9/11 was the closest thing my generation has experienced to the JFK assassination

Today marks 61 years since President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed in Dallas. Every year on this day I go back and read old news accounts of the assassination, and I watch Walter Cronkite's coverage of the event, including his emotional confirmation that the President had died.

It would be six more years before I was even born, so I of course did not experience JFK's death firsthand. But I've heard enough about it from my parents and siblings to get a sense of just how shocked the nation really was.

My brother Mark tells a story of having to play outside by himself later that week because so many families were keeping their kids inside, apparently as part of some unspoken, quiet and respectful mourning process.

Talk to any American who was a child on Friday, November 22, 1963, and they will likely have a story of being in school when the news broke. For many, it was the first and only time they saw their teachers show emotion, let alone cry.

The only point of reference I have as a Gen Xer is September 11, 2001, though I wasn't in school at the time but rather a 31-year-old father of four toiling away at my job in marketing communications at the Cleveland Clinic Children's Hospital for Rehabilitation.

One of the nurses came running down the hall past our office that morning saying, "They bombed the Pentagon!" While that wasn't strictly true, it did get my co-worker Heidi and I to turn on the TV to find out what had happened.

The first of the two World Trade Center towers had already come down, and we watched live as the second one fell, shockingly and unexpectedly.

Then we heard about the plane crashing into the Pentagon. That was quickly followed by rumors that another hijacked plane was flying near or above Cleveland, prompting the Clinic to shut down and send us all home.

That night our family attended a prayer service at church, then we waited in a long line at a Shell gas station amid speculation that the price of gas was going to spike above $5.00 the next day (it never did).

The parallels between JFK's assassination and 9/11 are somewhat obvious. In both cases, if felt like the world had changed forever.

But I get the sense that JFK's death was a bigger collective shock. Kennedy's election had brought a fresh new spirit to the United States. The aura of "Camelot" made him and his family objects of adulation by millions.

There hadn't been a presidential assassination in 62 years, since William McKinley was gunned down in Buffalo in 1901. There was no template for people on how they should react, how they should mourn, how they should speak.

Not that 9/11 wasn't horrifyingly unique in its own right. But we had been dealing with lower-level terrorist attacks for many years, both inside and outside of our borders. It was horrible, but it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Not that it matters either way. Both events are seared into the brains of those who experienced them, and few will ever forget where they were and what they were doing when they got the news.

It's not the kind of thing you ever want to carry with you, but if you were there, there's simply no getting around it.

BLOG RERUN: One unfortunate side effect of full-time work is feeling disconnected from the day-to-day reality of your home

True to form, the AI Blog Post Image Generator created this surrealistic tableau when I prompted it with the phrase "busy household." Yet somehow I think it fits.

(I originally posted this on November 27, 2015. It still rings true.)

We are a single-income family. I go to work five (sometimes six) days a week, while my wife Terry stays home and runs the house. This is no small feat, considering that seven of us live there, but she does it well.

Or at least I assume she does it well, because I am rarely a witness to the daily operations of our household. I leave for work at 7 a.m. and am usually not home until somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m. In between, there's a whole bunch of stuff that happens without any input from me whatsoever.

Well, except the money. The money I earn funds the operation. But that's OK because I like it that way. As I always say, I am in charge of Accounts Receivable. My wife – who pays the bills and manages monetary outlays – has complete jurisdiction over Accounts Payable. This system works for me.

But on those days when I happen to be off or working from home, I get a glimpse into how one goes about helping to manage the lives of two college students, two high schoolers and a middle schooler. Terry is constantly running to and fro, packing lunches, helping with homework, reminding kids to do this assignment or practice that piece of music for band.

She spends much of her days driving to various schools to drop off forgotten soccer socks and misplaced trumpets. She runs errands and cleans the house. She serves as the Uniform Mom for the high school band, a never-ending job that requires gobs and gobs of hours and effort. 

She goes to daytime school events, emails teachers when there are issues to be addressed, and takes kids to various doctor and dentist appointments.

It's like this day after day after day after day.

And all the while I get only a glimpse into it. I hear about what's going on through hurried texts and quick afternoon check-in phone calls.

A typical conversation between Terry and me goes like this:

ME: So how was your day?

TERRY: <proceeds to rattle off 147 different things she did involving the kids>

ME: You did all that? Today?

TERRY: Yes.

ME: This Melanie person you mention. That's our ninth-grader, right?

And so on.

Don't get me wrong, this approach to life is a good one for us. Or at least it is for me, as I'm not the one having to serve as cook, maid, chauffeur and administrative assistant for six other people with crazy schedules. But I think Terry is OK with it, too.

It's just that all of these things happen without my knowing it, which makes me feel a bit disconnected from the reality. It's as if the family lives a separate life that I get to participate in for only a few short hours every night and on weekends.

Speaking of my family, if you see them, tell them I said hello. I miss them. And I'm fairly sure I know all of their names, too.

The chick magnet that was my 1984 velcro Men at Work wallet

 

My first wallet was very much like the one pictured above: an all-fabric, velcro-closing affair with the logo of the Australian band Men at Work prominently displayed on one side.

While Men at Work were a very, very big band in, say, the 1982-85 range, they were never a cool band in any sense. Nor, it must be said, were Velcro wallets ever particularly fashionable.

That wallet was an undeniable (almost defiant) confirmation of my dorkiness.

Yet I loved it. I really did.

Besides the fact that it touted my favorite musical group, it also suggested I was grown-up enough to need a wallet. Which, in fairness, I probably did. I would usually have a few bucks to put in it, thanks in part to my dad's continued generosity and in part to my job as a dishwasher at Tizzano's Restaurant.

That job, my first, paid $2.50 an hour. All under the table. Oh, and the owner of the restaurant, Mike, would make you anything you wanted to eat during your breaks.

I didn't have credit cards at the time, of course. And by the time I got my driver's license in November 1985, I had ditched the Men at Work wallet for something in plain black faux leather (i.e., the kind of folding wallet I still carry around today).

So my Velcro treasure keeper was never especially full.

But it was mine, and it told the world about my favorite band, which was good enough for me.

By the way, I took the image at the top of today's post from eBay, where as of this writing you had two choices if you wanted to buy your own vintage Men at Work Velcro wallet. One was going for a reasonable $19.95, while the other was priced at a somewhat overblown $49.96.

