my attention.

“The fan makes it really difficult for me to enjoy my magazine,” she tells me without an ounce of kindness or civility in her voice.

“Well,” I replied, “your magazine makes it really difficult for me to enjoy the fan.”

Her mouth went agape. I’m sure she had expected me to cower, apologize and immediately turn off the fan. Me more or less telling her “tough” was the last thing she expected.

“But since I do care about my fellow man,” I continued a few seconds later, “I’ll compromise with you. I’ll turn the fan down to LOW.”

“Oh…okay,” she replied.

About ten minutes later, she got off her treadmill. Usually, her routine is to follow up the treadmill workout by getting on one of the elliptical machines. She usually also, of course, points the box fan towards the elliptical she will be occupying.

But not yesterday.

The only available elliptical machine was the one directly beside me. So, instead, she grabbed her paper towels and headed for the exit.

Will she be back to her selfish ways tonight? Probably. But she won’t be pulling any of that nonsense with me.

I stared down The Gym Dictactor and kicked proverbial sand in her face.

Stings, don’t it?

Not too long ago, the importance of having “a good breakfast” finally penetrated the thick surface I call my skull. Since that time, I make sure to eat breakfast each and every morning. Sometimes I have oatmeal, but I usually I have eggs and fruit.

This morning, I was running a little late for work. So, rather than making my own breakfast, I needed to pick up something on the way. Chick-fil-a, with its chicken breakfast burrito and medium fruit cup, is my go-to “on the run” breakfast.

So, I make it to Chick-fil-a. I’m in the turn lane, waiting for an opening in traffic so I can take a left, pull up to the drive-thru menu, order my food and be on my way.

But one particularly special SUV was bound and determined to make this harder for me than it needed to be.

Traffic was almost cleared enough for me to make my left-hand turn. Once this very special SUV was past me, I had a clear opening.

So, the SUV is coming towards me at a pretty good pace. Then it slows down. A lot. Then it speeds up again. By this point, I assumed the driver was either putting on lipstick, was on drugs or didn’t know where she was going (or perhaps a combination of all three).

Then, at the last possible moment, without slowing down, this SUV decided “Hey, here’s a Chick-fil-a…I should totally eat here!” And then she made a right-hand turn into Chick-fil-a at such a great velocity I was amazed she didn’t flip her vehicle.

But fine. Whatever. I was now free to turn into Chick-fil-a myself, so that’s what I did. Of course, I now found myself behind this ridiculously special SUV in the drive-thru menu. But that shouldn’t be a big deal, right? So long as she doesn’t do something insane, I won’t even notice that she’s in front of me. Right?

Sadly, for possibly the first time in my life (he says jokingly), I was wrong.

First, the SUV almost runs over a little old lady who was walking from her parked car to the entrance of the Chick-fil-a. Apparently, special SUV driver didn’t know to yield to pedestrians. Or, maybe she did, but she didn’t think she had to for people over the age of 70. Or maybe she didn’t see the little old lady because she was still putting on lipstick while snorting cocaine?

Regardless of her reasons, thankfully, she didn’t run over the little old lady.

(However, since I hate to see started work go unfinished, I did tap the little old lady with my fender. You know, just to keep her on her toes and show her who’s boss.)

With the little-old-lady saga now over, the SUV makes its way to drive-thru menu. There are no other vehicles in front of it. The driver is free to pull up, order and be on her way.

But that’s not what she did.

With me, and another car by this point, directly behind her, the special driver of the special SUV stopped about ten yards short of the drive-thru menu.

Then she sat there.

For two minutes.

Now, I don’t know what she was doing. Maybe she was trying to decide what she wanted to order before pulling up all the way. Maybe she had children in the back seat I couldn’t see and she was asking them what they wanted to eat. Or maybe she was feeding her children lipstick and cocaine while she had a conversation with one of the many voices in her head.

Regardless of what she was doing, a little part of me was dying inside with every passing second she did it.

Now, for those wondering why I didn’t honk my horn at this lady so she’d snap out of her trance, I didn’t have to. Multiple vehicles behind me were honking their horns at her every ten seconds or so. Releaved of this burden, I was free to ponder what it feels like to slowly die.

(To those wondering what it feels like: It tingles. Of course, that might have been from my leg falling asleep.)

Finally, the lady in the special SUV decided to pull up to the menu, give her order and drive forward.

Sort of.

She drove forward about ten yards (even though no vehicles were in front of her), which BARELY gave me enough room to pull up to the menu to give MY order without hitting her bumper. My hunch is she MEANT to block me from reaching the menu at all, but she overshot it. Once she saw that I was at the menu and able to give my order, she drove on.

I was clearly dealing with a psychopath.

After giving my order, I pulled around to the window. Already at the window was the insane driver of the SUV. She had already paid and was waiting for her food. A few moments later, with her food in hand, she drove forward towards the exit.

Now, as you likely realized given the craziness I encountered when ENTERING the restaurant, this particular Chick-fil-a is not situated at a stop light. So, there are three lanes: One lane for customers entering from the main road. A turn-lane for customers wishing to exit Chick-fil-a and take a LEFT onto the main road. And a lane for existing customers taking a RIGHT onto the main road.

Which lane did crazy SUV lady choose?

The left AND right turn lanes.

And which way was she turning? Who knows. She didn’t have a turn signal. I’m pretty sure, if her vehicle were big enough, she would have tried to block all THREE lanes. But I digress.

Why did she do this? Well, for one, she’s insane. But mainly, I believe she was trying to deliberately block the vehicles behind her (me, plus the vehicles that had honked at her) from being able to exit Chick-fil-a.

