what do you go home to?

“Oh, you’re in sales, huh?”

Can’t you just picture the scene: You are on an airplane. You exchange small talk with a seat mate and inevitably the discussion rolls to what you each do for a living. The other person is a teacher on sabbatical on their way to China or an archeologist headed for South American or the Air Marshall ensuring the flight’s safety. They ask, “What do you do?” And you have to say it.

For me talking about what I do for a living is as painful as watching my fiancé’s seven-year-old son eat vegetables. In response to the other person’s question I’ll turn my head downward and mumble something like “iminsales” or say it so fast they can’t hear it clearly, “Iminsales. That’s a nice blouse you have on. Is this plane ever going to take off?”

I’m not like this guy:  

My old boss at Reebok used to play this scene for us at sales meetings. We joked at Baldwin’s brainy portrayal of a big time sales guy but then Kevin would say in his best Alec Baldwin voice, “PUT DOWN THE COFFEE. COFFEE IS FOR CLOSERS.”  And then we wondered, is he kidding?

always be selling

I never in my wildest dreams ever saw myself in sales. I’ve always thought of the profession as icky. Like the feeling you get shaking hands with the Used Car guy. Only now I’m the guy trying to get you to buy the 1985 American Motors Pacer with “only” 50,000 miles on it. (Hey, it’s a classic. Trust me.)

Sales rep. Rep. Account manager. Account development manager. Sales consultant. Business acquisition manager. Territory manager. Whatever the name they all = Loser.

I once was filling up my car at a Shell gas station in Merrillville, IN when the guy on the other side of the pump nodded at me and said hi. Immediately the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. “Crap, here it comes,” I thought. Sure enough, he looked straight at me and said, “You look like you’re in sales. What do you do?”

Of course he was in sales too. And he convinced me (I can’t believe I’m saying this) to allow a meeting with my then-wife and I to go over the “phenomenal opportunities of working for yourself and creating your own fortune while you help others succeed too.”

In the end, logic prevailed and we passed up our new friend’s offer to join his Multi-level marketing business.

Unfortunately that is a prevalent view of what sales people do. It’s wrong of course, like any stereotype. But it’s amazing how this shit prevails. I’ve been in the sports and fitness industry in sales for twenty years. During that time I’ve met some amazing people and become close friends with a few of them.

shit sales reps say

Sales reps are engaging and funny and intelligent like any other career group. They also are assholes, individualistic, Type A detail freaks and some are mercenaries who would tell you whatever you are buying they totally believe in one day, then call you the next day and say “that company sucked. You absolutely must buy this brand. It rocks.”

In fact, what this guy says is too close to how reps in my industry actually talk:

Why the hell would anyone stay in something they say they abhor for so many years? I didn’t sleepwalk through 20 years of my life though it often feels like time has slipped by that way. When I started I thought I was going somewhere.  Sales was going to lead to something else. Just not here.

What I have most enjoyed about this sales career  is connecting. What I sought to do in my professional life is the same as what I seek in my personal life. I am motivated by relationships around shared passions or creating those passions in others. I am not a natural at sales, so whatever success I’ve had must have been built around this idea. I’ve made some close friends among my customers and done some great business. Then there are people with whom I just couldn’t connect. And I had to give up the idea they would ever buy from me or be more than occasional clients.

I have friends in sales and after a couple dozen beers they will tell you what they love about what they do. For some it’s great money. For others they’re competitive and it’s the thrill of closing deals.  For others, it’s the lifestyle and not having to go to an office everyday and being under the scrutiny of Pigeon-brained bosses.

reward at the end of the rainbow

There is I realize selfishness involved in being a sales rep, but not in the way you might think. Of course a person wants to sell to a client so they can get their commissions or whatever reward lies at the end of the sales rainbow. What I seek are answers to life questions that I’ve come to believe are found mostly in meaningful connections with others.

I approach all possible interactions this way. I drive my fiancé crazy because I’ll talk with anyone; with the people who share whatever crowded dry space we can find beside the community pool, a guy on the elevator, a waitress at a restaurant. The context of the connection doesn’t matter. If there is a chance at breaking through the distance standing between me and others–even strangers–I’m all for smashing.

I realize I’ve used the pretext of being a sales rep trying to secure my prospective client’s business to satisfy this craving for meaning. But it works for me. Eventually, I forge business relationships that are both successful and satisfying. Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed in it for so long. It doesn’t explain my love/hate relationship with sales though. You would think that by now I would be at peace with this thing I do for work.

Sales often feels like a role in a play. When I’m in front of customers I’m on a stage putting everything into that “performance.” And when I’m done, I’m toast and want to get as far away from people as I can. So I withdraw for a while and regroup.

