There's Way too much Estrogen in my Life!

 

We all have secrets--some of which can cause deep embarrassment.  One of my mildly embarrassing secrets is that I enjoy unwinding in the evening in front of the television with my wife. It's not so much that I hate to admit watching the boob-tube--I mean, doesn't every man enjoy unwinding in the evening snuggling with their best girl, curled up on the couch under a soft fleece blanket enjoying the warm fire and drinking some hot spicy and fruity herbal tea while watching something relaxing?  Whoa! Now that sounded so feminine that the loyal readership that is Darrell's Yakimania might start to wonder if I have acquired a cat! 

It's not so much that I watch television while snuggling with my wife under a fleece blanket that's cause for concern; rather, it's what we have been watching.  It all started with Downton Abbey.  We were planning a second trip to London to visit Chelsea when I became aware of this series. I know its viewership is largely female, but what the heck, we were considering a side trip to actually tour Highclere Castle (the real Downton Abbey), so what harm is there in watching a few episodes?   Thus, it all began rather innocently. Step by step, inch by inch I found myself sucked into the very feminine media world that is dominated by Lifetime, Oxygen and PBS.  Last Sunday, we had quite enjoyed another episode of Call the Midwife, and I realized, I need help--there's way too much estrogen in my life at the moment!  I used to watch very manly and inane programs like Lizard Lick Towing, anything on ESPN and The Vikings.

So I told the She-Wolf, I have to start regulating what I watch.  With each Call the Midwife episode, I can almost feel my bi-ceps shrinking.  In truth, I am losing the essence of my manliness by what I am watching on television.  So, we (and by this I mean me) resolved that for every hour of high-feminine-programming that we watch, I will watch at least an hour of something uber manly--you know something like reruns of Combat, anything with Arnold Schwarzenegger or the Ultimate Fighter.   So, if you happen to be cruising through the recorded queue of programs on my remote, and see that someone has recorded Dance Moms, puuleeeeease for the sake of my pride assume this is something the She-wolf is watching.



The Worst Month of My Life

I normally love the month of February.  It starts with Valentine's Day, which for a romantic like me,  is a really big deal.  To be sure, Valentine's Day is the beginning of my birthday celebration.  The celebration begins with some romantic time with the She-wolf and culminates with my family lavishly adoring me 10 days later on my actual birthday.  What's not to like about this month?

Well, this year everything was ruined by my mother's foray to Thailand to visit my nephew, Rocky.  She is remarkable for her age (she will turn 84 this year).  While in Thailand pictures of her began to surface on the internet with the caption "Remarkable 84 year old woman rides an elephant, and tames a tiger."  Or was it "Tames an elephant and rides a tiger?"  Or does it really even matter?  My friends, began asking, "Dude, I saw your mom taming a tiger?  She's amazing!"  or "Smart I saw your mom in Thailand,  I think she was riding a shark?  It's sad you don't have what it takes to keep up with your mother."

Yes, I normally look forward to my birthday.  During my birthday celebration, one of my kids typically asks to me to regale the family with a story from one of my excellent adventures.  Instead, this year I'm probably going to hear: "Dad, what do you think Grandma Smart is doing today?  Maybe we should call her and see what amazing things she's been up to recently."  The anxiety in me has been building to such an extent that I'm not even sure I want to publicly celebrate my birthday this year. When I can't even compete with an 83 year old woman, especially when this woman is my mother, life is definitely on a downward slide.  I think I'll just postpone my birthday celebration to a time when my mother is back in Salt Lake and busily engaged in more appropriate geriatric activities such as temple work, genealogy and meetings with the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. 

Man crush

People who know me well (and by this I mean the 6 followers of Darrell's Yakimania), know that I can be a wee bit obsessive when it comes to things that interest me.  I have a hard time regulating my time or energy when it comes to things that I am into.  When I'm interested in something it's essentially pedal-to-the-medal-balls-out-take-no-prisoners total commitment until I get bored with it and then I usually walk away from the matter for a few months or even a few years, until I get interested again and then it's a where-have-you-been-all-my-life-how-did-I-live-without-you? total obsession again.  Things that would fall into this category would be cross-country skiing, snowboarding, caving, rock climbing, Japanese, Spanish, genealogy, family history, etc., ad infinitum, ad naseum.  I'm sure there's a mental health disorder somewhere in the Diagnosis and Statistical Manual for Mental Health Disorder, IV that could explain this phenomenon, but there' no way I'm ever voluntarily subjecting myself to a psychiatric examination to find out! It's simply way too frightening to think what might be revealed about my inner psychological workings in such an exercise.  Nope, I am not the least bit curious!