I believe this because she sat there at the intersection for three minutes. Traffic was sparse, but she didn’t move. She just sat there. And waited. Waited for a line of vehicles to form behind her.

But alas, those vehicles never came. You see, for the first time ever, Chick-fil-a had to ask me to wait for my order. My breakfast burrito wasn’t ready.

So, I waited at the window. The vehicles behind me waited. And the crazy SUV sat twenty yards ahead, at the intersection, wondering what had happened to her angry mob.

After three minutes, she finally drove away. She made a LEFT turn, for those wondering. And a few moments later my food was handed to me. I drove up to the intersection and then turned right towards my work — thankful in the knowledge that crazy SUV lady was driving in the opposite direction.

The end.

What’s that? You’re wondering why I referenced a “Jesus Fish” in my title, but didn’t mention it in my actual post. Well, that’s because I’m now convinced the crazy lady who drove the SUV didn’t actually OWN the SUV. Yep, I think she stole it. Therefore, it wasn’t her Jesus Fish.

Of course, if it WAS her SUV and WAS her Jesus Fish, I am saddened beyond words.

If you put a decal on your vehicle or wear an item of clothing that signifies you are a Christian, you are making a statement to the rest of the world. You are saying: “I am a Christian. I love the Lord. I love Him so much, I want everyone reading this to know it!”

And when you make such a statement, you become an example for unbelievers. You can either enlighten them with the things you say or the things you do, or you can tear them down.

If they hear you use profanity, it will hold more significance than a biker with twenty tattoos who curses like a sailor. If they see you drinking a beer at a restaurant, they won’t think, “Oh, I’m sure he’s drinking in moderation and being responsible.” No, they will think: “That guy in the John 3:16 shirt is drinking a beer! With children ten feet away!!”

And if you drive like a crazy person and deliberately do things intended to provoke other drivers, well, if you’re lucky, they’ll think you stole the car. If you’re unlucky, you’ll become a stumbling block for someone.

And THAT, my friends, is the last thing a Christian should ever want to do.

“You look awesome.”

I had headphones in my ears at the time, so I didn’t realize I was being spoken to right away. Then the speaker got my attention, so I removed them from my ears.

“You look awesome,” she repeated.

At first, I was confused. What’s she talking about? Do I know her? Was she hitting on me? Was I being Punk’d?

“I haven’t been to the gym in a while, so I haven’t seen you in a few months, but wow, you look awesome.”

I then realized this young lady was paying me a compliment. And yes, I did remember her. She used to be a regular at the gym.

I thanked her, told her how that was “such a sweet thing to say” and that she had made my day. And then we went our separate ways.

It took several moments for what had just happened to process in my brain. This, you see, was the first compliment I had received on my appearance (family members do not count) since I switched to a healthier lifestyle.

I know I’ve made progress, but in my mind I think about how far I still have to go. I estimate it will be another three months before I’m where I should be. And because I’m constantly looking at still what must be done, I don’t appreciate what’s already been accomplished.

But then I heard those three little words.

Validation. You don’t realize you need it until someone gives it to you.

As I’ve discussed numerous times before, I’m a frugal person. However, contrary to popular belief, being frugal doesn’t mean I’m cheap. It means I value bargains.

Cheap people hate to spend money. Frugal people hate to spend money on something that isn’t a good deal.

I would rather buy a $300 jacket for $100 in the summer than a $50 jacket for $50 in the winter. This isn’t just something I would do in theory — I’ve actually done this. Twice.

I will buy $30 worth of Schick Quattro replacement blades even when I don’t need them if they are on sale at a great price because I know I will need them eventually and it’ll cost me a lot more later. I do the same with deals on shampoo, deodorant, body wash, toothpaste and other toiletries.

In short, if it involves the exchanging of money, I do my darnedest to make sure I get the best deal possible. This philosophy of frugality has served me well over the years.

However, there is a drawback.

There is one area where “getting the best deal” is counterproductive to my well being. What is it?

Food.

Getting “the best deal” on food, nine times out of ten, results in buying more food than you need.

Think about it.

At movie theaters, you’re confronted with the reality that if you’re willing to pay just a nickel more, you can quadruple the size of your popcorn.

At restaurants with “all you can eat” buffet options, ordering a regular, normal-sized meal off the menu usually costs more than the buffet. And for those who do order the buffet, the need to “get your money’s worth” by overeating hovers over you.

At convenience stores, 12-ounce cans of soda barely cost less than 20-ounce bottles. At fast-food restaurants, ordering a sandwich/hamburger and a drink usually costs more than getting “a meal” and having unhealthy french fries added to your order. At grocery stores, “buy one get one free” deals are abundant (sometimes this is good, sometimes it’s not).

Now, most of these “food gotchas” don’t apply to me. I don’t get food or drinks at movie theaters. I stopped going to restaurants with all-you-can-eat buffets. I’ve stopped drinking soda. I’ve stopped eating fast food. And I take advantage of “buy one get one free” deals at the grocery when it’s for something I was going to buy anyway; otherwise, I ignore them.

But Subway…

Subway is killing my frugal brain.

Once or twice a week, I will get a Subway sandwich for lunch. When it comes to “fast” dining options that are also healthy, Subway’s tough to beat.

But here’s the problem. Right now, Subway has a special where any of there regular 12-inch sandwiches are $5. It’s a great deal…

If you usually order 12-inch sandwiches.

Not too long ago, it dawned on me that, just because I’m a guy, it doesn’t mean I had to order 12-inch sandwiches. A six-inch sandwich with half the calories could and should fill me up just fine. And so I made the switch. No more foot-long sandwiches.