Maybe that’s what people do in their careers. Maybe in that respect I’m not unusual. I don’t know. I have dreams of doing other things that feel more natural that also fuel my bank account. But that discussion will wait for another time.


glittering blackness


I am taking a psychology class at the local community college. It is a prerequisite for a course of study that would have led to a two-year certificate in which I am no longer interested. But I am sticking with the psychology class nevertheless.

Socrates said “An unexamined life is not worth living.” (According_to_Socrates) Perhaps this is why I continue with the class. I am fascinated not so much because of the actual science in the course syllabus, but by my own curiosity about how people think, how they make choices. My reasoning goes something along the lines of if I can understand more about the science of psychology, the brain and the mind, it might lead me to better understanding why so many of the choices I’ve made in my life seem to have gone awry and caused me and others so much pain.

abandon all hope of a better past.

I know I have no hope of “a better past.” I would like to understand what I don’t see or am not aware of and why I so often seem to fuck up. Moreover, sometimes I labor and debate things so much before making a decision that I end up not making a choice at all. Underlying all of this is a belief that I’ve screwed up two marriages by going into them unaware both times (guilty). That it’s my fault my daughter Paige hates me (guilty). That there have been affairs (guilty). That I haven’t been able to find satisfaction in a career (guilty).

The way I have approached life until now seems to have been with such a lack of clarity as to be grossly negligent toward…me. My choices are like keys thoughtlessly tossed somewhere. I go to find them when I need them and they are nowhere to be found.

In the movie “Defending Your Life,” Albert Brooks was asked to explain to a court in the afterlife whether he lived in fear or with courage. If he succeeded in convincing the judges that he lived life fully, he got to “move on” to some higher plane. If he didn’t, he was sent back to earth to try to learn it all over again. I would be headed back to earth as a repeat offender.

It is not just that bad things have happened to me. We all have stuff with which to deal. I can handle life not  going according to plan. But maybe I’ve caused myself much greater misery because of the lack of presence and awareness with which I’ve made choices when I’ve had them to make. I need a correspondence course on Buddhism or to sit with the Dalai Lama to get enlightenment.

Is my daughter angry with me more because I decided to leave her Mom and be with someone else or because of how I’ve handled my role as her dad? Is my ex-wife bitter and non-cooperative because of my affair (ok, reasonable) or because of how I wasn’t the husband she desired and expected when we were still married? Is my confusion in my career due to something I should have learned in high school or college, or is it due to a deeper question about the way I process the world? Or, could it even be to a lack of awareness about how I actually view the role of work in my life overall?

some people get it.

These are the types of questions I confront regularly. and for which I hope something might offer some clues. And it’s why I read blogs such as Danielle LaPorte, Penelope Trunk, Chris Guillebeau, Kelly Gurnet aka Cordelia, and others. I read book after book like The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, Uncertainty by Jonathan Fields, A Whole New Mind by Daniel Pink, and many, many more, hoping for clues into how my mind processess.

I realize it could become quite boring, all this navel-gazing and rehashing of an unchangeable past. It’s a habit I have had trouble breaking. I know why I do it: Like Socrates, I believe that in reviewing my personal history I might find the  flaws in my thinking that led to why I messed up and learn not to repeat them. But all this “examining” might cause Socrates’ head to hurt.

So you know I’m not trolling for sympathy here. I hate appearing pathetic. ImageThis is how I debate things. I’m fascinated by the ways people process the world and make decisions, because almost everyone seems to do it better than I. What is truly remarkable about life is how people think about their lives and how they overcome challenges. I’m not talking about the celebrities who have a bottomless backpack of resources to employ to deal with things. I’m talking about the sort of people you sit next to in a coffee shop or at the offices of the district court.

Conflict, challenges, hurt, pain, disappointment. Everywhere. And, sometimes: redemption, growth, acceptance, even happiness.

That is what I am after. Because ultimately, I know that I control only now. I have a limited time to figure it out.


be comfortable, creature

y friend Keith is one of the best examples I know of someone recalibrating their life to fit their circumstances. Keith was a world-class runner. He is a previous winner of the NCAA Men’s Cross Country Championships and he ran professionally for New Balance. Now in his 30’s, the cartilage in both his knees is nearly gone. Maybe it’s the result of years of sub-six-minute training and hundred plus-mile weeks. Maybe it’s due to his upbringing in Ireland or his heredity. Maybe he didn’t drink enough milk as a kid. The fact that someone so gifted as a runner can’t  do what he was born to do is heartbreaking for anyone who runs. I don’t know if Keith was graceful as a runner, but his running was still a thing of beauty to watch.