Now there are several interests that I never seem to tire of; namely: wrestling, fishing and all things Wolverine related.  Fishing and wrestling are understandable life time obsessions for me.  Wrestling defines who I am--it's more than just something I do--I AM a wrestler.  That has been a fact for decades. Fishing? While I cannot adequately explain this obsession, I'm pretty sure it's something biological.  During my last annual physical examination I asked Dr. Brett DeGooyer, my very patient and skilled family provider, to look carefully for gill-pods behind my ears to see if he could detect any physical signs to explain this phenomenon, or otherwise offer-up any medical opinions on the subject. I am disappointed to report that he found nothing.  And so while I'm not entirely sure what's up with this constant obsession, I comfortable with the explanation that it's something innate, such as an immutable characteristic unique to simply being me.  In private, I have confided to the She-wolf that it might be something sexual, but this is way too Freudian, and my thoughtful musings on this subject will have to be more fully explored in some future post. 

 

But my obsession with the Wolverine?!  I really don't get it.  One would think an obsession over this type of super-hero would be exclusively the domain of goofy, adolescent boys--after all, I am a very mature, respectable and normal middle-age man. I used to think it was because the Wolverine was so dang cool and rugged.  He's conflicted to the core and deeply mysterious.  He's hiding deep secrets and pains that no person could possibly understand.  And when he morphs, you know it's excruciatingly painful, which just compounds the problems for the bad guys he's going to dispatch because morphing puts him in a really, really bad mood, and some body's gotta pay for that.  Most important, you can't kill the dude.  Bullet to the head?  No problemo.  Knife to the heart?  Nope, he's going to keep coming for you. Yep, everything I want to be physically is represented by the Wolverine, even thought I know that I don't look anything like this most amazing superhero.

Last summer, the She-wolf made an interesting observation that, in a creepy way, might explain this obsession.  We were on our way to see the movie Les Miserables, when I commented, "I understand, the Wolverine is not only a really good actor, but that he sings amazingly well."  She gently corrected me, "Darling, the Wolverine is not in this movie.  Les Miserables stars Hugh Jackman."  "Well, regardless, I'm really excited to see this movie and see the Wolverine in a totally different context.", I insisted.  The She-Wolf then demanded, "What is your obsession with Hugh Jackman?"  I responded defensively, "Who said anything about Hugh Jackman?" Then the big light that invariably and embarrassingly illuminates most things for me in life shone directly, painfully and mercilessly into my guilty face, as my wife offered this insightful conclusion, "Darling, I think it's rather obvious you have a thing for Hugh Jackman."  I vehemently protested, "Say what?! That's ridiculous!  There's no way, I would ever have a thing for a dude! That's sick!" The She-wolf continued, "It doesn't matter what movie he's in, you demand to see it three times.  You refer to him as the Wolverine, but it's him you want to see.  Take Australia for example.  That was an okay movie, but you seemed to think it was on par with Gone with the Wind."  "That's just crazy!" I protested, "I just think the Wolverine is uber-cool and a got a little confused because after all, the Wolverine, is kind of like Hugh Jackman's alter ego."  With great satisfaction, she just mumbled, "Whatever you say, Big-guy."

I was really disturbed by this conversation and was in total denial until last Sunday during the Superbowl, they showed the Wolverine in a luxury suite...er, I mean Hugh Jackman, and I got all excited, "Sheila look, even the Wolverine, is at the game!"  The She-wolf just grinned and gave me that look that can only be described as her oft repeated, "Whatever you say, Big-guy."  She then sat back with great satisfaction to enjoy the game.  

In the end, I know she's right.  It's true I obsess over the Wolverine and maybe for reasons that I can't (or don't want to) explain.  As for Hugh Jackman?  Well, like the Wolverine, he's pretty cool too.

