The other day, much to my dismay, I found a hair. Finding the occasional hair isn’t necessarily disturbing in and of itself, but rarely is it an entirely pleasant experience either. Nothing ruins a meal quite like finding a hair floating in your soup or nestled in your entrée. In this instance, with my discovered hair, I wish I had simply found it in my food. I could have dealt with that. As disgusting as that would have been, it wouldn’t have done nearly the psychological damage that my found hair did. No, my rogue hair discovery was particularly disturbing because 1) I found the hair on my ear, and 2) it was mine.

I am fully aware of the fact that, as people age, they have a tendency to grow hair in places where hair hadn’t previously grown.

Just the other day I saw a distinguished looking grandfatherly figure who appeared to have a pair of sheepdogs coming out of his nose. I understand that this is part of the wonderful circle of life, but I wasn’t prepared for having to worry about runaway hair at the boyishly charming age of 36. I figured it would be years, if not decades, before my level of hygiene escalated to random spot checks for wild hairs.

Perhaps the most troubling part of my discovery was just the timing of it. Only days before, while getting ready for work, I became painfully aware of a severe increase in scalp exposure. While not “bald” by any stretch of the imagination, I have definitely started thinning in the traditional “bald spot” location. I’ve never thought much about my follicle future, I just kind of assumed that someday – probably when I was well into my eighties – I would have to cross the bridge of strategically positioning my remaining hair to hide certain thinner areas. I didn’t expect to be thrust into that future reality so soon.

I probably should have seen it coming, I mean it’s not like baldness just happens overnight. It’s just that historically, the extent of my hair grooming has been simply trying to tame unruly curls as opposed to worrying about scalp exposure.

Needless to say, the recent revelation that my hair was definitely thinning kind of put me in a bit of a funk. Admittedly shallow, but a funk nonetheless. And finding a random ear hair that seemed better suited on an octogenarian was almost more than I could handle.

The hair itself was almost an inch long and was shooting out along the top of my ear, a place where a younger, hipper version of myself might have a row of hoop earrings. After I had discovered the hair, and quickly, shamefully ripped it out, my thoughts quickly turned to vanity. How long had that been there? Had anyone noticed, and not said anything? What other runaway follicle activity was I unaware of? Despondent, I conducted a meticulous investigation of ears, nose and eyebrows to check, and thankfully came up empty handed.

More than anything, my recent unsettling discovery has made me aware of just how much importance – way too much importance – I place on appearance. To be clear, I will never stop traffic with my looks, but I have always made an effort to put my best foot forward. At least as much effort as you can make with inexpensive haircuts, discount grooming products and a wardrobe that screams “suburban value”.

It seems as though I had somehow convinced myself that I was above the somewhat judgmental nature of our society. A more visible scalp and one wild ear hair proved otherwise. I couldn’t help but wonder about vanity – when do we start being vain, and perhaps more importantly, when do we stop?

I know we aren’t born vain. Tyler and Kailey have proven that to me. For a good six months Tyler’s favorite pair of shoes – shoes that he wore everywhere, school, shopping, restaurants, church, everywhere – was a pair of lime green neon crocs. From a sheer fashion perspective, granted I am no fashionista, his crocs went with absolutely nothing else that he wore, yet he wore them proudly.

He never seemed to care about, or even notice for that matter, whenever anyone commented on the intensity of the green neon. He didn’t – and thankfully still doesn’t – give a second thought to how he looked, or how he might be judged wherever he went with them on.

Similarly, Kailey, now old enough to have a strong opinion on what she likes to wear, is comfortable enough in her own skin to be seen in public in anything from fleece pajamas to a royal princess gown. In getting ready for school, regardless of whether an outfit has been laid out for her or not, she will dive into her closet and pick out the oddest assortment of clothes to wear. Of course I might be just a tad biased and think she looks fantastic in anything, but on many an occasion, the objective observer would have to assume that the poor child is color blind. Or, at the very least, Canadian.

