Archive for the ‘I’m an Idiot’ Category
My church hosted a leadership conference last week called Catalyst. The “main” Catalyst conference is a yearly event and features renowned Christian speakers and authors such as Andy Stanley, Dave Ramsey, Francis Chan, and Blake Mycoskie (founder of TOMS Shoes). Between the yearly main conferences, the Catalyst team takes the show on the road to various cities across the nation, with an event called Catalyst One Day. These one day events (duh) feature Andy Stanley (lead pastor of Northpoint Church in Atlanta, son of Charles Stanley, and author of Next Generation Leader and The Principle of the Path) and Craig Groeschel (lead pastor of LifeChurch.tv and author of It: How Churches and Leaders Can Get It and Keep It, and Chazown: A Different Way to See Your Life).
When my buddy Peyton (our church staff organizer) put out the call for volunteers to help host the event, I was quick to say “Yes!” I had grand illusions of meeting and hanging out with Andy and Craig, or at least indulging in some up-close stalking. Peyton assigned me to the Resources Team with my friend Josh and our job was to stand by the book table and direct attendees to purchase books, CDs, and magazines.
“Hi! On my left, your right, you’ll find all of Andy’s books and CDs. On my right, your left, are Craig’s products.”
All of this accompanied by wide sweeping arm gestures and a Crest-White-Strips smile. It didn’t take long for this routine to get really old for me. I do like some variety in my work. So, I made the leadership decision (see what I did there? It’s a leadership conference?) that two of us were not needed to direct traffic so I bailed on Josh to assist with a really important crisis: we had run out of bottled water. Our Pastor of Operations quickly dispatched me with a credit card to Sam’s Club to buy 30 cases of Ozarka so our church didn’t earn a city-wide reputation as a poopy host. We wanted to be known as the Martha Stewart of Church Leadership Conference Hosts, not the Russell Brand of Conference Hosts.
I grabbed two other lackeys and we headed to Sam’s in a borrowed (not stolen ̶ as far as I know) pick-up truck. We worked our biceps, triceps, and sweat glands slinging cases of water onto some flat-bed carts at the back of the store. None of us have mad math skilz, so we actually pushed 34 cases through the check-out line instead of the mandated 30. I wasn’t worried or plagued with guilt – it’s summer in Houston (a/k/a the Surface of the Sun) and that water wasn’t gonna collect dust.
The three of us crammed ourselves back into the cab of the pickup and proceeded to have some interesting and controversial conversation on the way back to the church.
“Dude – stop it! I don’t want your sweaty armpit touching me anymore.”
“Do you want me to use the steering wheel or not? Cause we can just pretend this 2002 Chevy has auto-pilot.”
“Hey, no need to get snippy. It’s just really awkward.”
“Guys. Quit the petty bickering. We need to just love one another and build each other up. That’s what Jesus would do…blech! Which one of you smells like feet and rotten chicken?”
We arrived back at church in record time and unloaded the 34 cases of water. Before I had even dumped the third case on the water table, the conference attendees were ripping into them like ravenous hyenas. I have a claw mark on my upper thigh to prove it, and I’m not afraid to show you.
About this time I confirmed a suspicion about myself I’ve been secretly harboring for a couple of years. I sweat more than the average man. We’re not talking a few moist spots in strategic places after a workout. Oh no. My Catalyst volunteer shirt was soaked (i.e., really, really wet) from above my nipples down to the front hem, and from the neckline in back all the way to the bottom. The only dry spot (i.e., not really, really wet) was a place 3” in diameter around my belly button. I have this dry spot in the same place every time I leave the gym, so there’s obviously some medical or genetic issue that needs investigation. Or else I’ve been unconsciously swiping my antiperspirant stick across that particular patch of tummy. Who knows? The other thing you should know about me is that once I get overheated I have a very difficult time lowering my body temperature. Which means I continue to sweat even in air conditioning.
After we unloaded that last case of bottled water, break time was over and it was time for Andy Stanley to speak. I wandered toward the book-signing kiosk trying to cool off and dry off when I noticed Craig Groeschel desperately attempting to untangle himself from a very chatty hipster worship pastor. It’s not hard to identify a worship pastor these days. Throw a pair of skinny jeans, a purple deep V-neck shirt, and a sport coat from Express into a dressing room and out will swagger a worship pastor, complete with a Pete Wilson doo.
