Lyle HolthusHERES THE SECRET: this real man that you’re supposed to measure up to doesn’t exist.
The only man that you’ve got to worry about striving after is the man you were created to be.
You’ve got to wake up in the morning determined to meet your potential head on, to no longer judge your success by the products that they’re peddling, but to judge yourself by standards that have existed since the beginning of the time:
Am I going to make excuses or am I going to make something happen?
Am I going to make my life count or am I going to waste it?
Am I going to make my life about what I have or about who I am?
After all, answering these questions well will get you the best kind of respect there is: True, solid, ‘conscience-clear,’ left everything out there, self-respect.3 minutes ago ·
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Thoughts for a Teenaged Boy
Sunday, March 4, 2012
You Don't Need Anything Else, Do You?
So the concept of needing things in this day and age, in this corner of the world is a little absurd. Really, we all have more than we need. Things we didn't even know that we needed, we need -- and, for the most part, we have and we have in spades, right?
So I started thinking about times when I had slightly less than I needed. I have always had more than enough, like in the big scope of things. A car -- sometimes a good car, sometimes the 15-year-old Colt on loan from a missionary friend in Africa. Shelter -- sometimes cushy, others not so much. Food -- sometimes more (like at happy hour buffets), sometimes. . . well, you get the picture.
So, let the record show that I have now and have always really had more than I need. I am now and have always been grateful for my circumstances and would never really complain That said. . . .
When I graduated from college, my mother said that the best thing for me to do would be to move "home" -- to El Dorado, Arkansas, a place I had never lived where my parents had moved upon my going to college four years previous -- and have foot surgery -- cosmetic surgery that she has felt a compulsion about since I was a child.
On many levels, that didn't appeal to me.
I had been living -- with these feet -- on my own for four years now. On their nickel, but on my own. I wasn't sure how well my "grown-up" choices would go over under their roof.
So, armed with certain knowledge of what I didn't want to do, I faced, rather uncertainly, what I might want to do. As usual, my parents provided me with the escape hatch for their previous -- unacceptable -- plan.
"Your dad and I are going to Washington, DC, for a week in May. You can go with us."
"And then you can move home with us, and have those feet operated on. . . ."
Yes.
And no.
So, one sunny Sunday morning in June, 1986, I piled in the car with my parents and tried not to swear for the next 20-odd hours. We checked into a hotel in Tyson's Corner, about 35 miles outside of the Beltway. Me? Still trying not to swear.
The next morning, my parents hopped on a bus to meet their senator and discuss the plagues facing small newspapers in the rural south. I hopped a different bus and walked into the office of the employment agent who would change my life.
Around lunchtime, my parents called to tell me about the lovely young lady they had met on The Hill. I told them I had a job interview.
By happy hour, they called to say I might be able to get an internship in the Senator's office. I told them I would be working as an administrative assistant for a power broker at EF Hutton. Starting at 9 the next morning.
At that moment, I did not need anything else, did I?
I spent the night in the hotel in Tyson's Corner, and the next morning loaded my heels in my briefcase and loaded myself on the bus to Washington Square and into my career.
Goodbye, bunyonectomy. Hello, world!
My parents gave me the number of that lovely young Hill-type and I ended up sleeping in her roommate's room (he was not there, by the way) for the next few weeks. Until I moved to the cushy Georgetown condo of a co-worker, then the grand Adam's Morgan loft of yet another (apartment sitting became a side-gig that first summer). All summer long, my parents would send me box after box of "necessities." Each and every box stayed under my desk at EF Hutton. I wasn't actually living anywhere, after all. It would be presumptuous to move in with more than a gym bag.
Finally, in September, two things became apparent: 1) I was not leaving DC and 2) my co-workers were coming home to roost. Time to get my own apartment.
House to Share Want ads? Eh.
Friends recommendations? Hmmm.