 

My Top Ten List for 2013

As I set goals for 2014, I have reflected on the wonderful events and magical moments of 2013.  Our trip to Europe and dropping Lil D off at the MTC have to rank right up there.  But there were so many other significant events that it's hard to narrow it down.  Regardless, here's my best attempt at the Top Ten Things in my life in 2013

1. Going as an entire family with Lil D to take out her endowments at the Columbia River Temple; 
2. The birth of Ana Shea;
3. Chelsea's graduation from the University of London;
4. Darcee's fundraising race--Hero-Up for Children's Cancer;
5. Seeing Shea make the honor roll at UVU; 
6. Prague;
7. Discovering the magic of bees;
8. My entry into the world of sailing;
9. Earning my blue belt in Jujitsu; 
10. Weaseling my way into the Girls' Trip for 2013.

The Columbia River Temple with all our children.

 

Although 2013 held some big challenges, we feel so unworthy of all the good in our life.  Sheila and often comment to each other that we deserve so little, and yet have so much.  It feels to me as though life is less like a journey and more like a series of experiences and events that build upon each other, with each event providing meaning and context to what I am experiencing next.  The joys and challenges of today are enriched, appreciated and valued because of what happened yesterday.  I feel deeply about today because of my past encounters, with each event and personal observation contributing something significant to my present experience.  I know that I am progressing towards middle life because I hurt so much after wrestling and Jujitsu practice, but it feels less like a journey and more like a collection of meaningful encounters, with each one adding ever greater value and context to the next.   So my earnest prayer is that 2014 will contribute many more phenomenal events that will make my tomorrows deeper and more meaningful that what occurred yesterday. 

Award Winning Dance Moves

As I review 2013 and the many amazing experiences and major accomplishments that occurred in my life, one in particular sticks out.  The 2013 West Yellowstone Rodeo's Dance Contest.  Now, I have always known that I was a good dancer (I suspect that loyal followers of Darrell's Yakimania aren't surprised to read this.)  I knew this was true even when I was mocked by family members who hated on my dance moves.  I have been largely impervious to hypercritical observations such as, "Stop, you're embarrassing me!"  "Seriously!  Stop right now!"  "Are  you sure you're okay?!"  "You look like you're have an epileptic fit!" I simply chalk up such comments to oh-I am-so-jealous.

I love big beat music and sense that I feel the music and can express myself in ways that other people perhaps cannot.  I loved to dance in high school.  I graduated in 1975 right at the beginning of the disco era.  Although the clothing from this era was, in retrospect, hideous, the dancing was a lot of fun. I struggled with the set dances from this era such as the Electric Bump and the  Hustle; however, whenever I was just moving and grooving, and doing my own thang, it was pretty much magic on the dance floor.

Now, if you were to ask what kind of dancing I'm good at, I would likely have to pause and thoughtfully consider that question.  There are dancers who specialize in country western/line dancing, ballroom steps, Tejana, etc.   I think my style would best be described as Eclectic Freestyle.  I have no idea what that even means, but I'm certain it accurately describes my unique and interesting style of dance.  Above is the video graphic proof of the serious damage I can do on the dance floor.  Please note, however, that the video doesn't do justice to my sublime dance talent for several reasons: a) I was trying to dance on a dusty dirt surface, b) I was wearing flip-flops and c) the song was so short that I didn't have time to bust out my big moves. The reality is that West Yellowstone is not likely ready for my big moves just yet, so maybe it's best there were some limitations imposed on me.

Regardless, I won a prize for my efforts, which technically makes me an Award Winning Dancer.  Following my victorious dance, I continued to relive the moment of glory with my family for several days:

"I just can't believe that I won! Can you believe it?!" 

Silence.

"I've never won a dance contest before, but I'm not really surprised.  Were you surprised?!"

Silence. 

"Show me the video again, because there were a couple a places where I think I could've improved on how I was moving.  If I practice a little bit, do you think Dancing with the Stars might be in my future?"

Silence.

"Was my performance pretty-much flawless, or did you see some minor areas that I could have done differently?  Maybe in execution of some of the more technical aspects of my dance?  What do you think?"

Silence.

Their tepid response? Jealously, no doubt!

