The Book of Awesome (26 page)

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Authors: Neil Pasricha

BOOK: The Book of Awesome
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And I know I don’t need to tell you what happened next.
Large, adult-sized Fisher-Price plastic and foam bits were strewn all over the floor, thumping dance music started bumping over the speakers, and a headband-clad Drill Sergeant screamed the sweat out of us. Adrenaline racing, I stepped up, stepped down, and moved barbells all around. I kicked up, swung back, and
prayed softly
. After about fifteen minutes, most of the old folks were barely sweating, while I was keeled over, my mouth sucking back dry, sweaty air, a sharp knifelike pain quietly stabbing my gut. And the whole time
Sergeant Purple Leg Warmers
was barking at me to keep going, don’t stop, two more minutes, one more minute, and rotate!
It was intense.
By the end, I was a
Jell-O blob
of hot muscles and shin splints. I felt like I’d fallen down a hundred flights of stairs and landed in a construction site. I was in pain and agony . . . but you know what?
It felt good.
I felt like I made it. I felt like I did something. There was a
tingling buzz of satisfaction
burning in my shredded calves, a lingering ache of pride in the dirt bike tracks riding up my stomach for three days, and a quiet happiness with the gym pain I’d inflicted upon myself.
When you reach up higher than you’ve reached before, give a little more than you gave before, and dig deep to your core and end up sprained and sore, well, around here we say that’s a little something called
AWESOME!
Squeezing through a door as it’ s shutting without touching it
Tiny squirts of adrenaline pump into your bloodstream when you pull off this classic move.
Yes, suddenly you morph from Guy Walking to the Subway After Work into
Indiana Jones in That Scene Where He Slides Under the Wall at the Last Second
. Your hands stay clean, your strut stays mean, and you zip through that closing door and don’t look back, hoping it doesn’t nail anybody in the face behind you.
AWESOME!
Snow days
Let’s break it down a bit. Let’s talk about the three main types of snow days:
1.
The Pre-planned Snow Day.
Your town gets hit by an ice storm and four feet of heavy packing snow. It’s going to take a couple days to dig out, so somebody makes the call to cancel school in advance. This is definitely a good snow day, but it zaps out all the anticipation. Worst of the three types.
2.
The High-Probability Snow Day.
This is where it’s snowing hard and heavy the night before. There are reports of black ice and cars in the ditch. People hunker down by the window with hot cocoa and turn the radio on for weather updates. This is known as a high-probability snow day. You’re almost positive it’s going to happen, so you go to sleep excited about getting up the next morning. And really, the night before is almost as fun as the snow day itself, because you’re already planning the day in your head, putting off your homework, and calling your friends. Of course, once in a while the sun is mysteriously shining the next morning and the roads are clear, but this is very rare.
3.
The Surprise Snow Day.
This here’s the Mighty King of Snow Days. This is where nobody suspects a thing the night before. Have some dinner, do some homework, brush some teeth, yup—just a typical night around the house. But then suddenly the next morning there’s a firm knock on your bedroom door and it’s your mom or dad telling you . . . it’s a snow day! Now
that’s
a body buzz for kids. Homework already out of the way, no risk of missing anything at school, it’s time for an all-out lie-back-and-relax chill session with your friends. And the day really can’t disappoint because there were no expectations to begin with! You want to sit in the basement and play video games all afternoon? No problem. Build a snowman and shovel the driveways for cash? Sign me up. Construct elaborate forts for a massive neighborhood snowball fight? I’m in. Just be a kid and love it lots.
And so, when it starts to get a bit chilly, let’s all cross our fingers and hope for a good snow day season. Let’s hope this isn’t one of those winters where we put up a
goose egg
on the snow day category. No, I say let’s break the record. Let’s go for four or five of the suckers. Hey, maybe six even. Let’s get
El Niño
in on it. Because ladies and gentlemen, say it with me, if there’s one thing we all know, it’s that a snow day . . . is a good day.
AWESOME!
The first time you fly alone
Flying can be scary.
First of all, the airport’s usually in a distant part of town you don’t visit very often. Maybe you snake up a
jammed freeway
, take a special off-ramp, or ride the subway to a nearly off-the-map stop where you exit into a garage full of diesel fumes and shuttle buses.
And when you get to the airport it’s not much easier.
Digital boards flash departure times, arrows point in all directions, and winding lines lead to a mishmash of checkout counters. Custom forms need filling, bags need weighing,
passports need checking
, and boarding passes need printing.
Toting your awkward handfuls of documents, papers, and suitcases, you pass bomb-sniffing dogs, security scans, and suitcase inspections. Then there’s the
separation anxiety
that comes from watching your luggage disappear on a black rubber belt into a dark tunnel.
It doesn’t end there.
Now there are gates to find and fuzzy announcements about delays and cancellations. As you double-check that you have all your forms and you’re at the gate for
New York
, not
New Delhi
, you wonder if they called your name, if it’s your turn to board, or if there will be enough space for your carry-on luggage when you find your seat.
Flying can be scary.
Now just remember the first time you did it
all by yourself
.
That first time you fly alone is an exhilarating moment. So many things could go wrong, so when you’re through with all the documents,
checkpoints
, and security and finally on the plane, you’re loving it lots. The flight takes off and the attendant sneaks you an
extra snack
as you tilt your seat back, let your eyelids droop, smile, and flash back at how far you’ve come . . . at how far you’ve come . . . you’ve come . . . you’ve come . . . you’ve come . . .
Color-streaked, postcard-faded blurs flash of tricycles giving way to bicycles, of you as a nervous eight-year-old under a big helmet getting