Now I’m nothing if not opportunistic, so I jumped in to rescue Craig. After helping him to disengage from a swirling cloud of hair wax and Axe, I walked him back to the Green Room so he could prepare for his next talk. I have to say Craig is a class act. He patiently answered my litany of questions delivered rapid-fire, while enduring the aura of my physical presence – heat waves radiating from every sweaty pore of my body, my moist (understatement) Catalyst t-shirt, and my very own distinct aroma.
My campus pastor walked by us and I grabbed him to take a picture of me with Craig. I was all smiles as I reached over to engage the Sideways Bro-Hug and Craig returned the arm across my (moist) back. When I look at the picture now, I see that behind that Disney Princess-perfect smile of his is a decided “Ewww.” Just before he disappeared into the Green Room, he leaned over and quietly asked, “Dude. Have you heard of Axe Body Spray?”
What’s your most embarrassing brush with fame?
Maybe it’s my borderline OCD, a result of childhood scarring, or an involuntary reflex from past situations that went down badly – but there are certain things that I will absolutely not put my hands on. Or any other part of my body. I could go on and on, but I’ll give you the short-list because apparently I’ve had complaints about not being succinct enough in my posts. (My blog coach, Bryan Allain, has berated me more than once for being too verbose. Actually, he said “you use too many of them there words” because he’s not fancy and he lives with the Amish in Intercourse, PA.)
These are a few of my favorite things I won’t touch. Julie Andrews won’t touch them either.
Most anything in a public restroom.
Airports are the absolute worst, followed by sports stadiums and the ones at my office.
- The toilet seat. If I walk in, all the urinals are occupied, and I end up in a stall where the seat is down, I am not lifting it. Not even with a big wad of toilet paper used like an oven mitt. I’ll do my best to aim straight, but I apologize up-front for any stray splashes. On the rare occasion where I might actually have to sit, I won’t. I hover. Not even one of those butt-doilies can make it right.
- The flush handle. I believe in flushing. It’s truly a civilized thing to do. Even at an Astros game. But I’m not touching that handle because I know that whoever did business in there before me did not have an opportunity to wash their hands before touching it. Or, if they’re like me, they used their shoe to engage the lever. You know exactly where those shoes have been.
- The exit door. I have seen way too many guys leave a stall and completely bypass the sink area on their way out. I’m not touching that door handle. I usually wash my hands, dry them with a paper towel, then use the same paper towel to grab the handle and pull open the door. Standing at the free-throw line in the doorway, I’ll lob the wadded up paper towel toward the nearest trash can. I usually miss, but I refuse to correct my error. That would mean making contact with the bathroom floor, another thing I will not touch.
Most anything on a commercial airplane.
What with all the cutbacks, we are paying much more for much less. This includes the luxury of a cabin cleaning crew.
- The seat headrest. Most airlines now have these weird looking “wings” on the headrest that you can bend to fit your head shape. Nice idea, except when they are infected with lice or crusted with dried slobber. This is why I don’t sleep on planes.
- The tray table. How many times have I pulled that thing down and found chunks of food or smeared booger juice adorning that wobbly surface? Too many. I will continue to eat on my lap. I know exactly what to expect there.
- The blankets and/or pillows. I have heard too many stories of Mile-High-Club activities happening under cover of those royal-blue institutional felt blankets. (My mother read Fear of Flying to me as a bedtime story when I was six – yes, another piece of the puzzle drops into place.) Breast-feeding mothers are fond of propping the kid and his dirty diaper on top of one of the pillows and disguising the naked nipple action with the blanket. No way am I paying $3.75 for the use of linens that are about as sanitary as the bottom of my teenage son’s laundry basket.
Dogs.
Let’s face it, they stink. They roll around in random outdoor poop, they lick their butts and genitals, and they rarely bathe (and even when they do you still have the aroma of “wet dog”). People like dogs because they are friendly, but that’s a big part of the problem. They want to be all up in your grill, and unfortunately they bring their filth and stench with them. I push them away, but they immediately come back. And by pushing them away I have to touch them. Then I must wash. Immediately if not sooner.
