The Book of Awesome (27 page)

And now you’re laughing.

You grab your bag, stretch your back, and walk the long walk back to the car. Sun setting over the parking lot, you feel energy, excitement, and accomplishment. Now the day feels productive and well spent. You got exercise,
your boyfriend survived
, and you came, you saw, and you conquered.

AWESOME!

Who’s up for a three hour lunch?

AWESOME!

I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with
U
.

If you guessed
Uncomfortably Long Car Trip
, you got it, baby.

Maybe you’re in the
Backseat Squeeze
for hours, one leg on each side of the Floor Hump, bladder clenched tightly, holding on for dear life. Maybe you’re in a blissful
Game Boy Cocoon,
headphones in your ears, video game in your lap. Or maybe you’re driving the boat, steering the ship, mind on the road, navigating steep curves and sharp swerves.

Whatever your situation, it sure feels good when that hot, steaming car rolls to a slow stop off the highway.

That’s when you pop open the door and stretch like you’ve never stretched before. Arms out, arms up, way up to the sky, just popping that back and twisting that neck in all directions while saying
Ohhhhhhh
a lot. Maybe squeeze onto your
tippy-toes
and feel the burn rise up your legs, those cold, clenched muscles getting a
hot slap
wake-up call. Feel your hamstrings stretch long, stretch hard, and cry out with tears of joy as freedom rings again.

Plus you finally get to pee.

AWESOME!

If you’re like me, then a war is waged every morning near your alarm clock. It is a never-ending series of epic clashes between
The Awake You
and
The Sleeping You
, with each side sticking to its guns, fighting fiercely in the ultimate battle for the first half hour of your day.

Sometimes it seems like if it were up to our subconscious selves, a lot of us would be lazing around in a world of rumpled sheets and dreams all day. You know how it is—maybe at night you’re a level-headed gal with a level-headed plan. “I’ll go for a quick jog tomorrow before work,” you say to yourself. “Maybe whip up some
oatmeal
afterward.” But your groggy, bedheaded self just ruins everything the next day. “Let’s keep sleeping,” she convincingly suggests when the alarm goes off, hitting the snooze button on your behalf. “See you in nine!”

I don’t know about you, but until recently I’ve been trying to
deceive The Sleeping Me
with the only two weapons I’ve got: 1) moving the alarm clock to the other side of the room to give my waking self time to get its act together, and 2) setting the time farther and farther ahead to try and trick my sleeping self into thinking it’s making me late.

But after years of playing the same game, it eventually happened.

I hit a breaking point.

I just couldn’t do it anymore.

So now my new gig is trying to keep everybody happy. That’s right: keep snoozing in the picture and
hold down a job at the same time
. Folks, I’m talking about
planning for snoozes
. Adding them to the list. Budgeting them right in there. Finally giving them the credibility they’ve long aspired to and making them an official
Part of the Day
.

So now I say, if you must get out of bed by 8:00 a.m., that’s fine. Just set the alarm for 7:30 a.m. first. Throw your sleeping self a bone and hook it up with three solid snoozes. And you know what, you win too! Those nine extra minutes can feel like hours, complete with vivid dreams and fresh drool on the pillow to show for it. You wake up refreshed, happy, and smiling.

The best part comes later in the day when anybody asks how you slept.

Because you know what to tell them.

AWESOME!

Rip open the plastic wrap, slip off the hairpins, and peel off the sticky tape because it’s time for New Socks Day! Let the streamers fly down and the balloons rise up for this magical moment.

Oh, New Socks Day is a terrific
treat for your feet
. We’ve talked before about how they got it bad. Toe knuckles get stubbed, dry skin gets rubbed, and bunions grow on your baby toe. Squeeze those caked and cracked
pita-bread heels
into tight shoes all day and you’ll soon agree: Your feet deserve to be treated like royalty. On New Socks Day, feet aren’t forgotten warriors clad in an unprotective armor of dry skin and old socks. No, they’re queens cloaked in royal gowns, bathed in soft cotton, and tenderly hugged in factory-fresh fabric.

Also, let’s not forget the
Slip n’ Slide
. New socks grease your feet and let you move with reckless abandon across the hardwood floors of this great land. They let kids dream big dreams of futuristic frictionless worlds.