I finally (after days of exhaustive whining) found a studio apartment over an Indian restaurant, walking distance from a Metro stop, three stops from my office. Small, clean and yet illegal (a point the landlord failed to mention to me or the other three twenty-somethings who coughed up the exhorbitant rent), it seemed perfect.
I walked up the street to the Sears -- the credit card my dad had slipped me burning its digits into my palm. I made some horrendous decorating decisions and lived happily in my curry-scented room for almost a year. With a cat named Earl whose incessant clawing forced me to put on my nylons in the stairway.
So, in retrospect, still much more than I needed, after all.
So I started thinking about times when I had slightly less than I needed. I have always had more than enough, like in the big scope of things. A car -- sometimes a good car, sometimes the 15-year-old Colt on loan from a missionary friend in Africa. Shelter -- sometimes cushy, others not so much. Food -- sometimes more (like at happy hour buffets), sometimes. . . well, you get the picture.
So, let the record show that I have now and have always really had more than I need. I am now and have always been grateful for my circumstances and would never really complain That said. . . .
When I graduated from college, my mother said that the best thing for me to do would be to move "home" -- to El Dorado, Arkansas, a place I had never lived where my parents had moved upon my going to college four years previous -- and have foot surgery -- cosmetic surgery that she has felt a compulsion about since I was a child.
On many levels, that didn't appeal to me.
I had been living -- with these feet -- on my own for four years now. On their nickel, but on my own. I wasn't sure how well my "grown-up" choices would go over under their roof.
So, armed with certain knowledge of what I didn't want to do, I faced, rather uncertainly, what I might want to do. As usual, my parents provided me with the escape hatch for their previous -- unacceptable -- plan.
"Your dad and I are going to Washington, DC, for a week in May. You can go with us."
"And then you can move home with us, and have those feet operated on. . . ."
Yes.
And no.
So, one sunny Sunday morning in June, 1986, I piled in the car with my parents and tried not to swear for the next 20-odd hours. We checked into a hotel in Tyson's Corner, about 35 miles outside of the Beltway. Me? Still trying not to swear.
The next morning, my parents hopped on a bus to meet their senator and discuss the plagues facing small newspapers in the rural south. I hopped a different bus and walked into the office of the employment agent who would change my life.
Around lunchtime, my parents called to tell me about the lovely young lady they had met on The Hill. I told them I had a job interview.
By happy hour, they called to say I might be able to get an internship in the Senator's office. I told them I would be working as an administrative assistant for a power broker at EF Hutton. Starting at 9 the next morning.
At that moment, I did not need anything else, did I?
I spent the night in the hotel in Tyson's Corner, and the next morning loaded my heels in my briefcase and loaded myself on the bus to Washington Square and into my career.
Goodbye, bunyonectomy. Hello, world!
My parents gave me the number of that lovely young Hill-type and I ended up sleeping in her roommate's room (he was not there, by the way) for the next few weeks. Until I moved to the cushy Georgetown condo of a co-worker, then the grand Adam's Morgan loft of yet another (apartment sitting became a side-gig that first summer). All summer long, my parents would send me box after box of "necessities." Each and every box stayed under my desk at EF Hutton. I wasn't actually living anywhere, after all. It would be presumptuous to move in with more than a gym bag.
Finally, in September, two things became apparent: 1) I was not leaving DC and 2) my co-workers were coming home to roost. Time to get my own apartment.
House to Share Want ads? Eh.
Friends recommendations? Hmmm.
I finally (after days of exhaustive whining) found a studio apartment over an Indian restaurant, walking distance from a Metro stop, three stops from my office. Small, clean and yet illegal (a point the landlord failed to mention to me or the other three twenty-somethings who coughed up the exhorbitant rent), it seemed perfect.
I walked up the street to the Sears -- the credit card my dad had slipped me burning its digits into my palm. I made some horrendous decorating decisions and lived happily in my curry-scented room for almost a year. With a cat named Earl whose incessant clawing forced me to put on my nylons in the stairway.