The change saved me money (6-inch sandwiches cost less than 12-inch ones) and allowed me to turn an already healthy lunch into an even healthier one. All was right with the world.

But then came Subway’s “$5 foot long” special.

Including taxes, it costs me $4.82 for a 6-inch turkey sandwich at Subway. Basically, for just a quarter more, I could buy a 12-inch sandwich.

You have no idea how much it hurts my brain to know I’m not getting the best bang for my buck. I’ve tried to think of solutions.

“What if I order a 12-inch, only eat half, and then save the rest for dinner or lunch the following day?”

It works in theory, but I don’t want Subway twice in two days.

And so, I’m stuck. Stuck between choosing to eat healthy and not getting the best deal, and choosing to get the best deal and gorge myself.

I’m happy to say that, for once, my frugal self is losing the battle.

According to a new federal report, the number of  illegal immigrants in Georgia more than doubled from January 2000 to January 2009. Georgia, it turns out, had a higher percentage increase than any other state — even states like Texas and California that border Mexico.

Naturally, this got me thinking.

For starters, it got me wondering how exactly it’s known how many illegal aliens reside in Georgia (or any other state, for that matter). Are the people who published the report psychic? Did every illegal alien fill out a form when they crossed the border? Did the report merely count the number of TV viewers for the talk show Lopez Tonight on TBS?

It also made me wonder if any of my co-workers were illegal aliens. Given the huge numbers in Georgia, the answer is likely “yes.”

So, the last few days I’ve been gathering intel. I’ve paid extra close attention to my co-workers. And I believe I have three candidates.

#1Carol in HR

The case for: Has been spotted eating at Taco Bell on several occasions … Has a photo of a pet chihuahua on her desk … Heard her say “si” one time.

The case against: She went to Taco Bell, with me, for lunch and going there was my suggestion … The dog photo on her desk could be of a beagle or mutt since I don’t know dog breeds very well … She might have been saying “see” instead of “si.”

#2Doug

The case for: Likes soccer … Owns a tie that has one of the colors used in Mexico’s flag … Seemed skittish when I asked him in the middle of a meeting if he was an illegal alien.

The case against: I might be looking for reasons to think he’s an illegal alien due to that one time he drank the last of the coffee and didn’t brew more.

#3John

The case for: Wears a sombrero to work on Casual Fridays … Drives a Chevy El Camino … Doesn’t appear to speak English.

The case against: His name, “John Smith”, is as All-American as you can get.

…

Frankly, guys, I’m stumped. It could be any of them!

But mark my words, I won’t rest until I’ve figured out the identity of the building’s illegal alien.

Even if, in a surprise twist, the illegal alien turns out to be John.

For reasons unclear to me, this afternoon the following thought popped into my head: “Hey, I wonder what’s new with (name of my high school)?”

[Background needed in order to understand (and possibly care) about what I'm about to write: After college, I worked at my old high school for three years. I was a computer teacher (actually, the computer department didn't exist before I came along, to be perfectly honest), a coach (baseball and fast-pitch softball), and I designed the school's first website. Once I finished graduate school, I moved on.]

It shocked me a little to realize I really hadn’t thought about the school in any way, shape or form in probably two years. Understand, I used to eat, sleep and breathe this school. To not be heavily invested in the goings on at the school is something that would have seemed like madness to me years ago.

I typed the school’s URL and was shocked to see its website. My design was long gone. This I already knew (a couple years ago, when the notion to check out the website popped into my head, I saw that the school had replaced my design with a new one), but I wasn’t prepared for the amateurishness of the design I was about to see!

All totaled, I worked on this school’s website for four years. My internship during my senior year of college was spent as the “webmaster” for the school’s website. As a college student, not yet an employee, I created the school’s first-ever website. And a year later, when I graduated from college, I became an employee of the school and continued my “webmaster-ey.”

When I left the school three years later, I didn’t expect them to keep my design until the end of time. So, I wasn’t surprised when, a couple years later, they changed it. The new design wasn’t as awesome as mine (not surprising, right? Right?), but it was decent. But this…this latest one…it…it…

It stinks on ice, to use an expression I liked to use a lot as a teen. Gosh, it’s awful. AWFUL.

But fine. Whatever. The website sucks now. No big deal.

I go to the site’s employee directory to see how many staff members I remember. Gosh, there’s been MAJOR turnover. I recognize about half the names. That’s a lot of turnover in such a short period of time.

I check out the baseball page next to see if I recognize any of the players. Nope, not a single one. A few of the last names seem familiar, which likely means these are younger siblings to students I used to know.

I check out the softball page and see the same. A list of question marks.

The only name that is familiar at all is the name of the head coach. He went to school with me, although he was several years younger. I wouldn’t say I knew him exactly, though. I knew him in the same way you would know any kid you took lunch money from or stuffed in a locker.

(No, I didn’t really do that. I wasn’t a bully. Honest.)

My failed trip down memory lane did get me thinking, though. My life has changed a lot the past eight years. I remember interviewing for a job and thinking how surreal it was to be going back to the place I spent so many years as a student. I remember signing my contract and wondering if the headmaster was going to change his mind about hiring someone who still hadn’t finished college.

I remember the last week of finals in college. I remember the pressure of knowing that if I bombed horribly on any of them I wouldn’t graduate on time and, therefore, wouldn’t be able to start my new job. I remember the thrill of taking my last final on a Tuesday night, knowing I had passed all my classes, and knowing I had only a few hours to celebrate because the following morning was the first day of work for new teachers at my school.

I remember stepping in front of a classroom for the first time and not having the first clue how to process the infinite number of things I had to process at any given time. I remember the first student with whom I connected. I remember the first student I helped who “thanked” me by throwing me under a bus to his parents and the high school principal just to save his own, scrawny neck. I remember having to fight really hard not to distrust all students after that incident.