No New Socks Day chats are complete without discussing that
high-quality toe jam
. What’s more satisfying than picking out those furry chunks at the end of the day? When I do the deed, I pretend I’m the world’s greatest surgeon, wearing baby blue scrubs, leaning over a sliced-open stomach under bright-white spotlights in the middle of a tense operating room, and then, in a dramatic moment, I just start lifting out bloody pliers again and again, yanking out glass shard after glass shard, as everybody in the viewing gallery jumps to their feet and erupts in cheers.

Could just be me, though.

Hey, now listen: All socks eventually get old.

Tiny holes grow, heels brown and yellow, and elastics fray and rip away. One day you’ll hold a warm sock up from the dryer and wonder if your washing machine’s busted. That’s when you know the dream is over and it’s time to go shopping.

New Socks Day is the start of that clean dream.

It’s the beginning of your new life together.

AWESOME!

When your
bucket of bolts
clicks over a major milestone, you can’t help but smile and feel proud.

“We made it, rusty lady,” you say out loud, slapping the dash and honking the horn as you sit jammed in the fast food drive-thru. “Happy birthday, you ol’ highway roller. Never thought we’d get this far.”

And isn’t it true: When your car clicks over a
big round number
, it sure is a special day. After all, assuming you cruise an average of fifteen thousand clicks a year, you only achieve this major accomplishment once every five or six calendar turns.

That’s reason enough to celebrate.

I’m guessing you probably saw it coming for a while, too. Maybe you were grabbing groceries or dropping the kids off at day care last month when a 99,398
caught your eye
or a 198,881 made you do a double take. And maybe you made a mental note to get ready. Maybe you wondered where you’d be when the big day came.

Maybe you bought a dress.

If so, I certainly don’t blame you, because when your rust-bucket’s clicker-counter snaps into new territory, it’s like she’s
suddenly all growed up
. You smile slowly and breathe in fried chicken and gas fumes as your mind rushes back to great times you’ve shared over the years: the day you first realized you could drive,
locking people out of your car and pretending to drive away
, and hanging your hand out her window on lazy summer afternoons.

Yes, watching your odometer click over a major milestone is a great feeling.

Congratulations on being there for the big day.

AWESOME!

Munch lunch at a Chinese restaurant, brunch at a
Holiday Inn
, or dinner at a wedding reception, and chances are good you will come face to face with the The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.

If you’re a Buffet Amateur like me, your pupils dilate and your mouth starts watering as soon as you spot the long table full of steam trays and crisscrossed tablecloths. Soon it’s game on, and you grab a plate and pile it high with some bread, a few salads, a couple rolled-up salamis, and a bowl of
Wonton soup
. For plate number two, you tackle the main course, scooping up sticky heaps of Kung Pao chicken, soggy French toast, or paper-thin slices of roast beef soaked in dark mushroom gravy. Then you go back for a third plate, this one featuring a tipsy mountain of desserts—maybe some assorted squares, a gummy slice of cheesecake, or
fluorescent pink freezer-burned ice cream
sliding around your plate.

Then as you lie bloated on your chair, your buttons bursting, your eyelids drooping, you face a final decision:
Do you go back for The Fourth Plate?

The Fourth Plate is almost always a good idea before you do it and a bad idea afterward. It’s the helping after the helping after. It’s the
Greatest Hits Plate
, a star-studded collection with the most popular items coming together for the reunion tour,
the last hurrah
, the final dance at the dinner table.

The Fourth Plate is also a famous mark of a
Buffet Amateur
, because it can be the sign of someone who realizes that the second plate was the best and they really just want more of the second plate. For years, I scarfed down The Fourth Plate at the Indian buffet near my college. Buttery, pillowy-soft naans piled high, thick and creamy Butter Chicken, and spicy, simmering lamb in a hearty broth. It was just too much. I caved in every time and walked away with a curry-busting gut and a samosa hangover.

Since then I’ve been tutored on the art of mastering the all-you-can-eat buffet. Everybody’s got their own techniques, but here’s what I’ve learned over the years:

With these tips plus your personal experiences, you too can master the art of the all-you-can-eat buffet. After that, there’s really no stopping you. So eat all you can, my friend.

Eat all you can.

AWESOME!

My old roommate was sifting through and tossing out some old birthday cards once when a crisply entombed twenty-dollar bill slid out of a faded card from Grandma. Her eyebrows perked up, her mouth formed a perfect O, and she raised her hand up top for a high five, which I promptly delivered.

Finding ten bucks zipped up in last year’s ski jacket, lying wet and crumpled in the washing machine, or folded in the pocket of your booze-smelling blazer is such a great high. There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but this sure comes close.