All of which goes to show that you can buy absolutely anything on the Internet...even if, by any standard of good judgment, you probably shouldn't.

Smaller pets are eternally babies, even when they're getting on in years

 

The feline in the photo above is Ginny, the oldest of our three cats and also – by a considerable margin – the smallest in stature.

Ginny (named after Ginny Weasley from the Harry Potter series) joined our family nine years ago this month. According to one online source I found, this makes her about 52 in human years.

Not a senior citizen, by any means, but a lot closer to old-cathood than she is to kittenhood.

Yet I still often think of Ginny as our youngest simply because she's so small. She just seems very kitten-like.

By the way, it's commonly thought that calico cats like Ginny are smaller than other cats simply by reason of being calicos. That's not true, though. It turns out calicos can range from small to large. The reason calicos tend to be smaller is that 99.9% of them are females, and female cats are naturally smaller than males.

Whatever the reason, Ginny will seem forever young any time she is near her two siblings: fat floofy Molly and svelte-yet-undeniably-masculine Cheddar.

When those three are physically close to one another (which isn't often, given their mutual distrust), Ginny always looks like the little kid tagging along with the big kids.

We are in a period of relatively good cat health in our house right now. We lost three of our kitties in one 16-month period between February 2022 and June 2023, so it's nice to have everyone looking and feeling good, especially when I realize how much we pay in vet bills when they're not looking or feeling good.

Still, whenever I see Ginny and realize she's going to be a decade old next fall, I remember what it's like when they start going downhill.

Not at all fun.

Which is why I choose to continue fooling myself and believing Ginny is in fact a kitten who will live forever.

It's better that way.

That smell when you first turn on the heat in your house

We've reached the point on the calendar (at least here in Northeast Ohio) when our long-dormant furnaces have come to life in order to keep our homes feeling somewhere between "livable" and "inferno," depending on your personal temperature preference.

It should be noted, though, that as I type these words in early October, this has not yet happened. However, I imagine that by now your furnace has awakened and, as you read this, is now working around the clock to keep you comfortable.

Which means that, at some point recently, you likely experienced the "Smell When You First Turn on the Furnace."

My fellow Clevelanders and those living in similar climates know what I mean. When you haven't used your furnace in months then switch it back on, there's often a certain smell that permeates the house while everything heats up for the first time.

Scientifically, at least from what I've read, this smell is nothing more than several months' worth of dust and dirt accumulation in the furnace and ductwork burning off.

Emotionally, though, it has a very specific meaning.

It means that summer – even of the Indian variety – is officially dead and buried.

It means Thanksgiving is right around the corner, to be followed startlingly soon after by Christmas and New Year's Day.

It means the long, cold, gray slog toward spring has commenced, and there's no turning back now.

That smell is the passage of time.

It is, like all distinctive smells, associated with a very specific situation. It is the smell of mid-November, and it carries more weight and meaning than you may have realized.

Or it's just the dead mouse that got into your furnace in July finally being cremated.

Either way, it's going to be a while before you can take a dip in your backyard pool.

Buckle up and enjoy the ride.

On this Veterans Day, I hope you'll take a minute to read about my Uncle Dan

Several weeks ago we lost my Uncle Dan. He was 99 years old and the last of many aunts and uncles from both sides of our family. His was, by all accounts, a life extremely well lived.

Uncle Dan was a veteran, so I thought today was an appropriate time to share both the photo above and my cousin Donna's tribute to her father, which was so well done.

Before I let Donna tell that story, though, here is a quick summary of Uncle Dan's military service from his obituary, which published over the weekend in the Houston Chronicle: "He enlisted in 1943, serving with the U.S. Army's Anti-Aircraft Artillery in WWII. He trained with the U.S. Air Corps, but later was transferred to the Army Signal Corps...During the Korean Conflict, Dan served as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force."

I'll let Donna take it from here. She posted the following on Facebook on October 6:

I am sad to share that my father, Dan Tennant, left us on October 2. He fell on August 24, had a partial hip replacement the next day, and ten days later went to rehab despite an infection they couldn’t diagnose. Dad did well for about ten days, then began complaining about pain in his abdomen. We went back to the hospital, where a CT scan revealed issues with a previous hernia surgery, as well as a bacterial infection. It was downhill from there. 

On September 30, Dad returned to his beloved Parkway place, where he was cared for by the many people who loved him, including his caregivers Jasmen and Cici. There was a steady stream of visitors in those final days. There were the many friends he had made since moving to Parkway after my mom passed away five years ago. There were current Parkway employees and past employees who came back to see him. There were flowers, balloons, and many, many cards. There were prayers and tears and laughter. 

Dad would have been 100 years old on January 1, 2025, and we were already planning the celebration. At 99, he was still driving (a little) to get groceries and a haircut. He became quite a good cook after my mother got dementia. He had always made waffles for his beloved grandson, Daniel, but now he was making cherry and apple pies from scratch, meatloaf, chili, soup, etouffee, and much more. He loved the exercise classes at Parkway and did his time nearly every day on the NuStep machine while reading large-print books. He enjoyed chair volleyball, called bingo, hosted happy hour with margaritas, and played bridge (the ladies told me he was the best bridge player at Parkway by far). He walked everywhere with his walker until he finally bought a used scooter. He liked it so much that he got the VA to buy him a shiny new red one. 

Dad loved his family dearly, as well as his seven brothers, who preceded him in death. He took care of our mom until she passed, and five weeks later, he moved to Parkway Place. My sister and dear friend Nancy have been with me this past week as we began sorting through his belongings, and we were constantly being told what a special, amazing man my father was. One lady who was visiting her Godmother made a point of telling me that he could remember everyone’s name. His door was always open, and I have been told how everyone is sad now that it is closed. Dad was a Parkway “ambassador,” welcoming the new residents and helping them get settled. 

Dad retired from Tenneco at 62 and bought a camper so that he and my mother could travel the U.S., visiting friends and relatives, playing different golf courses, and visiting national and state parks. Dad could fix anything my two sisters and I brought him. He was an excellent golfer, and he always told us that “it never rains on the golf course.” My mother took up golf in her 50s so she could spend more time with him. After he finally gave it up, he would watch it on TV. He loved football, especially the Steelers, and he liked the Astros, of course. Over the years, Dad worked thousands of crossword puzzles, and he always had a nice car. 