I remember my first parent-teacher meeting and coming to the realization that all parents do NOT know what they are doing. I remember my first of several “run ins” with insane parents, and I definitely remember all the times I called them on their insanity.

I remember coaching. I remember losing (a lot). I remember being baffled by how much we lost because when I was in school our baseball and softball teams were dynamos. I remember getting my first win as a coach and exhaling for about twelve minutes.

I remember all these things, but it’s as if they happened lifetimes ago.

What kind of changes will the next eight years bring? And, more importantly, will my old high school’s website still suck?

Even though this post uses baseball as a metaphor for life, I promise (to you readers who loathe sports) you do not need to like, know or give an Al Gore about baseball in order to appreciate the post. Of course, given the empty abyss that is my readership these days, none of this probably matters. Hmmm.

I find it a tad disappointing that the thing I arguably know better than anything else — the thing I worked at and actively studied as a child, teen and young adult — is virtually useless to me as an adult.

My brain is a database of in-depth, insightful, unused baseball information.

Had I grown up with a love of playing the piano, even if my profession wasn’t as a pianist I could still get plenty of use out of such a skill in adulthood. The same would be true had my youthful hobby been cooking, hunting, sewing or any number of other things.

But with baseball, not so much. Unless I’m playing the game, coaching the game, writing about the game or watching the game, the usefulness of my knowledge is virtually nonexistent.

This is why, I believe, I use baseball for so many analogies and metaphors in real life — I’m trying to get SOME use out of this knowledge. (Well, that and the fact sports analogies/metaphors are so easy to make.)

My favorite life-baseball metaphor didn’t even dawn on me until a week ago. I had a dream where I was playing baseball. (As a teen such dreams were common, but not so much now.) The following morning, I got out of bed and drug my sleepy butt to the gym. While on the elliptical, I remembered the dream and had my metaphor epiphany.

In the dream, I was showing a teammate the proper technique for fielding a baseball. (Yes, even in my dreams I micromanage what others are doing.) The tutorial I gave him was one I’ve given hundreds of times in my life as a player and later as an actual coach.

It’s my “play the ball, don’t let the ball play you” lesson. What it means, basically, is that when a baseball is hit to you on the ground, you shouldn’t sit on your heels and wait for it to get to you. That is “letting the ball play you.”

Why is this a bad thing? Well, because it leaves you, the fielder, helpless and dependent on the whims of a bouncing ball. All you can do is react.

If you’re very lucky and have good reflexes, the ball will bounce into your glove. If you’re a little lucky, the ball will miss your glove, but hit you in the chest (where you can then pick it up). If you’re unlucky, the ball will miss your glove and body completely (meaning you’ll receive an error for missing the ball). And if you’re really unlucky, the ball will hit you in an area of your body I affectionately refer to as “the baby maker.”

In that last scenario, you, the fielder will receive an error for missing the ball and will suddenly find yourself singing soprano.

So what’s the alternative?

Be proactive. Read the bouncing ball coming towards you. Move your feet. Time it so that you can get a nice, easy-to-field hop.

You “play the ball” instead of letting the ball play you.

Suddenly, the real-life correlation dawned on me.

Too many of us react to everything life throws at us. Now, some of this cannot be prevented. When we get a phone call on a idle Tuesday afternoon telling us a loved one is in the hospital, all we can do is react.

But how many of the situations we face in life could we see coming in the distance if we took the time to look? How many situations could we do something about? How many situations do we face that could be avoided (or, at least, their impact lessened) if we were proactive instead of reactive?

For the most part, I am good at looking ahead and being proactive. In college, I was one of those students who would take the syllabus for each of my classes and write down the due dates for all my tests and papers. Why? I was looking to see if any weeks were going to be what I call “a perfect storm” — a week where every class has something due.

By looking ahead, I was able to plan accordingly.

Still, I’m sometimes inconsistent with my proactiveness. So, after my metaphor epiphany, I did what I should always do every so often: I took stock of my life. I asked myself, “Self, where is your life right now? Where could it go in the months and years to follow? Where do you want it to go?”

Such simple questions, but they’re so important.

Where is your life right now?

Where could it go?

Where do you want it to go?

Answer these three questions and you will come to one of two conclusions: Either you love your life and where it’s headed, or you don’t love your life or where it’s headed. If it’s the former, great! But if it’s the latter, you have one more question to ask yourself:

What can/will I do about it?

Sit back on your heels and let life throw whatever it’s going to throw at you, and you’ll likely find high-speed baseballs aiming for your baby maker. But if you look ahead, see what’s coming and be proactive, you’ll save yourself much aggravation and pain.

It’s a helpful lesson for big life events, fielding a baseball and everything in between.

But mostly it’s helpful for fielding a baseball.

Something screwy is going on here.

Last week, I bought some new running shoes on Amazon. It was a long overdue purchase. My current running shoes, you see, are almost four years old. And since I purchased them, my feet have grown.

Yep, my size 13 Nike Airs — the size and brand I’ve worn since I was a senior in high school — are now half a size too small. I need size 13 1/2 in Nike, which practically doesn’t exist. So, that means I’m stuck with size 14.

Oh well. Better to be half a size too big than half a size too small, right?

Since I last purchased athletic shoes, the designers at Nike have apparently lost their minds. Virtually every shoe they make now looks as though they were made for teenagers, adults who still act like teenagers, or gangsta rappers.

And since I am none of those things (though I don’t doubt I could have quite the rap career as DJ Kev, Dr. K or some other silly alter ego), I was forced to look elsewhere for a suitable shoe.