I also understand that there clearly comes a time in our lives when we evolve past vanity. I have seen enough rogue ear, nose and eyebrow hair in the senior citizen community to realize that we must get to a point in our development where our time is too precious to waste on over-grooming practices. Plus, with respect to wardrobe, if I had to guess, I would say that the vast majority of us have at least one older relative who has tried to pull off the shorts, black tube socks and sandals look. I often theorized that the aged among us didn’t have the same hang-ups regarding vanity as the rest of the adult population, but it wasn’t until I saw pictures of my 80 year old grandfather mowing his front yard in nothing but a red speedo that my suspicions were confirmed.

I look back at pictures from my childhood and often get nostalgic for the days when worrying about bald spots and facial hair management practices were reserved for “old” people. I see myself smiling ear to ear under horrendous haircuts, or above outfits that would make anyone with the gift of sight cringe in horror and realize that, at least at one point in my life, I clearly wasn’t overly concerned with how others saw me.

In fact, most of the pictures seem to suggest that vanity wasn’t a word I was even aware of. “Bowl cut”, on the other hand, seems to be an expression I was very familiar with.

I don’t know when or how exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way I became entirely too self-conscious about my appearance. And it only seems to be getting worse as I creep further into middle age. Now, I can’t go anywhere without checking the mirror for runaway ear hair and scalp coverage. I wish I didn’t care as much as I do, but for better or worse, the world is a judgmental place, and I am not strong enough to not worry about being judged. Even if lime green neon crocs were the most comfortable shoes in the world, I doubt that I could wear a pair of them in public.

Life is definitely too short to empower the world with our self-esteem. While I am not yet prepared to cease my newly implemented ear, nose and eyebrow hair check policy, I am excited about trying to worry more about who I want to be, as opposed to worrying about who I think I need to be to fit in. I’m not quite ready to adopt the black socks and sandals look, or even think about doing my yard work in a speedo, but I am definitely ready to stop worrying so much about being judged. I am hopeful that I will get to a point where I will be so busy “living now” that I won’t even notice if people snicker at my bald spot.

As I have matured, well, aged, I think I have finally started to develop an appreciation for the fact that my behavior – the good, the bad, and the ugly – has a fairly significant impact on the relationships in my life. Earlier in my life, it’s not like I was on auto-pilot or anything, it’s just that I had very little awareness of the “why” behind many of my actions. As much as I have enjoyed trying to figure out what makes me tic, I must admit, the challenge of learning to think before I act hasn’t been easy. Luckily – if that’s the right word – life presents me with “opportunities to improve” on a fairly regular basis. Like recently, when I checked the mail and found that I had been summoned for jury duty.

Getting summoned for jury duty has always been a bit of conundrum for me. Part of me gets excited and really wants to be a part of the process – I always picture it kind of like Boston Legal, with the added bonus of me, at least once, getting to stand up and shout “Objection!” But the other part, the part that always hears people complaining about jury duty, figures that given the general negative consensus among the population, jury duty must be something to be avoided like the plague, or Chuck-e-Cheese on any given weekend.

Having yet to actually serve on a jury, once again I couldn’t help but get excited about serving my civic duty when the summons arrived. After all, who doesn’t love a good who-dun-it?

Coincidentally, it was at around this time when I began recognizing a somewhat worrisome aspect of my personality. I am embarrassed to admit this, but I had started to realize how judgmental I could be. In my opinion, judgment, in and of itself, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. After all, it is our ability to judge that can keep us out of harm’s way. If I saw a man walking down the street with a ski mask and a gun, it would be dangerous of me to walk up to him and ask him for the time. Instead, I could make a quick judgment call, dive on the bad guy, disarm him with my physical prowess, and wait for the cops to take him away. Or at a minimum, I could recognize the danger, shriek like a school girl and flee. Either way, disaster would have been averted through sound judgment.

What I was personally having a hard time with, was realizing that my judgments weren’t limited to times when it was appropriate to judge, and the fact that they seemed to almost always come from an insecure place. If I saw a guy cutting a rug on the dance floor with pretty girls all around him, I would end up thinking something like, “look at that guy dancing like a dork, he should be embarrassed” all the while really thinking “look at all those babes, and why am I not out there dancing with them like that guy”. Afraid of embarrassing myself, I would ultimately choose to avoid the dance floor, and find comfort in judging the other guy – the guy who had 15 hot, new friends – as the “loser”.