My sisters and I are so grateful for all the expressions of love and sympathy. I could go on and on, but I guess that is enough for now. Dad was part of the greatest generation, and we will miss him terribly. He was indeed one of a kind.

One good thing about social media is that you can find your tribe(s) more easily than ever

For all the bad that social media has wrought in our society – and man, there is a lot of it – one area in which it seems to have fulfilled its potential is connecting us with our personal communities.

The Internet is really good at helping us find people with common interests, hobbies, jobs or otherwise defining characteristics.

Whatever you're into, you can bet there are a lot of other people who are into it, as well. Whether it's stamp collecting, gardening, genealogy, crafting, travel, the music of John Denver, or even something as self-damaging as rooting for the Cleveland Browns, it's simple to find folks who occupy (or want to occupy) the same niche as you.

I am, for example, a member of two Facebook groups for sports public address announcers. We share our experiences, seek and offer advice on sound gear, complain about team rosters not being listed in numerical jersey order (a cardinal sin that all coaches and athletic directors should avoid), and even debate the pronunciation of words such as the "libero" in volleyball.

For the record, I use the common American pronunciation of that word: li-BEAR-oh. But there are many who adhere to the European pronunciation: LEE-bear-oh. I love and respect these fellow announcers, so it pains me to have to inform them how wrong they are.

The point is, while social media has created or exacerbated real societal issues, it's at least good at helping us find others with whom we share something in common.

That's not to say this didn't happen in the pre-Internet age. Not at all. Hobbyists have been meeting together for centuries in clubs and societies.

But it was a little more difficult back then to seek out the members of your tribe. You had to reach each other through some common and non-electronic means of communication, whether it was an ad in a newspaper or magazine, or a notice pinned to the bulletin board at the public library.

It happened, but it didn't happen nearly as efficiently and rarely at the same scale it happens today.

The next time you complain about these kids and their damn phones, understand that sometimes, those phones are their only connection to people who "get" them.

Even if getting them involves wearing brown and orange on fall Sundays and supporting the Browns...something I can say from years of personal experience you should never do.

It's already to the point that I can't clearly remember when the kids all lived at home

I used to live with all of these people. Just don't ask me about the details.

It's not like Terry and I are 80 years old or anything. We're not even officially empty nesters yet.

But to my surprise, I have trouble remembering the days when all seven members of our family lived together at 30025 Miller Avenue. The last time it happened, I think, was 2015. Maybe 2016.

Which for the math-impaired isn't even a decade ago.

Yet things get blurry when I try to recall what the mornings were like, or how we all squeezed in around the kitchen table for dinner. I was at work quite a bit of the time, of course, but I was there enough that I should be clearer on the details.

What I do remember is general chaos most of the time. Sports, band, church activities, movie nights, sleepovers, vacations. It was great, but it has all run together in my increasingly addled mind.

It's the small-but-important details that have escaped my brain. Who slept in which room? Who left the house first in the morning? At what age did they start spending more time with their friends than with us? Were Terry and I the only ones who woke up for late-night infant feedings, or did the newborns also awaken their siblings?

It's all a jumbled mass that has separated itself into two broad periods of time: the years when Elissa, Chloe, Jared and Melanie lived with us (1994 to 2022) and the years when it has just been Terry, Jack and me in the house (2022 to the present).

The particulars are increasingly fuzzy.

Naturally, this effect is most pronounced with my 30-year-old daughter Elissa. I know she lived with us for the first 20 or so years of her life, and I remember many individual moments and milestones, but the day to day is indistinct.

What did she eat for breakfast? How often did she hang out in the living room and talk with us? Where did she do her homework?

You got me. I was there, but I just can't recall much of it.

I would feel much better if other middle-aged parents consoled me with tales of their own kid-related amnesia. Otherwise, I can only conclude that my cognitive decline is accelerating and I am that much closer to being a drooling mess who can't even remember yesterday, let alone 10 years ago.

I go to the gym to experience regular doses of misery...and that's OK

I'm not sure "misery" is even the right word, but there's no doubt my most productive gym workouts involve bursts of discomfort.

Like, for example, leg days often include walking lunges. I carry a dumbbell in each hand and take elongated steps from one end of the gym to the other, then I turn around and lunge my way back to where I started.

If done correctly, this exercise makes my hamstrings, quadriceps and calves burn. And my legs invariably feel like jelly for some time after I finish.

But then I do another set. And another. And usually another.

The same holds true for any exercise. When it comes to strength training, if you can comfortably perform a particular movement, you either need to add more resistance or more repetitions to make it more challenging.

Or both.

While I am in no way a workout veteran (I'm still adapting from being a runner/walker to being primarily a lifter), I have learned to "embrace the suck," as someone put it.

In other words, there not only have to be times when you say to yourself, "Man, this is no fun at all," you also have to figure out how to enjoy that feeling.

I'm getting better and better at it.

I go to the gym five times a week. Two of those sessions are done under the supervision of my trainer Kirk, while the other three are entirely on my own.

It never fully escapes my notice during those solo sessions that, should I choose to put down the weights and walk out of the gym at any point mid-workout, no one would stop me. Nor would/should anyone even notice or care.

I am 100% responsible for my own motivation and for pushing myself to muscle failure, which is the point where you really benefit physically from weightlifting.

While I've never actually quit in the middle of a workout, early on I found myself backing off effort-wise when things got tough. I might do fewer repetitions than prescribed, or I might ignore proper form in favor of just getting the weight into the air.

But as I've built physical strength these past 5+ months, I've also built mental strength. I continue to need Kirk to set my workouts and ensure I'm performing exercises correctly, but I don't need him there in person for my one-man workouts to be beneficial.

I am slowly learning to embrace the suck, a point I never thought I would reach.

The application to life outside of the gym is readily apparent. Whatever you do, the only way to get better is to apply yourself in a way that's not always going to be enjoyable. "No pain, no gain" has some truth to it, though it doesn't necessarily have to hurt.

It just needs to be uncomfortable for you. Sometimes very uncomfortable.

I find myself these days with more muscle on my frame than I ever had (or thought I had) when I played football as a high schooler, but the real benefit for me to this point has been mental.

I just wish it hadn't taken me more than a half-century to learn.

I can drive 55, but can I live it?

By way of context today, kids, you should know that for a time in the 1970s and 80s, the maximum speed limit on our nation's highways was a uniform 55 miles per hour. And it felt every bit as slow as it sounds.

