letters about lifeguards

I don't know exactly why I got into this. But I'm into this. And I'm afraid there's no getting out. 

I carry a whistle in my fanny pack. Along with sunscreen and Gatorade. Sometimes there's candy. Sometimes there's not. I've been burned too many times and I'm sure Cancer or some other disease is just waiting around the corner. 

It's not just a job, it's a career. It's a lifestyle. 

My mom went to a fortune teller when I was 13 years old. The fortune teller told her that I would pull a drowning boy from water and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to save people. This meant I was supposed to become a paramedic or a lifeguard. I became a teacher.

Fortune tellers don't lie. 

No matter what you choose to do with your life, it probably won't go how you plan. That's the way the game works. Lawyers got into it to find the truth, but they're too busy looking for technicalities. Doctors got into it to heal people, but they're too busy checking insurance cards. Police Officers got into it for the chase, but they're too busy filling out paperwork. 

Which leaves Lifeguards and Teachers. We work opposite seasons, but we have more in common than you think. 

We both got into it for the kids. For the water. For the summers. Parents relied on us and children ignored us. We made less than we should've, but everyone thought we had it easy. Every summer added another five years to our faces. 

We both had big plans. We got into it for the right reasons. It was noble. It was inspiring. But we spent more time blowing our whistles, telling kids to stop running than we ever did diving in and saving people. 

We'll spend the next offseason wondering if we're doing what we're supposed to. We'll tell ourselves that something else will come up, but it never will. 

Then some random Thursday, a girl with short blonde hair will thank us, and we'll decide to do it all over again. 

Sometimes it rains in summer and sometimes it never stops raining

Happiness is boring.

I know it's the goal. It's what we think about every night before we go to sleep. It's why God put us here and it's why most of us go to school. 

But who here knows what she really looks like? 

We know she has soft curls and bright eyes. We know she needs a song before she goes to sleep and we know her favorite drink. We love her because she laughs at all our jokes and misses us when we go on business trips. We feel like we've known her forever and we have old love letters to prove it. 

But she's gonna cheat on you, bro. Believe me. And that shit's gonna hurt. 

Which means you're going to have to make a decision this Tuesday afternoon and almost every Tuesday afternoon for the rest of your life. You'll have a picture of her on your desk, but she won't answer the phone when you call. 

Pictures of Us

I think I fell in love with her yearbook photo first. 

So that can't be real love, right? Yearbook photos don't talk to you, they don't laugh at your jokes, they don't fill your contact case with contact solution sometimes, they don't cook you breakfast, they don't take care of you, and they definitely don't kiss back. 

I'm looking for an iTunes playlist to explain all of this. 

We are never as young as we look in old photographs. We are never as old as we feel in the morning. We are never as happy as we pretend we are and we are never as depressed as we are with the blinds closed. 

Our grandparents will die and we'll go through their old love letters and try to piece it all together. The dust will cloud the whole story, but it was never really about them anyway. It was always about us. We read our older sisters' diaries looking for our name. We read blogs looking for ourselves. We go through photographs ignoring sunsets and beautiful animals, because we just want to see pictures of us.

The emotional piano music plays in the background of our lives, but only when we listen for it. I am a hopeless romantic who is full of hope. But I wonder what song I'd be singing right now if we never ended up together. 

It was 1997 yesterday and it's 1997 today and I hope that will be 1997 forever. 

The Big Question

I swear, most of you already graduated, so I guess I'm just a little confused. 

You realize you're not getting a grade for this, right? 

This #summerblogs series wasn't really advertised. It started as an afterthought, and now 50 people have signed up. I'm just trying to figure it out. Everyone is everywhere, and sometimes that just freaks me out a little. I don't go to Seven Peaks anymore because the lines are too long (but really, I'm tired of you seeing me with my shirt off). 

This is me hoping the bridge we're all on doesn't collapse. 

Today is the first day of summer vacation, according to my 8-year-old. Saturday and Sunday were just the weekend. And now it all begins. You writers were all gung-ho about writing and the optimist in me was inspired. 

But if you really knew me, you'd know that I'm not an optimist. My prediction: at least 15 more people sign up by the first day of summer, but then half of you sputter out by the end. 

Because the old men told it like this: Paris was rainier and lonelier than you expected. Right now, the sun is out and the cafes are playing your favorite song and the waiters are bringing your refills before you even ask for them. But all that will change tomorrow. And you're left wondering if you're writing for yourself or for the comments. 

Which is really the question on all of our minds. On all of our lips. In all of our hearts. 

I still don't know the answer. 

SpongeBrooke SwearPants

The truth is, my daughter said her first F-word today.

I laughed. My wife gasped. If that doesn't sum up our family, I don't know what does. 

I feel like I need to explain. My daughter is 4. She doesn't go around dropping F-bombs. That's not how we raised her. (But she cries when her brother takes her football and she farts all the time, and that's not how we raised her either.) We were watching Ferris Bueller's Day Off. (It's PG-13, and none of our kids are 13 yet. I know, stop judging.) And Edward Rooney was walking around the house and called Ferris a little effer. 

And my daughter is a sponge. 

Just for the record, I'm not really counting today's bomb. My daughter had no idea what she said. One day she'll slam the door and put her hands in her head and really say it. 

My wife will gasp. 

I just hope I don't laugh.

Summer Dies Every Year

Tomorrow it begins again. And you're nowhere to be found.

You've moved on and that's cool. It's the way it's supposed to be. It's the way the congressmen wrote everything up. It's what Mother Nature does every fall.

Now I have to start over. With new teenagers. A new group of people who took my class for all the wrong reasons.

I'll get through to some of them. Just like I got through to you. But I'm still afraid that maybe I won't. I'm afraid that one of these days you guys will stop listening. I'll say something and you'll roll your eyes. And I don't want to be around for that.

I'm stuck in some sort of triangle. I get older every year, but you guys stay the same. And I keep saying I'll move on. But here I am. It's 11pm and I should be working on my disclosure document. But instead I'm reading your blogs, doing everything I can to keep tomorrow in the future.

Thanks for the memories.

#summerblogs2013

How To Be A Man - 5th Edition

I found this book with my dad's name on it. 

It has everything. There's stuff about sex and shaving and even a chapter on bodily functions. I look in the back to see if there's anything about love. 

It says "See Relationships." 

There's a lot about dating, about opening doors for girls and putting your jacket down over puddles (why would anyone do that?). There's a section on how men should pay for things and how much to leave for a tip. A section about asking for directions in front of your woman. There's a section on household responsibilities (women take care of the inside of the house, men take care of the outside). There's even a paragraph about the silent treatment.

But there's nothing about falling in love.

Nothing about how long it takes or how you know if it's real. There's nothing about the stomachaches or nights spent up wondering. There's nothing about the anxiety over the first phone call. Or the anticipation of the next encounter. 

The book doesn't say anything about how to tell if she loves you back (I looked twice). 

There's nothing about the first kiss or the first letter or the first conversation. There's nothing about the fear. Or the danger. Or the excitement. 

I guess some things we just have to figure out on our own.