Eager to change my pattern of judgment, I found my upcoming jury duty an intriguing opportunity to put my newfound awareness into practice. Let’s face it, if you want to stop being judgmental, jury duty is a tough place to start. Still, I was excited to hopefully turn over a new leaf, look judgment in the eye, and become a better person.

When I arrived for jury duty, I was immediately aware of two interesting, and slightly disturbing things: one, an oddly disproportionate percentage of law enforcement officers have moustaches, and two, every person waiting for jury duty had a glazed-over, I’d rather be anywhere other than here look on their face. Somewhat daunted by the surprising lack of civic pride, I found my seat and patiently waited. 120 minutes, two questionnaires, three rounds of interviews, and one stale doughnut later it was official, I was Juror #5. Let the healthy judging begin.

Without getting into too many of the details – I could tell you, but I would have to kill you – Placer County criminal defense trials are nothing like what I have seen on television. All in all, the entire two day trial was far less exciting than I had originally anticipated. It was definitely interesting to be a part of, but I often found myself silently imploring either attorney to wake up and fervently object to something, anything.

There were no passionate outbursts from the audience – to be expected since their wasn’t even one person sitting in the audience – no smoking guns, no emotional admissions of guilt on the witness stand, nothing. Over two complete days there was even only one “Objection!”, and it was more respectful and polite than confrontational.

During the course of the trial, I could often feel my tendency towards quick judgment trying to make an appearance. The way the defendant looked, the way he talked, the way he was dressed – irrelevant details that had nothing to do with his ultimate guilt or innocence – trying to become important in my head. Judgment was trying to get the best of me, but I kept reminding myself that he was “innocent until proven guilty” and kept my mind open.

For me, the important part of the process, particularly as it pertained to my battle with judgment, came during jury deliberations. You would think that years of extensive practice would make me a natural for judging the guilt or innocence of the accused, but oddly enough, at crunch time, I found myself overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment.

The stakes were admittedly higher than I have been used to. This wasn’t just about judging some guy on the dance floor, this was about a person, and more importantly, their freedom.

As a jury, we discussed the various facets of the trial, and I was surprised at what suddenly mattered to me. My whole life I had been so cavalier with quick judgments of others, for the first time I found myself pondering things that I previously would have never noticed, let alone considered. I realized just how little I actually knew about the defendant, and the frustrating reality of just how little I knew about what had really happened. I found myself heartbroken at the fact that not one member of his family, or even any friends, had shown up to support him during his trial. He was all alone and I knew next to nothing about him, yet my judgment was going to be partly responsible for his fate. The potential impact of quick judgments was suddenly very apparent to me.

To be honest, I don’t think I’m cut out for jury duty. When the chips are down, I don’t want to be responsible for judging someone’s guilt or innocence. I don’t need that kind of pressure. Every once in a while, I still find myself thinking about the defendant, and praying that we reached the right verdict. That said, I am thankful that I became Juror #5 because I was able to clearly see the potential impact of my quick judgments. And while I will probably never be the first guy on the dance floor (at least until I have had a drink or 10), I now don’t feel the need to judge those who are.

When I was in 4th grade, my class participated in an Olympics style competition. Given that this was before the time of participation ribbons and worrying about the feelings of “non-winners”, each event ended with a presentation of a 1st, 2nd and 3rd place paper medal. There were a variety of events including softball toss, three-legged race, and the mile run. As a competitive, athletic kid, I loved it. The whole day was a blast, and I even won my fair share of events. Although 25 plus years have made many of the details a little fuzzy, I will never forget the 40 yard dash.

The 40 yard dash was the final event of the entire competition, and everyone knew that Jimbo Brophy was a lock to win it. Everyone but me. Don’t get me wrong, there was no denying that Jimbo was the fastest kid in our class, I just had that wildly misguided confidence associated with youth on my side. As the heats progressed, it quickly became apparent that it was going to come down to a showdown between me and Jimbo.

Prior to the final race, I think it is safe to say that the entire class was more convinced than ever that the gold medal was Jimbos. I am not entirely sure where my foolish arrogance came from, I just knew that I was going to win. Undeterred by my classmates’ complete lack of faith in me, I prepared for the big finale.