The Pushoff
and wobbling down the sidewalk, your neighborhood opening up into a patchy jungle of parks and sidewalks to be explored. Too big for backyard britches, you teeter down to playgrounds and corner stores far, far away. Licking Popsicles with friends, you find bugs, run up slides, and blow wide open your view of the world.
Flash forward to
the day you first realize you can drive
. After stressful tests and nervous parents, you finally get the keys and explore your town with carefree recklessness. Distant streets and
shopping malls
all connect to the road you’re on, and you smile as your hand slips out the window and the summer breeze whips your face.
Burger joints
across town are suddenly close by, and you cruise late at night eating fries with friends as your parents sit nervously in housecoats in front of a flickering TV waiting for you to come home.
The seatbelt sign dings on and you open your eyes.
As you tilt your seat up and glance out the window, just look how far you’ve come.
Jumbo jets whisk people from Seoul to Sydney to San Francisco as the entire world becomes your oyster. You feel free as you stare out the window and watch your city zoom out to
patchy splotches
of crisscrossed yellows and browns.
The buzzy feeling of pride you get the first time you fly alone is an amazing sensation. It’s a sense of growing up, a sense of growing older, and a sense of growing into a confident and capable person in charge of your own life.
AWESOME!
When you spill something on your shirt and it doesn’ t leave a stain
We’ve all been there.
Mustard swirls
drip from the back of the hot dog, coffee cups splash on the drive to work, and spoonfuls of lumpy ice cream go for a ride.
Yes, we’re all familiar with the classic
Day-Long Shirt Stain
, also known as the
International Symbol of Clumsiness
. Whether it’s a samosa spill on your sari, a wasabi smear on your kimono, or an olive oil splash on your toga, we all know what that spill means and that spill screams:
You are messy.
It’s sad but it’s true, folks. Kiss the job interview goodbye, end the first date early, and skip the toast at your daughter’s wedding. It’s all over now because you had your chance and you blew your chance.
Guacamole smears
on your tie and
tomato squirts
on your tux just trashed your night and trashed your mood.
Yes, we’ve all been there. And none of us like stained shirts.
But that’s why it’s so great when you just barely escape the stain. Yes, these drip-dodging miracles can happen one of three ways:
1.
The Pick-Me-Up.
That lumpy clump of ice cream skids off your stomach straight to the ground, leaving only a couple chocolate chips lying in your belly-button dent. What a save. Just pick the chips up and you’re golden.
2.
The Camouflage Mirage.
This is when the juicy beef drippings leaking out of the taco land squarely on a juicy beef-dripping-colored stripe on your clothes. Lucky break because now you can enjoy the day being clumsy in camo.
3.
The Against-All-Odds.
Here’s where you have absolutely no right to avoid the stain but do so for mystical reasons that defy all logic. Somebody steals
a perfect nacho
off your plate and carelessly dumps its load on your sleeve, but somehow it just skis off gracefully onto the tablecloth. A full beer gets spilled and drips all over you, but some quick whisking blows it away and . . . no harm done. We can’t explain these, but they are true miracles.
A big spill without a big stain means you played with fire and came out cool, hung over the edge but pulled yourself back, and nearly ended it all but instead just ended up being
AWESOME!
Finding the last item of your size at the store
It all starts with
The Hunt
.
Mall walking, clothes shopping, you’re searching for cute tops or a new pair of jeans. You pop into stores, you do the
Figure-Eight Walk Around
, you pop right out. You pinch fabrics, peek at wash instructions, and hold pants in front of mirrors, bending knees,
biting lips
, and flipping over price tags.
Sure, everything’s fine and everything’s dandy, until later in the afternoon when you’re still empty-handed and your legs start burning, your boyfriend falls asleep on
The Man Couch
, and you get really, really, really, really, really, really
thirsty
.
But you don’t stop,
won’t stop
, can’t stop the walking, just can’t stop the shopping. So you keep going, keep plugging, keep trudging along. You keep moving, keep motoring, keep soldiering strong. No, you won’t quit, won’t split, won’t call it a day. You won’t run, won’t ditch,
till you find something and pay
.
So you keep looking and looking until it finally comes—that moment where you
spot a perfect top
glowing from the other side of the store. You hold your breath, run over to check, and the color looks good, the material looks good, the price looks good, the wash instructions look good, but . . .
Do they have it in your size?
Panic sets in as you begin
frantically flipping
through the hangers. Shoot, XXL, XXL, XXS, XXXL. Suddenly you start thinking you wasted the day. Your calves ache and your stomach rumbles as you ask yourself: Did I survive six hours on a Snickers for nothing?
But then just as the worry is settling in, putting its feet up and getting comfortable, it finally happens.
You find one.
Clouds part, sun shines, bugles blare, and angels sing, as you somehow manage to score the
absolute last item in your size at the store
. Oh, you’re buzzing free and your brain flies as you enjoy one of three versions of this classic high:

Version 1: Back o’ the rack.
Just as you’re getting bummed out by all the oddball sizes, you eventually find your perfect shape chilling out in the shadows at the back. Good find!

Version 2: Lost in Thread Paradise.
Employees struggle to keep restocking customer throwaways, so sometimes that perfect shirt gets lost in thread paradise. You discover it hanging with the wrong clothes, crunched in a ball in the change room, or lying on the counter behind the cashier. Good find!

Version 3: Same solar system, different planet.
This technically isn’t the last of your size in the store, but it’s still a classic. Here’s where you curl up into a ball and start crying big snotty tears on the floor while pounding your fist into the ground until a friendly cashier calls a nearby store and has them hold one for you. Good find!

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