In 1984, a guy named Sammy Hagar released a song called "I Can't Drive 55," supposedly in response to having received a ticket for going 62mph in a 55 zone.

The gist of the song was, "Go ahead and give me a ticket or throw me in jail or whatever you want to do, but I can't stop myself from going faster than 55."

I don't drive as fast now as I once did, which I attribute to getting a little older and hopefully a bit wiser.

Speaking of getting a little older, we arrive at the point of the post, which is this: Tomorrow I turn 55 years old.

This is not an especially momentous occasion for anyone, least of all me. I'm not a huge birthday guy to begin with, though I do enjoy hearing from my kids and other family and friends wishing me well, making fun of my advancing years, and generally touching base in the course of their otherwise busy days.

This just happens to be one of those birthdays that has some significance to it. When the second digit of your age is a '5,' it means you're halfway between age milestones. In my case, I'm five years from having turned 50 and five years away from a number that sounds particularly imposing: 60.

I don't know why I think this way, though. Those who are 60-plus in my immediate family (my sister Debbie, my brother Mark, my sister-in-law Chris) are all energetic and youthful and fun. They look and act nothing like 60 seemed to me when I was a teenager.

There is evidently much truth to the idea of age just being a number.

Still, I remember clearly when my dad turned 55 in 1984. Despite having always had gray/white hair since I was a baby, it was the first time I thought to myself, "Oh man, he's getting OLD. This is a little scary."

I don't feel that way now, though of course none of us feels a certain age is "old" once we ourselves approach it.

You get to a point where "old person" just means, "anybody older than me."

I think I'm going to go with that approach for now.

In the meantime, while I do drive faster than 55, I'm still sticking to the right two lanes along with all the other geezers. You reckless whippersnappers can feel free to blow past us in the finest Sammy Hagar tradition.

I'm very proud to welcome my son Jack as the only other member of The 5:30am Club in our house

I've mentioned here more than once that I'm an early riser. Not as early as some people I know, but most days (even weekends) I'm out of bed somewhere between 5:00 and 5:30 in the morning.

This has been especially true since I started going to the gym five days a week. Getting out the door well before the sun rises means having your pick of weight machines, dumbbells and workout spaces.

I have been the first one awake in our house almost every day for the last 25+ years. Even when all five kids lived with us, my feet were consistently first to hit the floor every morning.

Now, however, I have a buddy who joins me in this ritual of early rising. It's my 18-year-old son Jack, who I can count on seeing Monday through Friday right around 5:30am.

The reason is that Jack is working his first full-time job. He is an Animal Husbandry Technician at Cleveland's Case Western Reserve University, and his hours are weekdays 6:30am to 2:30pm.

The semi-fancy title simply means that Jack cleans out cages and does related chores within the university's animal research lab. My brother Mark worked many years at Case as an IT guy, but he also pitched in and did Jack's current job a few times himself when Covid hit in 2020 and the lab folks were scrambling to cover certain roles.

As in any job with an early start time, the advantage is that Jack is home mid-afternoon and has the rest of the day to himself. Another perk (besides making more money than he ever has) is that, if he chooses, he can take classes at Case for free.

This is no small benefit. Case Western Reserve is a very prestigious – and very expensive – university. I was offered a job there in 2013 and came this close to accepting it despite a significant salary cut, simply because it could have meant free college for my kids.

I'm very proud of the way Jack has adjusted his life and his routine to accommodate this new job. He works hard at it, as evidenced by the fact that nearly every day I receive a notification on my Apple Watch that Jack has already closed his movement, exercise and standing "rings."

It's a pretty physically demanding gig.

So, whereas I used to be alone for the first 1-2 hours of each day, now Jack and I meet up early while Terry is (smartly) still sleeping. We talk a bit when he comes downstairs to make his coffee and get his stuff together.

I facilitate the coffee-making by turning on the electric kettle so the water will be boiling by the time Jack comes down. It's the least I can do for my fellow 5:30am Club member.

After all, we're a very exclusive group.

I have so many questions about this man's cribbage-based approach to attracting women

 

I have a cribbage app on my iPhone that I play from time to time.

(In referencing "cribbage," I'm assuming you're at least passingly familiar with the game, which in the "real" world is played with a deck of cards and a small board with holes around which you move colored pegs.)

One of the features of this app (Cribbage Pro) is that you can play live games against real people.

Or at least I assume they're real people. Either that or it has been a long series of matches between me and very human-like bots since I started playing the app in 2016.

I do think they're actual people, though. If I have a few minutes free, sometimes I'll take out my iPhone and see who's online and looking to play a quick round of crib.

When you make yourself available to play, you have the option of naming your game. My game is usually called "Fast please" because, as you might gather, I'm looking for opponents who play the game quickly like I do, rather than dawdle over their cards endlessly like they're trying to solve world hunger.

Occasionally I will join someone else's game, especially if it's clear they're going to be a fast player.

Recently as I've perused the list of available cribbage games on the app, I have repeatedly come across the gentleman pictured above. His game is always named "Hot ladies plz ;)"

When I fire up Cribbage Pro, I'm just looking for a few minutes of gaming enjoyment, win or lose. When this guy does it, he's apparently looking for love.

I have so many questions I almost don't know where to start, but here are a few:

• First, is he serious? That is, is he really looking for women, or does the little winky face suggest he's just being a cheeky little rapscallion with no intention of actually hitting on female cribbage players?
  
  
• If he is serious, what then does he expect to happen? As you can see above, he has enabled the chat feature on his game, so is he assuming that, instead of studying her cards, a hot lady will instead engage in some sort of dirty online chat with him?
  
  
• Taking this a step further, is it his contention that he can, simply through the force of what are undoubtedly his witty, typed-out bons mots, convince a woman to meet up with him for, say, dinner and whatever I shudder to think would come next?
  
  
• Is he convinced that his profile picture – featuring him in what appears to be a polo, sunglasses and some sort of headgear...possibly a visor – is enough to drive any straight woman wild with desire? (If this is your opinion, sir, while I cannot count myself an expert on female psychology, I respectfully submit that your profile pic alone isn't going to do the trick.)
  
  
• Is it possible I'm underestimating his chances at success? Does the world's hot lady population have a surprising penchant for cribbage, and particularly an attraction to the doughy guys who play it? Maybe there are way more hot ladies on Cribbage Pro than I realize. I certainly haven't noticed them, though, as I'm too busy squinting at the tiny cards on my phone screen and thinking how I may need a pair of bifocals.
  