When the whistle blew to start the race, we took off, and for roughly 6 glorious seconds over 25 years ago, I was the fastest kid on the planet. I gave it everything I had, and I beat Jimbo Brophy. To this day, I am still a little unclear as to how exactly I did it, but I did.

Jimbo was shocked. Everyone was shocked. Even our teacher – who happened to also be my mom – was shocked. I know she was shocked because it took her quite awhile to “find” a first place ribbon for me. I am fairly certain that she had not anticipated my miraculous upset, and had already written Jimbo’s name on the 1st place ribbon.

It is unclear when, or where, it happened, but sadly, somewhere along the way I lost touch with that confident kid who felt like he could conquer the world. He has been replaced by a slightly overweight, gimpy adult who is still far too competitive for his own good. I’m not in that bad of shape, it’s just that I’m not an athletic kid with boundless energy anymore either. Now, when I play sports, I have one of two options – I can either stretch and warm up for the better part of two hours in advance, or I can jump right in and not be able to walk upright for a couple of days afterwards. You would think I would just move on to bowling or shuffleboard or something easier, but letting go of my youthful athleticism has proven to be somewhat difficult.

I guess it’s just part of getting older. However you want to describe it, becoming middle-aged is a far cry from the glory days of beating Jimbo Brophy on the playground.

Recently, I was traveling with some friends – all roughly the same age, all dealing with the same issues of fading youth – when the conversation turned to broad jumping. I am not sure how we ended up talking about the standing broad jump, but somehow, in the course of casual conversation, the confident, little kid who beat Jimbo showed up.

“I could easily do a standing broad jump of 7 or 8 feet”, I stated with a somewhat inappropriate amount of confidence. I use the term “inappropriate” because as I made my claim, it dawned on me that it had been at least 20 years since my last standing broad jump, and I didn’t even remember if I was good at it way back then.

My friends, all of whom were male, proceeded to challenge my belief in a variety of quite unflattering ways. On the one hand, I wasn’t surprised because this is how guys tend to operate. Physiologically, I think we are incapable of being warm and supportive to one another. Particularly with good friends. In fact, the better the friendship, the higher the degree of taunting, name calling and physical punishment. This was, after all, the same group of friends who responded with “She’s too good for you”, “I give it 6 months”, and “What, did she lose a bet?” when I shared the exciting news that Andrea and I were engaged.

No, I wasn’t surprised by their lack of support, but I must admit, I found the sincerity of their disbelief somewhat troubling. This was not the normal “you’re crazy Grandpa” followed with a quick punch to the kidney. Their doubt was more of an authentic, “you are woefully mistaken old friend”. My confidence was shaken, but I refused to budge. After all, how hard could it possibly be to stand and jump? They made it abundantly clear that they felt, on my best day, I might – might – be able to jump 6 feet. Tired of the conversation, or at least tired of me droning on about how athletic I was in elementary school, they concluded the debate by reminding me of my age, and suggesting that I leave the jumping to the kids.

Ego bruised, I mentioned the broad jump debate to Andrea the following day. Admittedly, I was fishing for support, but I was sure she would concur with my belief. When I told her that the guys thought I was crazy when I said I could jump 7 or 8 feet, I was confident that the look of disgust on my face would be a clear indication of what I felt her response should be. I was wrong.

“I love you, but you’d be lucky to make it 6 feet”.

I was stunned. There was nothing hurtful or judgmental in her tone, she was just stating the facts in as loving and supportive a way as possible. I responded – perhaps a tad defensively – by letting her know that she was talking about a former Presidential Fitness Award winner, not just some slob off the street.

She lovingly reminded me that the award was from over 25 years ago.

Immediately, being able to broad jump over 6 feet became much more important in my life. It went from being a meaningless little side bet to a defining moment in my mid-life crisis. As I walked in silence, I began to question myself. I thought surely I could jump well over 6 feet, but what if I was wrong? 6 feet felt like such a short distance. What if I couldn’t? I felt like if I couldn’t, I was officially “old”, out of shape, and should give up my athletic endeavors. The doubters were definitely messing with my head.

By the time we returned home for the “big leap”, I was a bit of a mess. I was clinging to a quickly fading shred of self-confidence, but the barrage of sincere doubt from my support system had taken its toll. Privately, I tried a few jumps to test out my legs. Turns out that the standing broad jump is much more difficult than you would think. Particularly if you spend the majority of your waking hours sitting behind a desk, staring at a computer.