Reebok, based on the pair of baseball cleats I owned in college, are crap. So, they’re out. This left me with New Balance and Adidas as suitable replacement candidates.

I’ve never owned a pair of New Balance, but my parents wear them and speak highly of them. Their styles are also ADULT friendly, which is a big plus. I had a pair of Adidas back in junior high and remembered liking them, so I decided to keep an open mind about them, too.

To my surprise, the best deal (i.e. the best shoe for the lowest price)  on Amazon was for an Adidas, not New Balance, running shoe.

The “Adidas Clima Cool” running shoe (pictured) was the winner. It had an age-appropriate style. It was a normal color. And it was on sale. Yes, the frugal part of my brain liked these shoes a lot.

So, I ordered them.

Size 14.

They arrived last Friday and I quickly opened them and tried them on.

Hmmm.

They felt…tight.

This couldn’t be right. How can size 14 anything be too tight?

I kept them on and walked around my home thinking I could get used to them. Nope, they hurt. They felt like things I would wear if I wanted to bound my feet as a child to keep them from growing.

Luckily, the Amazon seller I purchased them from has a nice return policy. I can exchange them for free, or I can ask for a refund (but be charged $8.95 as a processing fee).

Nine bucks? That doesn’t sound like much, but my frugal brain doesn’t like the sound of it. I would be out $8.95 and STILL need a new pair of running shoes.

So, the alternative is exchanging them for a different size of the same shoe. But that would mean…size 15!

I do not have size 15 feet. I don’t. I just don’t. Something screwy, I repeat, screwy, is going on here.

Is size 15 the new 13 1/2? Has Adidas changed their size charts? Have other shoe makers done this, too? And if so, WHY?!

Are there really that many men out there in the world who are insecure about the size of their feet?! Did a bunch of guys with size 8 or 9 shoes write angry/sad letters to Adidas and demand the company change the way it measures shoe sizes?

“I’m tired of wearing size 8 1/2  shoes,” one letter might have read.

“Mr. Adidas, I demand that your company make it so that size 8 1/2 shoes be changed to size 10! Size 10 can become 11 1/2, and so on. This will help my fragile, fragile self esteem.”

It’s insanity, I tell you. I already had a hard enough time finding shoes I liked when I wore regular ol’ 13’s.

Thanks a lot, tiny footed men of the world.

I’m eating and living healthy these days, but a moment ago I took a step back and actually analyzed the foods I have eaten so far today:

-One granola bar
-Grilled chicken patty
-Fruit cup (oranges, grapes, strawberries & apples)
-Two spoons of peanut butter
-Water
-One giant mug of green tea

Healthy? Yes.

Manly? Um, no.

If I saw this food list, I’d immediately think “hippie.”

I hope this doesn’t mean I have to grow my hair long, stop bathing and start telling everyone to give peace a chance.

Someone asked me over the weekend if I was going to write a blog for Valentine’s Day. After giving it some thought, I responded:

“Isn’t me acknowledging or celebrating Valentine’s Day akin to me celebrating Chinese New Year or a complete stranger’s birthday?”

Now, now. Don’t feel sad for ol’ Kev. You see, my cynical, bitter exterior is hiding a delicious, optimistic, caramel-filled center. It’s okay for me to be cynical about THIS Valentine’s Day because I fully believe NEXT Valentine’s Day will be a great one. Why? Because I have faith. I have faith that a year from now I will think back to when I wrote the following satirical blog post and laugh.

So, enjoy it, folks. I am counting on this being my last pessimistic Valentine’s Day post. It’s all kittens and puppies and gorilla dust after this one!

ANYTOWN, GEORGIA – In a story that almost slipped through the cracks due to the fact everyone in the media is blissfully distracted, a Georgia man has made a remarkable discovery: He is the last remaining “single” person on the planet.

Keith Dugan first became aware of this startling development when he went shopping for a bicycle at a nearby athletic store.

“All they had were tandem bicycles,” explained Dugan to nearby reporters who were busy texting cutesy messages to loved ones on their cell phones.

“I tried to tell the salesperson I just needed a standard road bike I could ride around my neighborhood for exercise. I didn’t need a bicycle built for two.

“He looked at me as though I had asked him to show me a bike built out of rainbows and gumdrops.”

Perplexed by the failed bicycle purchase, Dugan began noticing other strange developments.

While driving on the Interstate, he noticed every other vehicle was in the carpool lane. At the grocery store, he noticed that personal-pan pizzas, “soup for one” and similar food items were no longer stocked on shelves. And at Wal-Mart, he noticed how every guy was holding a loved one’s purse.

“Once upon a time, only about half the guys were holding purses,” noted Dugan.

“But somehow, without my noticing, it spread. I was the only guy at Wal-Mart not holding a purse with a dead look in his eyes. The only one.”

Believing that he was onto something, Dugan wanted to be sure. He signed up for accounts at Match.com and eHarmony.

“Match.com told me ‘zero results match your criteria,’ which I found discouraging since my search criteria was females of any age and any location,” explained Dugan as some reporters began holding hands and making googly eyes at one another.

eHarmony’s feedback was even more confusing.

“After I filled out a long questionnaire, eHarmony told me that my ideal mate had not been born yet and that I should try again in 25 years.”

His suspicions confirmed, Dugan has vowed to make the best of the situation.

“I compare it to playing dodgeball, but not getting picked by either team. Sure, it stinks not being picked. But you have to look at the bright side. At least no one will be throwing red rubber balls at your face, right?

“So, I’m sure if I think about it, I can find an upside to this, too.”

It’s been a strange week.