  

It would make me feel so much better to find out this guy is just a fun-loving dad who names his cribbage game "Hot ladies plz ;)" with tongue planted firmly in cheek (and nowhere else). And that his wife knows he does this and just rolls her eyes at him, causing him to laugh and think to himself, "Mission accomplished."

That, at least, would be a man I could relate to.

As it is, though, I can only wonder how many hot ladies he has attracted. My rough guess is zero, but then I don't claim to understand the ways of cribbage-based romance.

Time to put away the yard stuff, which if I'm being honest is OK by me

An empty yard...my favorite kind

This is about the time of year when Terry, Jack and I gather up the summer stuff around our yard and put it into storage in (and above) our garage.

While this isn't the most fun of chores, it's also one that doesn't faze me unduly. I can take or leave all of the outdoorsy activities that many of my fellow North Coasters immediately dive into once things warm up in May or June.

It's not that I don't like being outside. It's just that, when it's 80- or 90-some degrees around here, I would rather be in my air-conditioned living room than sitting on my deck.

Speaking of that deck, I mentioned here a couple of months ago that we got a new one. It's pretty nice. When we had Chloe's PhD celebration party at our house in September, several people made a point of complimenting us on it.

Yet you very likely won't catch me sitting on the deck other than for occasional outdoor dinners and the even more occasional family movie night where we project a movie onto my father-in-law's old slide screen.

I very willingly worked to help pay for it, but the deck is more a Terry and Jack thing than it is for me.

Same for our backyard fire pit. If my housemates want to go out and have a fire in the summer, I'll do it. But I almost never initiate the idea.

You could also put a hammock in our backyard and I would seldom use it, if ever.

As a Gen Xer, I spent a lot more time outside when I was growing up than my kids did. But that experience has not translated into adulthood. I just...well, I'm not an outdoorsman in any real sense of the word.

I don't even run outside anymore. I do all of my exercising at the gym.

My kids are uniformly bitter that, when they were little, I would never consent to getting a trampoline or a pool. The truth was, I didn't want to mow around the trampoline, and I didn't want to have to take care of the pool. 

Those aren't the best reasons, admittedly, but I'm just being honest with you.

My daughter Melanie will tell you that I "hate luxury and joy." She said those words to me a couple of months ago, and she was only half-kidding.

Maybe one quarter kidding.

I would counter that I very much embrace luxury when it's offered to me. And I'm as joyful as the next guy.

It's just that I prefer the kind of luxury and joy that comes with a roof over my head and a functioning HVAC system.

Ask yourself, is that so wrong?

(I'll be in the living room if you want to come and explain your answer.)

Those three months when the kids' ages are easy to remember

Me trying to compute the exact ages of my children

I call August through October "birthday season" in our family, as three of our kids were born in this time frame.

It starts with Jared on August 5th, continues with Melanie on September 21st, and culminates today with the anniversary of Chloe's birth.

In addition to Chloe being a person worth celebrating, I also like getting to October 23rd because it means that, from now until late January, all of the kids' ages are either even or odd and thus easy to remember.

Today, for example, Chloe turns 28. That matches nicely with Elissa (30), Jared (26), Melanie (24) and Jack (18).

Until Jack's birthday arrives on January 27th, I don't need to give much thought when someone asks me how old my children are. As long as I remember Elissa's age – and I always do – I can just step down in two-year increments through Melanie, then subtract another six years for our relatively late-in-life baby Jack.

Once Jack turns 19 in a few months, though, it all goes out the window. It will take me a few extra seconds to get all of the ages in order in my head, at least until we get back around to next year's birthday season.

Your kids reach their 20s and 30s and suddenly their exact ages are not only a little blurry, but in some sense a little less important, too. There's a lot more of a difference between, say a 10- and 12-year-old daughter than there is between a 26- and 28-year-old.

I think the same way about myself. I'll be 55 in 10 days. To me, 55 is pretty much as the same as 51, 52, 53 and 54 were, and probably essentially identical to 56, 57, 58 and 59.

Of course, by the time I get to 60, I'll probably start forgetting the kids' ages entirely, no matter what time of year it is. At that point, family birthday season won't mean much.

But for now? It's a life saver.

(And happy birthday to Dr. Chloe Edmonds!)

Family parties: Fun? Yes. Bone tiring? Also yes.

Once our youngest, Jack, finished high school, I figured Terry and I had thrown our last graduation party.

Then our daughter Chloe got her PhD and we (very happily) hosted a celebration for her with 70+ guests.

That's when I was reminded how much work goes into making one of these little soirees happen.

Most of the burden falls on my hero of a wife, who plans these things, does the cooking, directs set-up and clean-up, and basically makes the whole event fun for everyone involved.

I'm usually working to pay for the whole thing in the days leading up to these parties, but on P-Day, I go hard.

There are chairs and tables to carry outside. Garbage and recyclables to collect and throw away. Party supplies to bring down from above the garage and set up.

And dishes to wash. Lots and lots of dishes to wash.

Since I don't cook, it's mostly my job to ensure every pot, pan, plate, spoon and Tupperware container is washed, dried and put away.

This is fine in the hours leading up to the party as Terry preps the food, because I have energy then.

It's exhausting when the party is over and the sink is overflowing with items that need to be handwashed.

"Just leave them until the next day," you might say.

I can't. I just can't.

I cannot go to bed with dishes sitting in the sink. I'm simply incapable.

The price to be paid for this compulsion is having to scrub sauce-encrusted slow cookers and bowls of sticky, cold noodles when all I want is to take a shower and crawl into bed.

The menu for Chloe's party featured various pastas, sauces and meatballs. Terry had bleached our kitchen sink a sparkly white a few days before, but by the time my late-night handwashing spree was over, that sink was stained tomato red.

That's not to mention all of the garbage we collected and bagged after the guests had left, and the dozens of cans and bottles destined for the recycling truck that had to be rounded up and taken out.

The next day, Terry, Jack and I finished clean-up by bringing in the folding chairs and tables and emptying out the beverage coolers...all in the middle of an unusually hot and humid mid-September afternoon.

We were beat.

The thing is, though, for all the effort we put in before and after, the party itself was so much fun. It was great connecting with family and friends and meeting some of Chloe's grad school buddies.