It was time for the official jump. With a healthy degree of skepticism, Andrea readied the tape measure. I did two quick knee bends, said a silent “you can do this” and, with the grace of a wounded water buffalo, flung myself into the air.

7 feet 5 inches.

I probably shouldn’t have been as excited as I was – I was fairly impossible to live with for the remainder of the day – but there was no denying how important this leap had become to me. In the beginning, I thought I was just another middle-aged guy having a cliché struggle with growing old, but the reality is that it wasn’t about that. Well, not entirely about that.

For me, what it was really about was believing in myself. Somehow, in the process of debating my standing long jumping abilities, I had inadvertently reconnected to a part of myself that really believes in me. A part that knew I could succeed, regardless of what anyone else said. Sure, the jump – did I mention it was well over 7 feet? – was just a trivial thing, but to me it represented more. In my life, I often allow myself to be limited by what others think or feel about me. Many times I even let what others think about me shape the way that I feel about myself. If I had done that in the 4th grade, there is no way I would have beaten Jimbo Brophy. And I most certainly wouldn’t have earned the Standing Broad Jump Champion trophy I recently ordered for our mantel if I had done it this time.

My son Tyler takes after me quite a bit. Sometimes that is a good thing. Sometimes, not so good. One of the traits that he picked up from me (and his mom) is his patience. Or more appropriately, his lack there of. Like his parents, when Tyler gets excited about something, it is pretty much all he can think about. And talk about. And dream about. Case in point – the Nintendo Wii.

Tyler first became aware of the wonderful world of Wii while visiting his cousins in Houston. To Tyler, no one is cooler than his cousins, and nothing is more fun than playing with their toys.

It just so happens that going to his cousins is like going to Disneyland – even I get excited when we get to go play at their house – so I can only imagine how much fun it is for a 5 year old boy.

On one of our visits, Tyler had his first Wii experience, and it was love at first sight. For days, all he could talk about was how Mario did this and Luigi was super fast at that. As a family, we weren’t ready to join the Wii club just yet – I think Andrea was worried about the potentially dangerous combination of video games and my obsessive-compulsive behavior. Over time, a few of Tyler’s friends started getting them and he was able to play his favorite video games more frequently. It was also at this time, that he instituted his Chinese water torture strategy.

Roughly 13,276 times each day, Tyler would very sweetly ask if he could get a Wii. Genetically speaking, poor Tyler has two strikes against him with respect to impatience, so we tried to handle his endless requests with care and diplomacy. It wasn’t easy.

As much as I also wanted a Wii – let’s face it, I was as excited as he was – I always try to make sure that my kids aren’t spoiled. I didn’t grow up with a lot, so sometimes I can be a little overdramatic with the “when I was a kid I walked uphill both ways to school” stories. It is important to me that they know the value of a dollar and appreciate how fortunate they are, but I definitely overdo it sometimes. There’s a fine line between constantly lecturing a toddler about the economic realities of life, and giving them a toy when they want one. At least I have been told there is one. Most of the time I err on the side of the economics lecture. Kailey looks at me like I am crazy when I start droning on about how much harder life was when I was her age.

Realizing that Tyler was not physiologically capable of stopping his quest for a Wii, Andrea and I decided to embrace the situation as an educational opportunity. With Tyler, we decided that if he really wanted a Wii, he could buy one with his own money. If he didn’t have enough in his piggy bank, he could start doing chores around the house to earn money to finally buy his Wii. Tyler was excited and started working right away. Andrea and I were pretty proud of ourselves. We felt like even Super Nanny would be proud of us. I was particularly excited about teaching Tyler the value of working hard, experiencing the satisfaction of achieving a goal, and understanding the value of a dollar. Plus, I could finally play a Wii!

Over the course of about a month, Tyler earned enough money to buy a Wii. I had planned on this exercise being a longer term sacrifice for him, but apparently he is quite the little saver. Either that or he is working nights and weekends without our knowledge, because when he opened his piggy bank on day 1 of Operation Wii, he had almost $160. We are thinking about asking him to take over the management of our finances, but we will most likely wait until after he graduates from kindergarten.