At work, I’ve been away from my nice, new office and found myself working on a side project in a closet-sized cubicle at the nearby Air Force base. I had use of a computer, of course, to do my work, but the computer isn’t connected to the Internet. For all practical purposes, I could have been living in Amish country this week. That’s how out of touch I’ve been with modern technology.

An additional side effect of being on base all week is having to make due with limited food options for lunch. Normally, I would either bring my lunch with me or go to the nearby Subway for a quick bite.

At the base, I do not have easy access to a refrigerator. I could bring my lunch with me anyway, but I’d prefer not to eat spoiled food. So, that means I need to get in my car and drive to a nearby eating establishment on base. The closest, and only convenient, eating option?

Burger King.

Now, I do not have any problems with Burger King. If I wasn’t trying to eat healthy, I would gladly go to Burger King and enjoy a Whopper. However, since I am trying to eat healthy, a Whopper is about as suitable an eating option to me as a bottle of Jack Daniels is a suitable drinking option to a recovering alcoholic.

“But that’s okay,” I thought to myself. “Surely Burger King has a grilled chicken sandwich of some kind. Every fast-food chain offers a grilled chicken sandwich.”

And yes, Burger King did in fact offer a grilled chicken sandwich on its menu — the “Tendergrill Chicken Sandwich.”

“I will have one Tendergrill chicken sandwich and a medium water,” I asked the nice Burger King employee.

“Sorry,” she informed me. “We are out of our Tendergrill chicken patties.” *

Taken aback, I try to rebound and glance over to Burger King’s salad options.

They did not have any salads on the menu.

“I realize your name is BURGER KING, but how is it that you do not offer a single item of food that is even remotely healthy for you?”

“We have a fish sandwich,” the nice employee assures me.

“Is it fried or grilled,” I asked.

“Fried, but it doesn’t have mayo or cheese on it,” she responds.

“What kind of sauce comes on it,” I asked curiously.

“Tartar sauce,” she replies.

I was pretty sure I was on candid camera at this point, so I begrudgingly ordered a fish sandwich (with super-healthy tartar sauce instead of mayo!) and made my way back to my closet-sized cubicle.

That was on Monday.

On Tuesday, I again drove to Burger King. Like I said earlier, I didn’t have many options. Besides, I was SURE they would have their grilled chicken sandwich that day.

Thankfully, for my sanity, they did.

On Wednesday, at lunch time I found myself feeling gravely ill. I’m pretty sure it was due to having eaten at Burger King for two straight days, so I left work early to go home and take a nap. No lunch for me that day.

Today, Thursday, I finished my work at the base at around noon.

“Hooray! I can leave the base and eat somewhere normal.”

So that’s what I did. A co-worker was with me, so I let him choose where we would eat for lunch.

“Burger King,” he suggested.

“I can and will kill you if you’re being serious,” I assured him.

His second suggestion was a Greek restaurant I had never before been to. In fact, I’m hard pressed remembering EVER eating at a Greek restaurant. How exactly was Greek food different than regular food?

I didn’t know what to expect. I was clueless. And for the first and only time in my entire life, I regretted having never seen the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” since it surely would have given me some insight.

Still, curiosity got the better of me and I agreed to his selection. Even now, I’m not sure how Greek food is different than regular food. It looked like any other restaurant menu. Salads, sandwiches, hamburgers…the only noticeable difference I saw was their love of feta cheese.

I guess this means, if I ever want to start a new eating trend, I could put feta cheese on a taco and invent “The Greek Taco.”

What did I order? Well, to the few who read my last blog post, my selection will not shock you. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich.

I tried ordering something different. I did. But whenever I go to a restaurant (which isn’t often) and find “chicken salad sandwich” on a menu (few restaurants offer them) I feel compelled to order it to see if it’s as good as the chicken salad sandwiches at my college’s cafeteria.

It never is.

Cracker Barrel’s chicken salad sandwich comes closest, but it’s so messy I need an adult bib to attempt eating it. Of course, that never stops me from ordering it whenever I find myself at Cracker Barrel. I order it anyway. Sans the adult bib.

How was the Greek version of my beloved chicken sandwich? Well, not good. It tasted like…nothing. Nothing. It had no taste. It was tasteless. TASTELESS. For a moment, I thought the taste buds on my tongue had been destroyed somehow by Burger King. But then I added a little salt and pepper to the sandwich. I could taste the salt and pepper. I just couldn’t taste anything else.

So, basically, I paid $7.95 for something that tastes like air. Since air is free, the frugal part of my brain died a little due to this revelation.

What will tomorrow have in store for me during lunch time? I’m breathless in anticipation.

* Burger King being out of grilled chicken patties reminded me of an encounter I had with the food chain during high school. It was spring break during my senior year. Me and a classmate were on our way to Tennessee to spend the week with the Tennessee Temple college baseball team. We would have our own dorm room and get to practice with the team and watch their games all week. (They were recruiting us, you see.)

Anyway, on our way to Tennessee we stopped at a Burger King for some lunch. If memory serves, I ordered a Whopper. The employee then said the most inexplicable thing my young brain could have imagined at the time:

“Sorry, but our ‘hamburger guy’ hasn’t come in today yet. We can’t serve any hamburgers.”

This was at 12:30 on a Monday afternoon, by the way.

“What do you mean you can’t serve hamburgers,” I asked. “You are BURGER KING,” I added, stating the obvious.

Ironically, THAT day I had to settle for a chicken sandwich from Burger King. Funny how that works.

To read the origin behind the Unsent series of blog posts, go here.

Dear Penny,

How’s it going? Do you think you did well on that English final? It was pretty tough, huh? Thankfully, whatever my paper lacked in clarity it made up for in redundancy.