We built a fire and roasted marshmallows. Our cornhole set got plenty of use. People clearly enjoyed coming together and celebrating my little Dr. Chloe Edmonds.

Speaking of whom, Chloe now plans to attend medical school. Once she graduates, I might suggest we bring everyone together to celebrate at the local Chuck E. Cheese.

Chuck and his animatronic band can do the cooking and cleaning for that party, as far as I'm concerned.

BLOG RERUN: Wait, is that brain surgeon in high school?

NOTE: This is our monthly Blog Rerun in which we bring back a post from years past. This particular one originally ran on March 30, 2012. For the record, and not at all surprisingly, the feeling I describe here has only intensified over the last 12 1/2 years...

You know when it hit me? When sports announcers started describing athletes who were my age as "old men" or "crusty veterans."

That's when I realized I wasn't 25 years old anymore and never would be again.

When you're growing up, most of the people you meet are older than you. That's all you know, and therefore it becomes your default world view: "I'm a young person."

There is no definite, defined time when you cross over from "young" to "middle aged" (or, in my kids' view, just plain "old"). You can't definitely say it happens at your 30th birthday or your 35th or your 50th or whatever. It just happens gradually and at different rates for everyone.

But at some point, you inevitably become not-so-young-anymore. And that's when you start to realize that many of the people in positions of authority seem to be 12 years old. Like police officers, for example. There apparently was a worldwide effort to install adolescents as police officers and no one bothered to tell me about it.

I look at the cops driving around my city and I want to say, "That's awfully nice they let you take the big police car out, Johnny, but you better get back and do your homework."

Same thing with doctors. I was under the impression that it took a certain minimum number of years of training to become a physician. Then I underwent a very male-oriented birth control procedure and my urologist looked like he was in grade school. Seriously, I couldn't figure out why they had assigned a sixth-grade intern to perform what I considered to be a very delicate procedure.

(For the record, Dr. Schneider was very good at his job. But that doesn't change the fact that once he finished with me, he probably went home to watch reruns of the "Power Rangers.")

It's the athlete thing that really blew me away, though. When I was a kid, professional athletes seemed impossibly old and mature. Then I turned 18 and noticed that most of them weren't much older than me. Then I turned 30 and realized that, if I had had the talent to become, say, a professional baseball player, reporters would probably be describing me as "on the downside" of my career.

Then I hit 40 and couldn't help but observe that there aren't a lot of 40-year-old professional athletes. And the ones who are still around are able to maintain their jobs mostly thanks to very favorable genes that make them appear to be 25.

Now many (or most) of the coaches are younger than I am. My last refuge is that the owners and front-office people are generally my age or older, so I at least have those guys to make fun of and call old fogeys.

Of course, athletes work on a very compressed timeline in which today's 24-year-old phenom is tomorrow's 31-year-old veteran journeyman. The life cycle of an athlete is relatively short, and I suppose the goal is to make as much money as you can by the time you're 35 so you can figure out what to do with the next 50-plus years of your life.

Another interesting thing I've noticed is that certain ages no longer seem old to me. When I was 12, if you would have told me that a 60-year-old had just died, I would have thought, "Well, YEAH, of course he did. He was 60, for crying out loud!" Now I hear about 60-year-olds passing away and I think, "That's terrible! He was so young."

I've not quite reached the point where I regularly read the obituaries (the "Irish sports page," as I've heard them called), but I admit that I will sneak a glance now and then. Usually it's just to see if I recognize someone's parents or grandparents. It won't be too many decades before I'll be adding "classmates" and "contemporaries" to my search list.

Having a daughter going to college and a niece giving birth in the same year doesn't help, nor does the white hair that rings my head (though my standards have shifted such that just keeping some portion of my hair, whatever color it wants to be, is the main goal).

The funny thing is, 10 years from now I'll be saying how great it would be to be this age again. After a certain point, unless you're unusually well adjusted, you're never quite satisfied with your current age. So you complain. It's what we do, especially in this youth-crazed society.

Really, though, a urologist shouldn't look like he just came back from a school field trip.

I'm as bad as most other guys when it comes to going to the doctor, but maybe for different reasons

This is how I picture Amber, my primary care provider, when I reschedule my annual check-up for the third time in the last three months.

In two weeks, I'm scheduled for an annual physical with Amber, my nurse practitioner/primary care provider at the Cleveland Clinic.

Amber is great. I like her a lot. She's smart, friendly and takes the time to engage with me and answer my questions.

You would think, then, that I would look forward to seeing her for my check-up. And usually that's true.

But sometimes, specifically when I know I haven't been eating well and my weight is above what it should be, I avoid seeing Amber.

Take this upcoming appointment, for example. It was originally supposed to happen last spring, I think, and I have moved it back three times.

This repeated rescheduling has not happened because I've suddenly had calendar conflicts. It has happened because, other than a two-month stretch over the summer when I first started strength training, I have spent most of 2024 not eating particularly well.

And thus the number on the scale hasn't been great.

The fact is, I only want to see Amber when I know my numbers will be good. And by "numbers," I mean not just weight, but also cholesterol, blood sugar, etc. I go to the doctor not to ensure everything is working OK, but to gain validation that I'm doing great and am...I don't know, a good person?

I don't have to explain how messed up this approach is. It's like waiting until your car seems to be running well before going to a mechanic.

Making this even worse is that my weight isn't that bad, and it's not like Amber is going to yell at me or anything.

Yet I still don't want to hear that my BMI (that most useless of all health metrics) isn't in the normal/good range, or that I need to watch my carb and sugar intake.

I know all these things, and I beat myself up about them often enough without anyone else having to get on me about them.

And again, my bloodwork numbers can't be that bad. In fact, they may all be just fine, I don't even know. It's just the possibility of getting scolded over them, even mildly, that makes me go to the MyChart website and take advantage of that "Reschedule Appointment" link again and again.

Still, I don't think there's any getting out of this physical in two weeks. Like many corporate wellness programs, the one I have at work offers monetary incentives (lower health insurance premiums) just for going to the doctor and for meeting certain biometric targets.

There's hundreds of dollars at stake here. I can't ditch this one.

So I'm going to go. And I'm going to tell Amber the good news first: I'm finally lifting weights!

Then will come the not-as-good news: I'm also lifting a lot of cookies into my mouth!

She will laugh, we'll talk a bit about the mental game of portion control, and it will be fine.