In the end, 2013 proved to be another magical year for DKS.  And for all you haters out there that doubt me, just remember I AM the Award Winning Dancer from the 2013 West Yellowstone Rodeo who is holding the big prize:  a $5.00 gift certificate for seriously valuable merchandise at the Mountain View Mercantile!

 

 

 

Wolf Hunter

Okay, I am officially obsessed with Rocky Smart's recent (and very manly) foray to Mongolia to hunt wolf.  I'm pretty sure I won' t rest until I make this trip. 

 

The following poster says it all for me. 

 

 

 

 

About 30 years ago (and before I even knew the term "bucket list") I made a list of adventures to do before I die.  I called this list "Darrell's Big List."  I made progress on completion of this list in recent years because I had the money and freedom to travel.  That was until Rocky started blogging about the blow-your-mind-cool things he is doing. I feel like I will never be able to die because my list (which now includes wolf hunting in Mongolia) just keeps getting longer.  

 



The Pride of Puglism

 

People my age have questioned the wisdom of continuing to be engaged in pugilistic endeavors such as wrestling and Brazilian jujitsu.  The following might explain my addiction to pugilism:  Growing up, my older brothers were great baseball players.  I, on the other hand, sucked pond water when it came to baseball.  I knew I was terrible because I once over heard my Little League coaches strategizing, "Maybe if we put Smart in Center field he will have support from both sides and the damage will be minimized."  Ouch! Words like that can leave a mark for life.  Knowing that baseball was not in the cards for me, I thought maybe I would try my hand at basketball, after all we played almost everyday on our back yard court.  I could hold my own in this venue.  However, when I went out for the team at Lincoln Junior High School it became apparently that the only reason I could hold serve on our back yard court was because no one ever called fouls.  A foul had to be pretty obvious to be recognized as such at 1807 South 3rd East; and by obvious, I mean it needed to involve maiming, freely flowing blood or disfigurement.  I was shocked when I played for the first time at my junior high school and was told that charging was a foul.  I thought, "How else am I going to get close enough to the hoop to make a shot if I don't bull rush whose ever guarding me?"  I mused, "That's just a crazy rule." In fact, it wasn't until I went home and complained to my dad about how they were calling the game at school that I learned the truth about this well guarded basketball secret called "charging."   When it was settled in my mind that this rule was, in fact, going to be enforced and that I was likely to be whistled every time I ran down the court for some ticky-tacky touching foul, I reasoned, "Dude, you gotta find a new sport!  You absolute stink at baseball; you're pretty small for football; and apparently you are certain to consistently foul out in basketball."  I was pretty disappointed.  That is, until I walked into the wrestling room for the first time. 

My introduction to wrestling, and my first sight of the wrestling room must be described in some detail to appreciate the significance of this event.  My first recollection of wrestling was walking with a group of shirtless 7th graders into the poorly lit, dingy wrestling room in the basement of Lincoln Junior High School.  The mat was a relic--a grayish coarse canvas cover, the consistency of sandpaper with horsehair stuffing, the surface of which was about as soft and inviting as worn concrete.  I describe the mat as grayish because no one really knew the original color of the canvas.  It had areas that were pinkish and yellowish, extant remnants of blood and urine, we supposed.  It had differing sizes of mysterious and random black and red spots in amoeba like shapes; but mostly it was just filthy shades of gray.  The edges were so tattered and worn that the rough horse hair padding was spilling out onto the mat, and had been littered over much of the canvas, creating an itchy, miserable surface.  The mat burns that we dished out and received on this mat were horrific. 

On the mat we were instructed to wear a jock strap, shorts and socks.  Coach Kotter sternly explained to us, "Everyone needs to wear socks; we don't want your stinking feet dirtying up the mat!"  Honest!  I am not making this up.  While I have exaggerated many things in life, my description of the wrestling environment at Lincoln Junior High School is a remarkable exercise in journalistic restraint.  This mat was so dangerous and filthy that it's impossible to accurately and completely describe the health and safety risks it posed.  The wrestling/boiler room at Mingo Junction High School in the movie Takedown was a muted representation of what I faced on day-one of wrestling at Lincoln Junior High School.