This is Kevin, by the way. Yes, the one from English class. And yes, the same Kevin who always orders grilled chicken salad sandwiches from the cafeteria. Do you make those sandwiches, or do you just serve them? Because if it’s the former, I am really going to regret not sending you this letter sooner.

I know you liked me. And this letter is my passive-aggressive way of saying I liked you, too. When you would ask me about English class while we both waited for my sandwiches to be grilled, I wasn’t simply humoring you when I would answer and then ask you the same questions. I was sincerely interested. And no, it wasn’t just because I was hypnotized by the aroma of chicken salad.

And when I would catch you looking at me in class before you’d quickly turn away in embarrassment, I wasn’t thinking, “Gosh, such a silly girl.” No, I was thinking, “Go talk to  her after class, you idiot. Man up.”

And no, my wanting to talk to you had nothing (okay, little) to do with my wanting the chicken salad recipe.

I’ve been wanting to tell you for months that I’ve given you the nickname “Pretty Penny” in my head. One, because you are. Two, because alliteration is awesome. And three, because “Pretty Penny” is the name of a Stone Temple Pilots’ song.

In other words, this nickname is the highest form of flattery I know.

So why did I never come talk to you? Why did I never direct our cafeteria conversations away from chicken salad and English class and towards more personal topics? Why am I just now writing you this letter when the semester is over and I’m a mere days away from transferring to a different school?

Because I’m a kid. Yes, I might be of legal age and I might be absent of any childlike features (save for my adorably brown eyes), but I am nonetheless a kid.

This semester overwhelmed me. I was away from home. I hurt my arm and had to quit playing baseball, a sport that has defined me since I was six years old. I had an insane roommate. And, yes, my classes were difficult.

But a man would have been able to deal with these issues and still asked you on a date for dinner (I like chicken salad sandwiches, in case you hadn’t heard) and a movie (Costner’s Tin Cup is in theaters). But I was not a man. I was a kid. And I’m sorry.

Anyway, there you have it. Better late than never, right? I can only hope a decade or so from now, I will have made it into full-fledged adulthood. I will have learned from my past mistakes. I will have learned to take chances. I will have learned how not to  let life get in the way of me pursuing things that are worth pursuing.

Especially if said things have been given Stone Temple Pilot inspired nicknames and have the ability to create amazing chicken salad sandwiches.

Love,
Kevin

P.S. If you do know the recipe to that chicken salad, please mail it to the enclosed address.

Having a good idea for a new series of posts when you’re the owner of the Val Kilmer of blogs (i.e. used to be popular, many moons ago) is an odd predicament. Do I go ahead with my idea or, like Kilmer, do I fall off the face of the earth and eat my weight in cake frosting?

Decisions, decisions.

I’m sure the idea isn’t original, if for no other reason than the fact I got it, of all places, from an Alanis Morisette song. Alanis, around the time she (and Val Kilmer, for that matter) was popular, had a song named “Unsent.”

It was, arguably, the laziest written song in the history of music. Basically, Alanis took several letters she had written to past boyfriends — letters she never actually sent (hence the clever title, “Unsent”) — and sang the words while elevator music played in the background.

“Gosh, that’s just lazy,” I thought to myself after hearing the song. “Still, I can top it. Someday, I will rip off her idea and make it my own.” And then I put on my X-Files pajamas, hopped into my water bed and went to sleep.

(No, I never actually wore X-Files pajamas. However, I did have a water bed. Jealous?)

Anyway, here’s my take on the whole “Unsent” idea. I will write posts that are fictional letters I supposedly wrote (but never sent) to miscellaneous recipients during random times during my life. For example, I might address a letter to “Santa Claus” and give it a “December 26, 1985″ date. What might that letter have looked like? Why, I’m glad you asked:

Dear Santa,

What the heck, dude? Clothes?! Clothes?!?! If you, as legend has it, make lists and check them twice, you would know very well I was a good boy this year. I got all A’s in school. I never once had to have a “time out” during recess. I barely picked on my younger brothers and my bedroom, as always, was kept immaculate.

So what the heck?! I asked for G.I. Joe and Transformers action figures. I asked for Hot Wheels. I did not — repeat, NOT — ask for pants. Or shirts. Or sweaters.

Year after year, you disappoint me. It’s almost as if you ask my PARENTS what to get me for Christmas!

I can’t believe I gave you cookies and milk.

Love,
Little Kevin

As you can see, even as a child my writing skills were quite extraordinary.

Now, sometimes, I might actually write a semi-serious or serious letter. I might even fully rip-off Alanis and write a cathartic letter to an ex. But more times than not, I will use it as a comedic vehicle. But serious or not serious, these letters will likely give you readers additional insight in my life.

And by “readers” I mean my two remaining regulars and the four people who will find this post after Googling Val Kilmer or Alanis Morisette.

I’m conflicted.

I enjoy movies, but I loathe movie stars. Their vanity is only surpassed by their arrogance, which is only surpassed by their delusions of grandeur. And yes, I realize all three of those things are related.

Seriously, if every movie starred the cast of The Muppets, I’d probably be okay with it. Muppets don’t have egos. Muppets don’t talk down to the general public and tell them who they should vote for in elections. Muppets recognize their roles in this universe. They’re props.

Plus, it’s hard to have an ego when a puppeteer has their hand up your caboose.

The nominees for this year’s Academy Awards were announced today and my confliction intensifies. I’m curious to find out who/what did and did not receive nominations, but my curiosity is subdued by the knowledge most of these nominees are pampered blowhards who believe the world revolves around them.

Who was elected? Who’s going to win?

