Mezzo Resolutions

I was a passenger in a sleek, sexy car whose logo ironically looks like a neutered peace sign. The vehicle’s a tease, I suppose.

My friend was about to hit the highway, and we discussed the crucial update her family had just shared. Traffic was absolute crap along the route she normally took home. Time for an audible at the line.

Instead of X and Y roads, they told her, just take Z all the way here.

Break!

Made sense to me, although it wasn’t the most thrilling route (see Farmville). Theoretically, it was easier – a B line; like taking the laces right out of the shoes (I’m a sucker for slip-ons). She’d sacrifice some MPHs, but the path was crystal clear. Yet she fumbled the snap.

How do I get there? Where do I go? Chica, are you serious?

She was.

Well, let’s check out a map, I said. I leaned down, ape-arming through the side compartment. ... No dice. There might be one in the glove compartment. ... Affirmative.

But who doesn’t know if they have a map in their car? (Do you?) Maybe more folks than I’d like to imagine. To me, it’s Navigation 101; akin to forfeiting the storage of a spare tire (sorry playa, Escalades can’t gangsta limp).

I cracked Virginia open.

And whenever I unfold a map, I pretend I’m opening a string of snowflakes like a childhood craft. My smile isn’t because I like Kentucky; I’m thinking about Christmas.

I don't know how to read it.

She certainly read my face: crooked like a toddler just asked me to help him wipe.

I belittled her. Of course I did. I should have, right?

But I also highlighted her path and wrote down key instructions. She made it home.

In hindsight of this exchange, though, I’ve felt stabs of regret. This the result of several uppercuts to my pride last week. I got jumped by humility, that scrappy bastard.

It began at a weekend cookout where the brewskis and burgers were flowing. A friend pulled from the fridge two handsome T-bones, the saliva almost glistening on his chin.

He kindly offered me one. I politely refused. He insisted. I shamelessly accepted. But he was up next in beer pong, putting a potential hiatus on flavor. You can cook them, he told me. Um…

I don't know how to cook a steak.

It was an emasculating moment. He stared like he just depantsed a dame only to find the next kielbasa for the Weber. I deserved it.

Cut me some slack. My parents rarely ever brought red meat into the home growing up. Our back porch was all ground turkey burgers and chicken breast. I didn’t even try steak until the age of seventeen (Thanks, Brett). It’s not my fault.

But I’ve since decided I like steak. A lot. So why haven’t I trial and errored medium-rare to perfection?

I need to get my grill on.

Then there was the gym. Early in the week, I racked my brain for fresh exercises. Soon enough, the answer walked by me: the women’s swim team. I always gawk (so blatantly – I have no chance with any of them as a result) at their broad, toned figures. They have muscles sprouting muscles.

I should take a dip in the pool; a total body workout.

I slipped on the board shorts for some lunchtime laps. I jumped in a medium speed lane and strapped my borrowed goggles tight enough to dice a Romano. Overconfident, I kicked off the wall.

It might as well have been quicksand.

I hooked the lane rope, bumped shoulders with a fellow swimmer, and drank a shotglass-worth of water. Tough first few laps, no doubt. But I soon began to refine my freestyle; it’s pretty intuitive. Despite being exhausting, it felt great.

Then I got bored.

I paused, looking at the other seven lanes, breathing like I just cracked a 4-minute mile: back, butterfly and breasts (perverts). Um…

I don't know how to do any other strokes.

For nine years, I lived in a house with a neighborhood pool for a backyard. I walked through a path in the woods (gagging on suspended spider webs), and was at its fence. I never joined the swim team, but I frequented Hill City Swim & Tennis most summer days, flipping off the diving boards pseudo-Cirque du Soleil or competing for the longest Splash Bomb toss. I even endured a job in the full-service snack bar. I was devout, you could say.

Still, I never really swam, per se. Aside from cannon balls, I frolicked in the shallow waters more or less. My parents might have called me a fish, but if my buddies shot upstream, I’d have drowned in pursuit.