Confronted with injury after injury and a ton of surgeries, Keith has realized his best running is in the past. Now he’s a bike racer. And you should see how he smiles. We don’t live near each other and we no longer work for the same company so I don’t get to see him as often. Still, I can hear his smile through the phone when we talk.

My friend, the NCAA cross champion, representative of Ireland at the World Cross Championships, and a former professional runner, crossed that threshold so many of us face, sometimes as athletes or in our personal or professional lives.

Like Keith, circumstances force us to reevaluate our lives in midstream and adjust our goals–or be miserable. I’m reminded of an interview I heard with Ben Cheever, the writer and son of John Cheever, a revered novelist whose alcoholism and homosexuality came to light after he died of cancer in 1982. In the NPR interview Cheever was asked how he coped with the public scrutiny of his father.

I’m going to do a lousy job paraphrasing his answer but Cheever said something like this: “It’s a matter of choice what we do with life. I faced  a choice. I could sit there and be miserable and bitter and not live. Or I could accept what happened and move on and try to live the best life I could.”

He went on: “I believe the people who struggle in life are those who can’t bridge the gap between what they think their lives should be like and what they actually are.”

The stark clarity with which Cheever addressed his situation stuck with me over the years in a big way. My buddy Keith also faced a choice: lament the fact that he would never again run at the level he enjoyed in college and for a couple of years after, or find something new to which he could devote his passions. Just as Ben Cheever did, Keith chose to transition in order to be happy. For him it was bikes over running shoes and, in the process, learning to view himself and his life in a completely different way.

All of us face transitions in life and we always have the choice to make them easy or hard depending on our attitudes.

I have faced many situations that did not go according to my plan. I’ve experienced setbacks and unexpected endings that forced me to move from one thing to something else. Some I’ve handled well and some I’ve failed miserably.

For example, I’ve spent most of my professional life as a sales representative for some well-known companies in the running shoe and apparel business and a few connected with the industry. Last June, a corporate “strategy change” led four of my colleagues and me to being laid off, after I was laid off by the same company (long story) two-and-a-half years before that. At the time, I said it was my “last shoe company” because I was tired of being a pawn in someone else’s game.  Here is where you see me either being really pissed off and feeling sorry for myself, or seeing an opportunity to reframe my career, indeed my life, in another unexpected transition.

Life is like that isn’t it? We work hard to “get settled” into a place where things are comfortable and known, whether we’re training for a marathon or our first bike race, or we are laid off from our dream job, or we have a health issue or one of our parents commits suicide, or whatever it is. Each time, we have the chance to choose what comes next–misery or acceptance. We re-calibrate our expectations (Leo Babauta says some wise things about expectations here: and try to make sense of it all. Another friend of mine considers himself a transition junkie because, he says, we grow the most from unfamiliar and difficult situations.

More unexpected turns and transitions lie ahead of me, I am certain. I will either fuck them up or learn from them. My choice. I can either wallow in what isn’t or accept what is and make lemonade. Right?

figuring it out, health and wellness, inspiration, relationships

welcome, ghosts

A million years ago I had a poster on the wall of my bedroom. ImageIt read, “The race is not always to the swiftest but to those who keep on running.” It pictured a runner alone on a long stretch of country road.

This poster carried me through innumerable training runs and races when I was younger. It is long gone but its message played in my head today as I plodded through another oh-so-short run.

Complications from knee surgery last December to repair a torn meniscus in my right knee sidelined me for the entire winter. And played with my head.

The weather, cool and slightly damp, with just a scent of warmth and birds singing, was ideal and it was heartening to feel the pavement underfoot again. Nevertheless, here’s me this morning: “Whose crappy, inefficient stride is this?” “Whose lungs are these gasping for air?” “Whose damn lame legs are these?”

I sucked air greedily, more like a patient in an iron lung than a fit runner. Think Darth Vader with a Mr. Microphone.

As I run I picture the guy in the poster and wonder what he thinks, how fast he is running, what are his goals. Was he once swifter and more fit, as I was, or is he in his prime, squeezing out every ounce of potential in his legs to run faster in his next race? Or, as the message says, is he simply happy just to be running?

I know I am taking little but significant steps everyday to regain the leg strength and lung capacity I lost from the surgical complications. But I realize there is something deeper, more yearning; I want to revive the image I’ve had of myself ever since I first put that runner poster on my bedroom wall way back when. It’s this: I am unstoppable.

Comparisons to others are deadly, I know, even comparing ourselves to what once were doesn’t serve us. Running has been such a constant, reliable companion for the past 30 years it is difficult territory for me to address this endeavor afresh. Even while I try to accept where I am, I reach to find the form that once came naturally but now feels so foreign.
We runners often think of ourselves as invincible, especially regarding certain kinds of health issues. Those are for other, less fit, more vulnerable types who don’t run. But the health challenges of the past year have proven that even the tens of thousands of miles in my fitness bank afford me no guarantees.

