It’s Labor Day again. By the time you guys read this, it will be past Labor Day, but yeah I’m writing this then.

I did what I didn’t think was possible. I’m actually burned out on drinking. I’m writing this sober and even the idea of having a beer just doesn’t sound good right now. I’m not hung over, I’m just….Done. At least for today, maybe longer, who knows? We’ll see.

It all started Friday afternoon and continued well into the wee hours of Monday morning. So that’s what, two and a half days of constant consumption of alcohol? 2 and a half days of being in some sort of buzzed state, if not straight up drunk? Yeah something like that. I think a few of my guys would be proud. (Carl and BullRush come to mind.) Or maybe they would be a little nervous. (Jesus, do we really want to go out drinking with Rob? The guy might actually put us in the grave.) Be afraid Jack, be very afraid.

Not bad for a short, skinny guy.

Skinny. That’s a funny word to me. It’s funny to me because I’ve never been able to see myself as skinny. I’ve always been the overweight guy. Even now when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t necessarily see myself as thin. There’s residual “love handles” that are still there. And yet when I touch them, I realize that the protrusion I’m seeing and feeling is more hip bone than anything.

I’ve had people online on Twitter call me skinny or thin and it makes me pause. Again, because that’s not how I see myself. But these people have never seen the younger, fatter version of me, they never grew up with that. All they know about me is what they see now and I guess they see a skinny guy. A “bundle of stix.” I take that comment as a compliment. I’m okay with that. In today’s world of obesity, it’s been my personal experience that it is better to be a bundle of sticks than to be fat. Especially if you are a Man.

Which brings me to the next observation:

On Saturday afternoon and well into the night, I got the pleasure of meeting up with a fellow Man by the name of Elton Skelton. He’s a great guy. He’s recently “unplugged” and is figuring out what he wants out of his life and is truly starting to live his life on his own terms. I couldn’t be happier for him.

Mr Skelton and I went out Saturday night to a local club here in Salt Lake and listened to the house band, which was phenomenal by the way, had a few drinks, and had a great time. It’s been over 15 years since I’ve been in a “club.” Oh I’ve been to many bars since those 15 years ago, but not a club. Clubs to me are usually too loud, too chaotic, and now that I’m getting older, I could be easily seen as the “creepy old dude at the club.”

One thing I’ve learned about women is that they are conformists and herd animals. They typically travel in packs, and whatever the group does or believes, the individual tends to tow the party line. What that means to me is, I know there are young women that would be totally into an older guy like me, but because the group as a whole may frown on “the old guy,” she will go along with her peers and not be open to being approached by said “old guy.” I’ve come to realize that while I’m sure I could take a much younger woman to a club and we would be just fine and have a good time, trying to approach and meet a much younger woman at the club is going to be very difficult to say the least.

I want to approach and “pick up” women with ease. I don’t need to summit mountains to get the phone number. I think that’s an ego thing for the guys who do that, and that’s okay for them, you do you. I’m more concerned about my success with approaching than I am about the degree of difficulty. In fact, the less difficulty, the better. Maybe that makes me lazy in some people’s eyes, but I don’t really care. That degree of difficulty or the lack of it may be all the difference between you getting blown out of the water, and me going home with someone that I can enjoy. I’m rambling, let’s move on…

Another observation that showed up for me while I was at the club with Mr Skelton was that he, myself, and one other guy were the best dressed guys in there. 3 guys. That was it. The rest of the guys were seriously doing the ill fitting t-shirts and cargo shorts thing. Clones of each other. It was really sad and a bit pathetic.

Also, I found myself, at least for a little bit, going into “security mode.” I used to do armed security for a couple of bars back in the day and I guess that training and mentality dies hard. I was finding myself scanning the room, looking for any threats. Looking for the big, aggressive drunk dudes who may decide to pop off and throw down. Looking for anything that could show up for me as something to avoid or to keep an eye on. There was none of that on Saturday night. Not a single one. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want there to be trouble, I don’t want to avoid people in order to avoid ending up in a fight, but there was none of that there.

The guys that were there were all so “soft.” Soft in their bodies and in their actions, which tells me, they are soft in their minds. Not an assertive one among them. Not one “predator.” Just soft, lost doughboys. Pillows wearing ratty oversized t-shirts and cargo shorts.

Guys, that’s your competition. That’s what’s out there. I don’t know if the bar could fall any lower. I found it really sad that here I am, 47 years old, and I’m in better shape than 99% of the club, and I’m not even trying. I’m no paragon of healthy eating and living. I’m in better shape than all the guys that were in their early to mid twenties. It still blows my mind when I think about it.

Guys, you don’t have to work hard to be in the “upper tiers” today. Just do a little work. Seriously.

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