If I truly want to diversify my workouts, I have to swallow my doubt – not chlorine, hopefully – and face the opposing currents. I may convulse like a grounded trout, but lifeguards need a laugh – their job mostly sucks.

I need to get my gills on.

Finally, a Friday breakfast with two friends solidified my hypocrisy. One friend described a unique counselor job where she guided a group of teens on a hiking excursion. This led to a general discussion about outdoor recreation: camping, rock climbing and bicycling.

The other friend chimed in about a book she’d checked out about bicycle maintenance. She excitedly shared bits of her new knowledge, including how to care for a bicycle chain. Um…

I don’t know how to care for a chain.

I’ve commuted around Blacksburg for nearly two years on a Schwinn, and the only successful adjustment I’ve made is tightening the handle bars with an Allen wrench. I don’t know how to care for anything, really.

Maybe that’s why the Bike Barn recently informed me I needed a fresh chain, a chainring, a cassette, a rear tire, a set of brake pads, and a brake adjustment.

I’m pretty sure my credit card whispered Nancy when I presented it.

If I’m a true advocate of alternative transportation, I should be more resourceful with my bicycle; give it some TLC and get longevity in return. Lubricating a chain, for example, isn’t neurosurgery. Schwinn could easily follow me to my post-college dwelling.

I need to get my grease on.

(These next few paragraphs are, in fact, purposeful.)

At this exact moment, I am on a Continental Airlines flight to Newark, N.J. I’m sitting next to a Boy Scout sweating over a Sudoku like his time's expiring on the MCAT and med school depends on his performance. I hate Sudoku. Well, I don’t know that. I’ve never actually done one. It just appears like a more boring Minesweeper – which I hated – therefore I’ve actively ignored it.

Yet the kid-who-can-tie-knots next to me is the least of my concerns.

The seating setup is A, B, aisle, C, D. Yet row 7 (where I reside) is an exception. As far as I’m concerned, it’s A, B, aisle, C, Me and Death. This small plane has fully exposed propellers, and the seven-foot knives are the same length from my face beyond the window. For the entire duration of the takeoff, all I could imagine was Daffy Duck careening into the wing, somehow detaching the ninja star, and it subsequently pureeing me into an isolated shower. I would fall to earth, where one single drop of my remains would land atop a pedestrian’s head. They’d shudder in disgust, curse a passing bird, and my spirit would relish the irony of it having been a piece of my own ass that hit their curls.

Anyway, my final destination is Denver. I would eventually like to live in Denver. I would partake in aforementioned recreation like hiking, camping and climbing. A list of useful skills that I again (mostly) lack immediately come to mind: tying a figure-eight knot (effin’ Scout), using a compass in conjunction with a topographical map, building a decent fire, snowboarding, surviving an avalanche caused by my terrible snowboarding, successful genocide of the mosquito population, and fending off grizzly bear attacks.

I find the idea of New Year's resolutions very trite. People shouldn’t need a once-a-year milepost to propel personal change. Then again, I refuse to dance unless I’m severely intoxicated, which is infrequent.

So here I’ve constructed a vast list of You-Should-Probably-Learn-Tos, but what will it take to start checking them off? It should be as simple as a desire for dynamism; everyone should aspire to be a Renaissance figure, if you will. Resourcefulness is next to cleanliness. Not really, but you get the point. Being well-rounded will ultimately make you a more successful, contented individual. Well, some celebrity suggests otherwise, but Miley Cyrus probably really hates her life.

Update: Scout is either malnourished at the homestead, or he absolutely loves peanuts. He’s crushed four packs. I'm concerned he's dehydrated. Also, I think he knows I’m writing about him.

Or maybe that’s it. I should tap him on his khaki shoulder and ask for the brochure. I bet their troop skills could handle a hefty portion of my list.

Eh, no. I bowed out as a Tiger Cub. I could never get on board with the bandana blouses.

But that reminds me: I hope I packed my skinny jeans.