What are some things you draw the line at touching?
Sometimes I have conversations with myself. They can happen anytime, but particularly on my morning commute. I generally have very little tolerance for myself and I rarely cut myself slack. In my head, I’m the rude, “tell it like it is” person that I rarely am in real life. Sometimes I even have the conversations out loud. If I’m sure no one is watching. This is how it went down this morning as I jumped onto the Beltway at 5:45 AM. Let the dance begin.
“Ahhhh! What is wrong with that dude in the green Crown Vic up there? He’s going like 60.”
“Chill. The speed limit is 55. You do know you can fix this situation, right? That lane to the left? That’s called a passing lane.”
“Yeah but then I’ll just have to get back over again for my exit. I’m tired.”
“Wah wah wah. Do it or shut it.”
“Oh my lord I hate this song!”
“Dude – you programmed the playlist. Do not add “Our Lips Are Sealed” if it’s gonna make you heave while driving. I’m not ready to die today.”
“Hey, you’re the one who insisted on “Dancing Queen” knowing full well it was gonna dredge up those nightmares of the roller rink “incident” from 1976. The one where you stumbled and fell and flattened that girl’s boobs?”
“Ugh. Yeah that song was a poor choice. Let’s listen to talk radio instead.”
“So what are you gonna write about before work this morning?”
“I have no idea. This blogging thing stresses me out sometimes.”
“How about something random?”
“Aren’t they all random?”
“Only when I’ve got no ideas. You have anything specific but random in mind?”
“How about ‘Annoying Your Co-workers By Scraping Your Toenails on a Whiteboard’ or ‘Communication Tips for the Aspiring Mime’ or ‘The Cheesehead’s Guide to Weedheads’?”
“Sometimes I don’t get you. You’re complicated. I like that.”
“Are we going to Subway again for lunch?”
“Yeah, I thought we would. Why?”
“Dude I am so tired of that same sandwich every day. Ham and Swiss on white. Blech.”
“It’s not that bad. Especially now that they have avocado. Yum! It’s almost sensual the way they scoop it on the bread and then spreeeaaad it across…”
“Umm…okay. Can’t we just go to Bullritos?”
“Those burritos are full of fat and calories. You’re already a lard butt.”
“Your mama’s a lard butt. Burn!”
“Ha! Then so is yours! You’re an idiot.”
“Here we are at the office, finally! These 45 minute commutes are getting real old.”
“Why yes they are. And I really need a break from you now. Any chance of that happening?”
“Not likely. Admit it. You like me. You know you do.”
“Okay. But I still think you’re annoying.”
What’s your dirty little habit that you indulge in when nobody else is around?
I love coffee. I have since I was five, when my mother began giving me a mug before bedtime to relax me. Keep in mind that I am a child of the 70′s. The era before seat belts, car seats, child-proof cabinet locks, and fear of second-hand smoke. Caffeine was no big deal. At least not any worse than the daily shot of bourbon to get me in the mood for my afternoon nap. Mama needed “me” time.- I transcend to a euphoric state characterized by a total elimination of all inhibition. I’ve been known to bounce down the halls at work pretending I’m on a Pogo Stick (70′s child, remember). Whatever thoughts pop into my cehmical-induced brain immediately come out my mouth (i.e., “Wow, you really need to see your doc about that raunchy case of halitosis you just assaulted me with.”). I’ve even been know to loudly sing the hits of the Captain & Tennille from the “privacy” of my cube. My co-workers are getting very tired of Muskrat Love.
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Is there one special moment that stands out in your mind as a hallmark of humiliation, an emblem of embarrassment, a monument to mortification? If you’ve read my blog for a while you undoubtedly know that this theme is nothing new to me. I embarrass myself (and my wife and kids) all the time.
Tuesday night, however, introduced probably one of the top three most degrading experiences of my lifetime. I intend to share it with you guys, because I know (I pray) you won’t judge me. Maybe you’ll even be encouraged to share your own “moments,” and in the process learn to laugh at yourself and quit worrying so much about maintaining an “image.” Commiserate with me in the comments section below.