Much like my rooting for “ABF” during the NFL playoffs this year (“Anyone but [Brett] Favre”), for the Oscars my battle cry is usually “Anyone but Sean Penn.”

However, since Penn wasn’t nominated this year — a fact I can only assume means Penn did not appear in any films this year, because Lord knows the Hollywood community kisses the man’s backside to the point it would nominate him even if all he did was make a two-second cameo in a documentary about watching grass grow — I have to put a little more thought into who I’ll be rooting for (i.e. being the least indifferent towards) this year.

Best Supporting Actress

• Penelope Cruz, “Nine”
• Vera Farmiga, “Up in the Air”
• Maggie Gyllenhaal, “Crazy Heart”
• Anna Kendrick, “Up in the Air”
• Mo’Nique, “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”

My Thoughts: Penelope Cruz used to date Tom Cruise. She should therefore be ineligible to win this or any other award. Plus, she’s already won one of these things. I have no idea who Vera Farmiga is, so I can’t in good conscious root for her. After all, she could punch kittens in her spare time or something. Maggie Gyllenhaal has a face only a blind mother could love and her political views annoy me. She’s out. That leaves Anna Kendrick and Mo’Nique. Mo’Nique’s name is inexplicable, so she’s disqualified. I have no idea who Anna Kendrick is, but I’m taking a chance on her since she’s cute. She’s my pick.

Best Supporting Actor

• Matt Damon, “Invictus”
• Woody Harrelson, “The Messenger”
• Christopher Plummer, “The Last Station”
• Stanley Tucci, “The Lovely Bones”
• Christopher Waltz, “Inglourious Basterds”

My Thoughts: Matt Damon is a good actor, but he annoys me. In “Invictus”, he stars in a soccer movie. He’s therefore disqualified. Woody Harrelson is insane. I do not root for insane people. Christopher Waltz portrays a Nazi in his movie, and I fear a horrible precedent could be set if we give an Oscar to a Nazi, real or otherwise. That leaves Stanley Tucci and Christopher Plummer. Tucci has starred with Monk’s Tony Shalhoub numerous times, and Shalhoub rocks. Plummer, on the other hand, starred in “The Sound of Music” back in the day. Advantage Plummer.

Best Actress

• Sandra Bullock, “The Blind Side”
• Helen Mirren, “The Last Station”
• Carey Mulligan, “An Education”
• Gabourey Sidibe, “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
• Meryl Streep, “Julie&Julia”

My Thoughts: Sandra Bullock should not be eligible to win an Oscar during the same year she starred in “All About Steve” — one of the worst movies in years. That would be like giving Obama a Nobel Prize during the same year he did a crappy job as president. Insanity. Helen Mirren reminds me of my Algebra teacher in high school, so she’s out. I have no idea who Carey Mulligan or Gabourey Sidibe are, so they are indefinitely disqualified until they come to their sense and co-star in a movie with Kevin Costner (that way, I will know who they are). That leaves Meryl Streep as the last woman standing.  She gets the nod due to her having co-starred with Amy Adams in “Julia&Julia.” Amy Adams is cute.

Best Actor

• Jeff Bridges, “Crazy Heart”
• George Clooney, “Up in the Air”
• Colin Firth, “A Single Man”
• Morgan Freeman, “Invictus”
• Jeremy Renner, “The Hurt Locker”

My Thoughts: I was pretty certain Jeff Bridges had died years ago, so imagine my surprise when I see he is nominated for an Oscar. Still, just in case I was right, I cannot in good conscious vote for a dead person. If George Clooney was 1/100 as talented and suave as George Clooney thinks he is, his mere presence would melt off people’s faces. He’s smug and annoying.  He’s out. Jeremy Renner sounds like the name of a guy I knew in high school. If memory serves, that kid was annoying. So he’s out. That leaves Colin Firth and Morgan Freeman. I’m assuming, of course, that Freeman is the narrator in this movie since he’s the narrator in virtually every movie that’s been released the last five years. Since I don’t believe a narrator should win an award for acting, I’ll go with Colin Firth.

Best Movie

• “Avatar”
• ”The Blind Side”
• ”District 9″
• ”An Education”
• ”The Hurt Locker”
• “‘Inglourious Basterds”
• ”Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
• ”A Serious Man”
• ”Up”
• ”Up in the Air”

My Thoughts: Why are there so many movies nominated? This is insane. The hype surrounding “Avatar” rivals the hype of “Titanic” back in the day. Therefore, I’m boycotting it.

“The Blind Side” is a sports movie, but it’s the wrong kind of sports movie. I like baseball. Plus, the term “blind side” refers to the offensive tackle in football who blocks on the blind side of the quarterback. If the quarterback is right-handed, the left tackle blocks his blind side. If he’s left-handed, it’s the right tackle. The real-life football player in the movie, Michael Oher, might have blocked his quarterback’s blind side when he was in high school and college, but in the pros he doesn’t. Therefore, this movie is disqualified.

I saw “District 9″, but I couldn’t undertstand half the words the lead actor spoke. “An Education” reminds me of homework. I think of “Foot Locker” whenever I read the name “The Hurt Locker.” The producers of that movie should have considered this when naming it. “‘Inglourious Basterds” starred Brad Pitt with a southern accent. As a southerner, I found it highly offensive. Why don’t we southerners have our own version of Al Sharpton? “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire” is the stupidest movie title since “Too Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.” It’s out.

“A Serious Man” sounds very boring. How serious is he? Very serious? If so, I’m not interested. “Up in the Air” stars George Clooney. Um, no.

That leaves “Up”, a movie I saw and actually liked. Best of all, it’s animated. No smug actors are on the screen. Therefore, it’s the feel good movie of the year.

What do the rest of you think?