Coach Kotter taught us three essential moves, guaranteed to defeat any opponent:  a double-leg takedown (to get our opponents to the mat), a half-nelson (to turn our opponents), and a stand-up (to get away).  I'm dead serious when I state that he only taught 3 moves.  However, it was not the paucity of instruction that was so shocking, but rather how it was taught.  The following was the entirety of the double-leg takedown instruction:  With great confidence he declared, "To take down any opponent you use what I like to call a double-leg takedown.  To execute this move you tackle your opponent so fast and so hard, and then violently drill him to the mat so that he can't defend your attack.  Works every time."    We then divided into partners (not necessarily by size or weight) and took turns smashing each other into the canvas.  The half-nelson instruction was pretty much the same:  "Make a lever with your strong arm by going under his arm and over his head.  You then pry and drive him against the canvas until you either break his neck or he turns over--his choice.  Works every time."  We then took turns on the crowded mat with the same mismatched partners and tried to break each others' neck with our newest weapon, "the half-nelson." 

Finally, the most frightening bit of instruction was the stand-up:  "On the whistle, just jump to your feet and throw elbows as hard as you can.  Swing 'em hard enough to break teeth.  He'll let go of you.  Works every time."  Following this instruction, the mayhem began in earnest.  My criticism of Coach Kotter's instruction was not its lack of technical precision, but rather its lethal effectiveness.  You see in 1969, Lincoln Junior High School was full of sociopathic idiots. For them, this type of instruction was a license to maim and kill.

It was in this Mad Max like environment that I learned to wrestle.  If you wanted to score points and win, you executed everything with bad intentions.  The blood flowed freely in those chaotic practices.  There were no rules governing bleeding. We just proudly bled on each other.   I remember many times showering and watching the pink water wash away in a cleansing ritual that was almost spiritual in nature.  I had battled, and whether it was my blood or the blood or my opponent, it hardly mattered.   Technique meant nothing at Lincoln Junior High School--it was more like street fighting in gym shorts and I loved it. I knew I was in a very special place.  I felt that I belonged.

I loved the sheer physicality of wrestling--the steely taste of blood in my mouth, the stinging sweat in my eyes and the burning in my lungs.  Despite a total lack of technical instruction, I started figuring things out.  I had a natural feel for how to beat stronger and bigger opponents.  I went home and dreamed about wrestling. I would play out scenarios in my mind and how I could do things that might help me win.   I soon discovered that I could beat everyone in the room.  It was the only sport in which I had ever excelled.

Over the years, I have come to discover the pride of pugilism.   In addition to wrestling, I dabbled in Judo and boxing, but it was always wrestling that held sway for me.   I took pride in the pain, the meanness and the physicality of the sport.  I came to see the beauty in the dance of pain that is wrestling--it is technical and complex on one level, and yet at its core, is essentially a contest of brute strength and speed.  And then there is the strength-to-weight-ratio-battle that plagues every pugilist.  Wrestling cannot be truly appreciated until you have cut weight.  There's not room in this post to blog about the mental battles involved in cutting weight, but suffice it to say, that cutting weight is a lonely walk that demands a level of sacrifice that only pugilistic competitors can appreciate.  Yes, gymnasts cut weight, but wrestlers (and other pugilists) do this in the context of daily physical beatings in a room full of tough competitors who want nothing more than to see you fail.  

I believe the evolution of pride for wrestlers begins with the inescapable realization that after all the hard work and pain and sacrifice, that socially we are still viewed as a pariahs, outcasts and misfits.  Wrestling is not pretty to watch and everyone (including wrestlers) knows it.    While everyone respects wrestlers, no one other than wrestlers love this sport.  They don't watch it; they don't follow it; they just don't care.  While wrestlers might well complain and ask,  "Why are we not appreciated?  Why are we always underfunded?  Why do we invariably get the crappy schedules and worst equipment?", they eventually take pride in their status as second class citizens.  "Give us your worst, and you will see our best!" they chant.  Wrestlers (and I believe pugilists in all forms) are a very prideful group.  They treat every disrespectful comment as a challenge and every criticism as a personal affront. When people push, we push back. 

So, when friends question my sanity, I don't expect anyone other than a fellow pugilist to understand.  All I can do is shrug and blame it on the stubborn pride of pugilism-- you see, I would rather have my face beat in, or have it pounded on the canvas mat in the basement of Lincoln Junior High School, than yield even a single point.