So, in retrospect, still much more than I needed, after all.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Loyal to the Living
I was just reading -- devouring -- a new novel by one of my top three authors and came to a passage that literally stopped me in my tracks. Like I had to just put the book down and think about it. And it's not even one of "those" books. It's a novel. Not a self-help book, not a memoir, not anything except a long-awaited story from an author I have loved for a few years.
The premise was a conversation among a mother and her two grown children. The much-loved father died two years ago. The daughter (32) had just experienced her first feeling of her father's presence and had shared it with her brother. The mother took off for an unexpected international escape soon after her husband's death and was back with her son and daughter. She told them, with great trepidation and blushing that she had "found somebody."
The kids, fiercely loyal characters, were both taken by surprise by their mother's announcement and the scene unfolded from a trite "was somebody lost?" to a touching realization that "the winner is the one who is alive."
What that means is that the kids were not being disloyal to their father by supporting their mother's new relationship. Their loyalty, by default, belongs exclusively to the living parent. To her happiness and her well-being.
That really struck a nerve with me as I apply it to Dad and his relationship(?) with Lynn. He deserves my loyalty because he's the one who is here. He deserves happiness and comfort and love. He is not -- I am not -- disloyal to Mom if he finds that happiness and comfort and love again. It is almost disloyal if he doesn't.
If WE don't.
We are here and going on and Mom taught us all how to love. And how not to. And how to relate to others and how to let others in and help and be helped. It is disloyal for us not to live out those lessons.
So, then I thought, this also applies to me in another way: if I am not going to LIVE my live, to the best and fullest and most I can, then I don't win. I'm not alive, so I can't. Incentive to really engage -- with my husband, my friends, my kids, my life. Because I am here to LIVE, and if I don't do my part, well, I can't expect the benefits of winning. I can't feel pride and happiness and accomplishment and joy and fulfillment.
Jesus said He came that we might have life and have it abundantly. That seems to play into this whole revelation, too.
Now it's up to me. It's time to wrap all those pieces up in a neat package and LIVE.
Look out, world. I'm here. I'm coming back.
Yea!
The premise was a conversation among a mother and her two grown children. The much-loved father died two years ago. The daughter (32) had just experienced her first feeling of her father's presence and had shared it with her brother. The mother took off for an unexpected international escape soon after her husband's death and was back with her son and daughter. She told them, with great trepidation and blushing that she had "found somebody."
The kids, fiercely loyal characters, were both taken by surprise by their mother's announcement and the scene unfolded from a trite "was somebody lost?" to a touching realization that "the winner is the one who is alive."
What that means is that the kids were not being disloyal to their father by supporting their mother's new relationship. Their loyalty, by default, belongs exclusively to the living parent. To her happiness and her well-being.
That really struck a nerve with me as I apply it to Dad and his relationship(?) with Lynn. He deserves my loyalty because he's the one who is here. He deserves happiness and comfort and love. He is not -- I am not -- disloyal to Mom if he finds that happiness and comfort and love again. It is almost disloyal if he doesn't.
If WE don't.
We are here and going on and Mom taught us all how to love. And how not to. And how to relate to others and how to let others in and help and be helped. It is disloyal for us not to live out those lessons.
So, then I thought, this also applies to me in another way: if I am not going to LIVE my live, to the best and fullest and most I can, then I don't win. I'm not alive, so I can't. Incentive to really engage -- with my husband, my friends, my kids, my life. Because I am here to LIVE, and if I don't do my part, well, I can't expect the benefits of winning. I can't feel pride and happiness and accomplishment and joy and fulfillment.
Jesus said He came that we might have life and have it abundantly. That seems to play into this whole revelation, too.
Now it's up to me. It's time to wrap all those pieces up in a neat package and LIVE.
Look out, world. I'm here. I'm coming back.