To earn the rest, he helped out around the house, did his chores, vacuumed,

you name it and he was all over it. He turned out to be quite the little fundraiser as well. He talked his sister and his grandparents into donating to the cause, and he would have had his friends on board as well had we not stopped his impromptu fundraising rally on the playground. Every quarter he earned was immediately counted, stacked and inventoried with the rest of the money. It was quite a production.

Eventually, he had earned and saved enough money, and he was able to buy his Wii.

He loves his Wii. Except for the fact that I can not beat him at boxing or Mario Kart, I love it too. He is only 5, so I don’t want to fool myself into thinking he totally understands the value of a dollar, but it was great to see him set a goal, work hard for it, and enjoy the results of his hard work.

As I watched him playing it the other day, it reminded me of a similar experience I had when I was a kid.

I was around 13 years old, and on a family shopping trip to Montgomery Wards, I happened across the coolest thing ever. It was a personal, portable television, and to me it was fantastic. Every fiber of my being told me that I must have that TV. The fact that it was black and white, and the screen was maybe like three inches wide did not deter me. For some reason, I had to have it. Unfortunately, it cost around $75, and given my family’s financial situation, $75 might as well have been $100,000. We just didn’t have that kind of money. Especially not for a tiny, portable, black and white television.

As I stared at the TV, I couldn’t help but daydream about how great it would be to watch it in my room, in the car (it even had a plug for the cigarette lighter), in a park, anywhere my heart desired. As I think back, I honestly am not sure exactly why I wanted it so badly. I don’t know if I wanted it because I just really loved television, or if I wanted it because my parents told me it as a bad idea. I imagine that, being a teen, it was probably a little of both.

Just like Tyler and his Wii, if I wanted that television I was going to have to pay for it myself. Easier said than done. We lived in the middle of nowhere, so mowing the neighbor’s yards or washing cars wasn’t really an option. Our nearest neighbors were about a mile away. My only real source of income was a couple of dollars a week for allowance. Needless to say, I worked my buns off for almost 6 months to save the money for that TV. It was all I thought about. I hoarded every spare penny I could find. Over and over, I counted my money hoping that it had somehow magically grown overnight. I was so excited when I finally had enough.

In my mind, that little TV became a much bigger deal than just a tiny, black and white television. At the time, we didn’t have a lot of nice things. The idea of having my own TV, regardless of how little it was, meant more to me than it should have. It was the ultimate status symbol for a kid who was tired of being poor. Selfishly, I didn’t think about how hard it must have been trying to raise a family in financially difficult times, I was just tired of having second hand stuff and knock-off brands. That little TV was my chance to have something brand new, something expensive. Repeatedly, my mom told me that buying that TV was a mistake, but I had worked so hard. I was going to show them that I was smart enough to make my own decisions. I knew best.

So I bought that little black and white television with my hard earned money, and proudly held it in my lap the entire drive home. Once home, I announced that if anyone needed me, I would be watching television in my room. I felt like a Rockefeller. For about 7 minutes.

Turns out it is virtually impossible to get a television signal in the middle of nowhere with an 18 inch antenna. I never actually got to see a clear picture on it. Not once. Six months of hard work down the drain. It was horrible. I felt horrible. I had poured everything I had into that little TV, and ended up with nothing more than an incredibly expensive paper weight. As far as paper weights go, it was definitely top of the line, but it sure would have been nice to get a clear picture on it at least once. For a couple of months I would occasionally watch static on the little screen rather than admit that it had been a bad idea. At least my parents never said “I told you so”.

I am by no means miserly, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t probably too “overly value conscious”. To a certain extent, I might still be overreacting to my little black and white television fiasco. Once bitten, twice shy I guess. Like all the other areas of my life, I am working on trying to achieve better balance, even in financial matters. There is a time for saving – for remembering the lessons of my little TV and responsibly saving for the future – but there is also a time for enjoying some of our hard earned money. To me, the key has been remembering not to turn material possessions into more than they are. At the end of the day, it’s just stuff. A TV is just a TV (or a really nice paperweight) and a Wii is just a Wii. It could all be gone tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Of course, it would be hard to end my Wii career without beating Tyler at least once at Mario Kart, but I think I would survive.