That's what I keep telling myself: It will be fine.

Three things my all-or-nothing attitude prevents me from doing

Something I've never liked about myself is my inability to be OK with "OK."

Meaning, if I can't do something perfectly, I don't want to do it at all.

Sometimes this works to my benefit as I push myself to accomplish a difficult task or reach a high level of proficiency in a challenging skill.

More often than not, though, it means giving up early and not at least achieving something simply because I'm disappointed I can't do it exactly right the first time. Which isn't so good.

This approach has cost me in a lot of ways, but here are three in particular:

(1) Consistently eating well: Ever since I started going to the gym, my exercise habits have been great. I've built muscle through weightlifting and have improved my cardiovascular health and endurance by getting my heartbeat up (sometimes way up) several times a week. But diet is more important than exercise when it comes to long-term health, and I find that if I eat something that makes it more likely I'm going to blow my calorie budget, I just give in and eat whatever I want the rest of the day. "I'm going to miss my target, so I might as well eat a whole cake," is the way I end up looking at things.

(2) Being productive at work: I set myself a pretty ambitious to-do list on work days. Most of the time I accomplish it, but when I realize I'm not quite going to get to everything because of an unexpected circumstance or a long meeting, my motivation plummets. Can't finish the list? Well, I guess I'm going to stand here in my office paralyzed rather than accomplishing at least a portion of it. I can't explain why I'm like this.

(3) Trying new things: I often joke about how bad I am at fixing things and thinking mechanically, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't at least try to learn a few things. Yet I don't, because in my mind, since I can never be a master carpenter, there's no point in even making any attempt. Which I know is stupid, but that's me.

Maybe I can figure out how not to be like this before I get to my late 50s, but chances are I can never fully change, so....say it with me...why bother?

Revisiting the decade when you grew up...warts and all

 

Howard Jones playing a quintessentially 80s instrument (the "keytar") on August 31 in Cleveland.

Several weeks ago, my nephew Mark and I took in an evening of live 80s music at Cleveland's Masonic Auditorium that was every bit as fun and enjoyable as I thought it would be.

It was also a long show, or at least it felt that way to me. Three bands performed (Howard Jones, ABC and Haircut 100), and the changeout between each act took more time than I would have anticipated. While Howard was the headliner in my eyes, ABC played a deservedly long set as the middle act that helped push the whole event to nearly 4 hours in length.

The crowd, by the way, was exactly what you think it would be: Heavily older Gen X, with most people in their 50s and early 60s. At a spritely 49, Mark was one of the youngest people in attendance.

These nostalgia tours are lucrative affairs. People love to hear the music of their youth, and they especially like to see the musicians who created that music performing it live. It makes them feel like they themselves aren't quite as old as their bodies might otherwise suggest.

I loved the 80s, but that's probably because I went from being 10 years old when the decade started to 20 when it ended. That's a memorable time in anyone's life.

To be fair, 80s music and fashion (and politics) aren't everyone's cup of tea.

There isn't a single perfect era in history. When oldsters long for "the simpler time" of their formative years, they usually whitewash the bad stuff that went on then. That's just human nature.

Mark and I had a lot of fun at that 80s-heavy concert, and while there was a certain cheesiness to the whole thing (it's difficult to pull off the rocker persona when you're pushing 70 years old), by the end of the night I decided that was OK. I was there with Mark, with whom I've been attending concerts since 1988, and we were loving virtually every song that was played.

We enjoyed it in the moment, and we enjoyed the way it took us back to a time when we were both considerably younger.

Which is more than enough. I'll continue listening to long-forgotten 80s music until the day I die.

Rock on!

Before I knew it, I was a gum chewer

At some point in the last 10 years, I started chewing gum.

Not all the time, mind you. And mostly only in the car.

But by any definition, I am a frequent consumer of chewing gum.

My brand of choice is Wrigley's 5 Gum Peppermint Cobalt Sugar-Free. The mint is intense (which I love), the flavor lasts a long time (which I really love), and it comes in packs of 15, so it keeps me supplied longer than those old 5-stick packs my mom used to carry in her purse.

The only problem with this habit is that my car perpetually smells faintly like a peppermint oil factory. Most of those who ride with me don't care, but my wife does.

Terry does not particularly like mint. And she certainly does not like the smell of mint in the closed confines of a car.

She refers to my Honda Civic as "the Mint Mobile."

The only thing I can do is try not to chew any gum in the car if I know she's going to occupy the passenger seat in the near future. Even then, I don't know that the fragrance ever really goes away.

The other pitfall of being a gum chewer is becoming an obnoxious gum chewer. Someone who chews loudly and proudly. Someone who chomps their way through every conversation. Someone who must have a stick of gum in their mouth at all times.

I try desperately to avoid being that guy.

I figure, worst comes to worst, I will one day blow up like a blueberry à la Violet Beauregarde in the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" as punishment for my gum-related sins. Only instead of dejuicing me, the Oompa Loompas will allow me to explode in a mess of blueberry debris and sticky peppermint gum residue.

As far as my longsuffering wife is concerned, it will be a fair punishment.

Getting to the bottom of this obnoxiously large 1-gallon water jug every day

I am not, by nature, a water drinker. I drink it at the gym in the morning, but after that, it's usually coffee or nothing at all.

I realize this is not a healthy approach to fluid intake, though, so lately I've been trying to up my water consumption by purchasing the big ol' water bottle you see above. I was inspired by my daughter Chloe and my son Jack, both of whom have similarly large H2O containers from which they drink consistently.

This isn't the first time I've tried to take in more water. My inconsistent attempts at becoming more like my dad (who drank water and beer in equally prodigious quantities) stretch back more than 30 years.

When I was marathon training in 2001, for example, I drank a lot of water because I had to in order to keep my body properly hydrated for running dozens of miles a week. The second I crossed the finish line, though, my water drinking plummeted immediately to pre-training levels.

It's not that I don't like water. It's just not a particularly attractive option for me. It's just...you know, water. I can take it or leave it.

Again, though, I understand the health benefits of proper hydration, so I'm giving it another go by setting for myself the daily goal of filling Jumbo the Water Jug and drinking its entire contents. It takes a concerted effort, but I've been doing it.

The inevitable and wholly predictable result, of course, has been an alarming rise in bathroom trips. I have already worn out a path to the men's room at the office. Supposedly your body eventually adjusts to ingesting higher quantities of fluid, but so far my body's only response has been, "Stop drinking so much or else we're going to spend the rest of your life seeking out restrooms."