Yea!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Teenage Girl-GRRRR
She frustrates me so much sometimes. She just want to put forth the effort to do ANYTHING! I know that I am not the greatest role model, and my discipline is sorely lacking most of the time. If I think she will be whatever I am, maybe that is the motivation to do more and be better myself. I have often settled for mediocrity, but I don't want that for my daughter. I want the world for her, and I want her to want that, too!
This year, I will model more, better. For Riley. For me.
This year, I will model more, better. For Riley. For me.
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2. Person not parts. Often, you will look at a woman. Your teenage years are a good time to master the habit of seeing a person and not just body parts. The girl you’re checking out not only has a nice butt – she also has a name, a personality, parents, goals, dreams, and a life that doesn’t involve your staring. Plus, that respect thing will be easier if you look her in the eyes first.
3. Control your sexuality or it will control you. With the right boundaries, sex is cool. And for a teenage guy, sex seems like this overwhelmingly huge part of life. But it is NOT worth wasting your whole life for. Sex is best in its proper time and place – if you rush and do things your way, you’ll regret it. Sex can drive you to do stupid things. As cool as you think it is, remember this for a little perspective: your parents did it too.
4. Laziness is a disease. Other men will treat it that way too. Men may disagree with your opinion, your values, or your lifestyle and still give you some credibility. Let them believe you’re lazy, and you might as well not open your mouth again. They’re not listening.
5. There is fine line between confidence and arrogance, but a canyon between confidence and insecurity. Act like you’re supposed to be there. When you believe yourself, others believe you too. People look for someone willing to take on challenges, willing to say ‘I got this.’ Be real, be yourself, but be the best version of yourself. The best confidence of all comes from knowing that whatever happens, I’m coming out the other side. After all, what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger. ( FYI: the respect from #1 will kill arrogance before it starts.)
6. Whatever you’ve been asked to do, do just a little bit more. Exceed expectations. If your Mom’s expecting a ‘C,’ fight, claw, and scratch for a ‘B.’ If Dad asks you to wash the dishes, wash them AND take out the trash. I know this sounds like nothing but extra work. But in business, this gets you new customers. In basketball, this improves your free throw percentage. In relationships, it builds trust and responsibility. The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is only five letters. Just a little ‘extra.’
7. Women do not think like you do. You think you look cool because you’re wearing a new shirt. She thinks you look cool because you actually ironed it. You think ‘I love you’ means ‘I think you’re fun.’ But she’s thinking about words like ‘forever’ and ‘always’ and ‘The Notebook.’ Speaking in this romantic language as a teen guy is like trying to speak to hostile Latin King gang members after watching an episode of Dora. You don’t really understand what you’re saying, and you’re going to get yourself shot.
7b. Oh, and those women want you to pull your pants up.
8. Speak up. Sometimes you have something meaningful to say. Say it. Say it where people can hear you. Speak up! Speak up when you say hello, when you ask the girl for her number, when you’re answering a question. If it’s not worth saying proudly, it’s not worth saying. (This doesn’t apply to cell phone conversations)
9. You will not fail if you do not try. In other words, feel free to avoid failure at all cost. But only if you’re content being single, broke, jobless, uneducated, unknown, and unaccomplished. If that’s not what you’re looking for, you’re going to have to buck up and give it a shot. And sometimes, you’ll screw up. That’s part of life. Remember: if you failed two times out of every three times your entire career in baseball (and hit a .333 average), you’d be in the top 26 all time! (http://
10. Real men. For the rest of your life, you’re going to hear about all kinds of real men. They are going to be described to you as men with superhuman strength, impeccable taste in fashion, loads of cash, and the charisma and charm that every woman wants. You’re going to hear how real men wear pink, real men drive Fords or Chevys or Porsches, real men grow beards, real men drink this, or go here, or use that. They’re going to use this kind of language because you were made to be a man. And for someone to question your manhood is to deny you a valuable part of who you are. The last thing you want women or men or society or culture to think is that you are somehow ‘less of a man.’