I. Love. Games.
So, the blog was the perfect excuse opportunity to buy a new one.
It came yesterday.
I also love playing games with friends, so I’m inviting a few of my favorite folks to play along every Tuesday.
Hope you’ll play, too!
Without further ado, here is the inaugural question. And it’s a doozy.
I still count my wedding day as the best day of my life. I relive it often through pictures and stories. It’s such a flawless memory, I wouldn’t go back—even if I could.
The moment I met Tucker? That’s isolated perfection, too.
And then there’s the moment Case arrived. Pure sunshine from the start.
Jeff and I joke about the evening he proposed. Neither one of us remember what he said. But we both remember me saying yes and that’s worked out just fine.
If I have to pick one moment to relive—just one?—out of the millions of joy-filled memories I have, I choose the moment I met Jeff. Because I had no idea, in that moment, that he would be mine. What did we say? What did we talk about? I know we I chattered easily for the better part of an hour.
I’d love to relive that first eye lock again.
After thinking about it for longer than I probably should have, I realized there’s a big difference between the words “relive” and “redo.” I want to relive a million and one moments spanning from childhood to last week, and I think I’d like to redo even more. But if those moments were re-done, I might not be the silly runnaroundd blogger with a deep passion for Mizuno running shoes and the Magic Kingdom that I am today. So if all those moments are to stay as they were, I would relive my “glory” days. My college running days when I was the happiest and the strongest I’ve ever been. Every practice, every workout and every meet was a challenge. I would run to my coach after we were through, exhausted and depleted, but alive and proud of what I could do.
Growing up in the US, you celebrate the 4th of July every summer. There are pool parties, barbecues, parades, fireworks, little American flags, and lots of red, white, and blue. There’s a hometown feel to it, celebrating with neighbors down the street or families in backyards. You can just feel the Americana oozing out of every apple pie and hot dog. Well one summer in college, I decided to study abroad. Paris was my destination and French was my subject of choice. I was immersed in a different culture, a whole different feel to every day life, and I loved every minute. I had never really stopped to consider what life was like outside of my bubble before. I hadn’t stopped to think of the holidays in other countries and the things that gave them their identity, but I soon had my eyes opened. The 4th of July came and went in France without much of a second thought. I mean, I didn’t know anyone who owned a backyard, and I don’t think the French ate hot dogs or really cared about celebrating our version of the red, white, and blue. And that was okay. They had their own celebration, and I was priviledged enough to witness it – Bastille Day. July 14th for them…their day of “independence” from the monarchy, the birth of their modern nation. The day started with a military parade down some of Paris’ famous streets, including tanks, marching armies, airplanes and jets doing fly overs. Afterward, our group made our way to the Eiffel Tower. We picnicked all day after picking out our “spot” for the show. We were excited. We were overwhelmed. We had no idea what to expect. As the sun set over the Eiffel Tower and the darkness fell, all of the lights in the Champ de Mars where we were sitting went out. A loud cheer erupted and the crowds stood. Chants of “asseyez,” “asseyez,” “asseyez” filled the air and the crowd slowly sat back down – apparently no one wanted an obstructed view. We joined in, we cheered, we yelled at the top of our lungs. And then it started. The Eiffel Tower sparkled. The lights slowly came back on. The music blared. The fireworks erupted. I have never witnessed such an awe-inspiring event in my life. My eyes had never seen that type of celebration, that big of a show. Nothing compared to that moment – seeing this symbol of France alight with fireworks, pyrotechnics, laser lights, and the crowd going wild. It was an experience that was forever imprinted upon my memory, and the feelings I had I won’t soon forget. It is a moment in time I would choose to relive in a heartbeat.
I own pajamas. I just want to make that point very clearly, because the mark of a man who owns pajamas is that of a man who has lived a life worth living. A life of purpose. Do you think Nelson Mandella, Dr. Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain, Winston Churchhill, or other great men throughout history have slept in anything BUT pajamas. I submit that they have not. Try to picture them coming to bed venturing to the land of nod, in anything other than pajamas. You can’t do it. Try, and the brain ceases to function. It’s unfathomable. Pajamas equal purpose. They are one and the same. And, as a man who owns pajamas, when asked to reﬂect on the history of my years, I take it quite seriously. And, on examination of my life, I would honestly have to state, with unwavering conﬁdence rooted in the deeply established truth of my existence, that I have no idea what I’m doing on a regular basis, nor do I understand my purpose at all. This whole life thing is crazytown, you dig? Straight bananas. Randomly wondrous. And, who knows… You may argue that owing pajamas seems insigniﬁcant.
That there can’t be a true correlation between one silly thing and something so great.
But, nonetheless… Pajamas.
When I was 21 I went to Barcelona Spain, to meet my great grandparents. I met them in the house my grandmother grew up in. They were in their 90’s. Lively. Funny. Absolutely wonderful. That’s what a life untainted by Facebook will get you. Most people would say it was the Mediterranean diet that kept them so youthful and vibrant. Most people would be wrong. It’s because no Facebook.
After a memorable and lovely lunch and visit I walked four houses down the street, to the door of my great uncles house, where my grandfather grew up. And, there I froze. Before I entered I looked down the cobblestone street, to the door of my great grandparents house and life washed over me. That street, those stones, those trees, held the key moment to my entire life. I stood on the street where my grandparents had met. Where they exchanged glances, jokes, and fell in love. That tiny portion of that tiny street had been an integral point of my very existence. I wondered if it was the sunlight that caught my grandmother’s hair the right way one random day that made my grandfather notice her? Or, if it was my grandfather’s big laugh that echoed down the narrow walkways that made my grandmother turn her head. Every stolen moment, that led to a decades of marriage together began right there. Right at the stones under my feet. Without those cobblestones, laid out that very way, on that very street. I wouldn’t be here. That realization. That’s the moment I’d live again.
Sooooo sappy right? I’m sensitive like that… Ladies.
In the end this whole life thing is crazytown, you dig? Straight bananas.
Randomly wondrous. And, who knows… You may argue that these moments seem insigniﬁcant. That there can’t be a true correlation between one silly thing and something so great. But, nonetheless… Pajamas.
Okay. You’ve heard from the gang. Your turn. What one moment would you relive?