Actually, finding restrooms has been high on my daily agenda ever since I hit my mid-40s. So that part isn't new.

What is new, however, is the impressive level of bladder control I have developed during work meetings. No longer do I have to rush directly from conference rooms immediately to the nearest urinal.

These days it's more of a controlled trot.

Your kids really are listening...even to the music you play for them

 

Recently, my son Jared texted with this request:

"Can you make a playlist of the songs you played in the van circa 2002? Trying to recall but can't remember some."

When I used to drive the kids around in our Dodge Grand Caravan, I would play for them a range of older music, some of which they would sing along to. At the time I didn't give it much thought, but now I realize those minivan singalongs are probably the stuff of fun childhood memories for them.

Fortunately I didn't have to do too much work because I remembered my daughter Chloe had already made such a playlist, which she dubbed "scott's minivan." I asked her to send it to me (see the screenshot above), and I in turn forwarded it to Jared.

He and I agreed that with only one or two exceptions, Chloe had pretty much nailed the songs in heaviest rotation on family road trips back in those days.

In alphabetical order, these were the tunes on the playlist:

• Brown-Eyed Girl - Van Morrison
• Copacabana - Barry Manilow (OK, OK...a guilty pleasure)
• Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - The Police
• Jackie Wilson Said - Van Morrison
• Jump - Van Halen
• Love Shack - The B-52s
• Low Rider - War
• Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds - The Beatles
• Mack the Knife - as covered by Sting (an odd pick, but so catchy)
• Maneater - Hall & Oates
• Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da - The Beatles
• The Reflex - Duran Duran
• Road Man - Smash Mouth
• Roxanne - The Police
• When Doves Cry - Prince
• Ya (Rest in Peace) - Colin Hay
• You Make My Dreams Come True - Hall & Oates

The list largely reflects my penchant for the music of the 60s, 70s and 80s, but more importantly, these are songs with strong melodies and, in many cases, fun choruses with which even little kids could sing along.

Sometimes we wonder whether the things we tell our kids really stick with them. My answer is that, heck, if Barry Manilow stays in their heads, your important bits of parental advice have to have gained a foothold in their little brains somewhere.

Today is Sting's birthday. Here are three things he has taught me.

Happy 73rd birthday to the man Stewart Copeland calls "Stingo."

I should clarify that, while I did actually meet Gordon Matthew Sumner (a.k.a., Sting) many years ago, he has not personally taught me anything. We are not friends, which is unsurprising considering he is an international pop superstar and multimillionaire while I am a suburban dad who gets excited when I have $10 in my wallet.

What I mean is, as a fan of Mr. Sting's music for more than 40 years, I have learned a thing or two while watching him from afar. Or a thing or three, I guess, because there are three items on this list.

To wit:

(1) Make room for surprise in your life

Sting has said that, to him, the essence of all music is surprise. If he is not surprised in some way within the first 8 bars of a new song, he isn't likely to listen any further. It's why his own songs often use unorthodox time signatures or unexpected melodies. In a broader, non-musical sense, people like me – people who make lengthy to-do lists and like to plan their days down to the last detail – probably need to loosen up a bit and allow the universe to surprise them every once in a while. While meticulous planning gives you control, it also sucks away some of the joy of spontaneity. As I get older, I realize that life can't wait to surprise you, if only you will let it.

(2) You will never reach the point where you no longer need to practice your craft, whatever it is

Sting practices music every day. He plays complicated Bach sonatas. He studies intricately written pieces. He runs through rudimentary drills on his guitar. This is a 73-year-old, multi-Grammy-winning musician who still practices constantly, even on days when he doesn't especially feel like it. In any endeavor, being willing to sacrifice in the name of self-improvement is the one key to success we sometimes don't want to talk about.

(3) Take risks, and be willing to live with the consequences

Sting left one of the biggest bands in the world to embark on a solo career in 1985. He recruited young black jazz musicians to help him make a debut album that in many ways was nothing like the albums he had made with The Police. The fact that that album went on to sell millions of copies, while nice for Sting, wasn't the point. The point was that he followed his passions and made the music he wanted to make. Not the music he necessarily thought others wanted him to make. Throughout his career, this approach has sometimes produced commercial and artistic success, and other times has produced neither. Regardless, he has followed his gut and done what his heart told him to do. That's not nearly as easy as it sounds, but it's one heck of an approach to life.

Sleeping in until 6:00am is suddenly one of my favorite parts of the week

I know a few people will read that headline and ask, "Since when is 6:00am sleeping in?"

And you're right. For most, a 6:00am wake-up time isn't exactly an indulgence.

But I am, and for most of my life have been, an early riser. Not because I've had to do it for work or anything, but mostly because I love getting a head start on the day.

Since I began going to the gym five mornings a week, I've been getting out of bed around 4:45am. I like to make it to Ohio Sports & Fitness just ahead of what I call The 5:30 Crew, which is a small but dedicated contingent of fellow pre-dawn exercisers.

Whenever I have a session with my trainer Kirk, I stay in bed until 5:15, since he and I don't meet up until 6:00am anyway.

But on those two rest days a week, I get lazy and sleep all the way until the big hand on the clock points straight up and the little hand points straight down.

Scandalous!

I could probably stay in bed even longer, but my body is always ready and raring to go by 6:00. Plus I really have to pee by that point, so there's no use fighting it.

Still, I can't tell you how much I enjoy those "sleep-in" days. I always feel like I've earned them after three or four days in a row of early gym-going, then scrambling to come home, shower, change and head to the office for a full day of work.

I should point out that in order to get a decent amount of rest, I'll sometimes ingest a couple of 5mg melatonin gummies the night before. I recently blogged about how I need to have my wife in the room in order to fall asleep, but the gummies have changed that situation drastically.

Now I rarely even notice when she comes to bed, that's how deeply asleep I am.

Interestingly – and don't ask me why I remember the exact date, I just do – I got almost no sleep 28 years ago last night because I was so worried about starting a new job the next day at a company called Self-Funded Plans. That sort of anxiety-induced insomnia used to hit me several times a year.

But these days? Never. My heads hits the pillow, and within a couple of minutes I'm out.

I wake up when it's technically still night time, of course, but there's always those 6:00am sleep-in days to make me feel like I'm living a life of luxury.