It’s a little like when you hadn’t seen your grandparents in years and when they came to visit and wanted to kiss you and hug you. It creeped you out, thinking, “Who are these people?” But after a little while, it all became natural.

I love running and I am grateful to have some really big health challenges behind me. Who knows, a couple more months of running and all will feel right again. Life is a long race, and it’s time again for me to embrace the truth found on a simple poster I used to live by miles and miles ago.
emotions, figuring it out, relationships

remember me as a time of day

A friend is going through a really rough time. He just committed his adult son to rehab because of a recently discovered drug issue following a series of misadventures that include a car accident.  His wife is angry with him as she struggles to find her own truths about how to help their son. My friend also happens to be a recovering alcoholic who has spent most of his adult life trying to put his love of the bottle behind him so it doesn’t ruin the life he’s built.

The question he wrestles with is this: How much responsibility does he have for getting his son back on a healthy and sustainable path? When do the obligations we as parents have to help our children become healthy, well-adjusted and productive adults expire?

When do the kids take over responsibility for their own lives?

As a father who has messed up more than a few times with my own children, including my oldest teen-age daughter who no longer speaks to me, I have immense compassion for my friend as he tries to solve his dilemma: In one sense, he’s a Dad who loves his son and feels an obligation to help him. In another way, he also knows his son is a now man/boy who needs to be responsible for his own life if he wants to grow. In other words, he’s screwed either way.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says to me. “I feel like I can’t afford to make a mistake.”

“Don’t look at me, I have no experience with drugs,” I say to deflect. “And, I’ve made tons of mistakes with my own kids. I’m no expert.”

I’m no expert.

I remember when my two older daughters were still very young, one was still in a high chair, and I was an actor portraying a father rather than a real dad. I was so scared of making a mistake that would totally ruin the future of my precious little girls.

The question, “How come, Daddy?” used to throw me into conniptions. What if I gave them a bullshit answer because I didn’t know the answer and years later they called me out? What if I was totally wrong?

A thousand years ago when I envisioned some sort of life as a writer I wrote this (It’s a little ironic that it’s so appropriate now):

“How come, Daddy?”

The littlest one fidgets in her high chair, rubbing the jelly off the bread and peanut butter, and then inserts her entire finger into her small mouth, which this day, like other days, is awash with the morning’s foods: cheddar cheese from the scrambled eggs, crumbs from the toast, and smears of vanilla yogurt, her favorite.

She likes to repeat what my oldest daughter has just said, saying it often enough that the words take on a life of their own. They float here in the dining room, with the vines painted on the stucco-colored walls and the French doors. The morning sun exposes the smudges from little fingers in the doors’ panes of glass that the cleaning potion missed but which I notice only now. “Daddy, how come?” intones the older one. Though only four, she already appears way too grown up. I wonder if she might just skip portions of her childhood, leap-frog over entire years so that in no time she will be a young woman with little time for her old man.

While my daughters eat they are watching a Disney movie. It’s not something my wife likes me to do, let them watch TV and eat at the same time, but their chairs have perfect lines of sight to the enormous electronic baby sitter inside the armoire. Meanwhile I am looking for a five-letter word for “Madras money.” My attentions run between the newspaper, opened fully across the dining room table to the crossword puzzle that confounds me with its checkerboard riddles, and the kitchen sink, laden with crusty dishes from the night before demanding soap and some scrubbing. Everywhere but my two little girls.

But my distractions don’t matter to them. They are oblivious to my crossword puzzle conundrum. I have learned that “How come?” knows no boundaries of time or place or even the proper rules of engagement. I might go for the easy way out: Sometimes the girls ask and I filch answers out of thin air while I continue to devote attention to my distractions.

My little girls do not realize how double-edged their questions have become. When they ask “How come?” I face an opportunity to bolster their knowledge and reward their curiosity. But each “How come?” is also an opportunity to fail, to disappoint, to let them down because they will discover I am an impostor, a mere mortal, a faker posing as a father, someone only portraying the Supreme Being who knows all the answers.

I probably badgered my parents with bucketfuls of “How come?” I know this is the province of every Mom and Dad. So, as the volume and frequency of their questions rise to glass-shattering levels, I finally turn away from my crossword or turn off the radio or stop doing the dishes and I listen to them.

I get down off my chair and face them, these little packages of a thousand questions. All of a sudden, sitting on the wood floor, its gouges and wear a reminder of other parents and their children, and looking into their eyes, I forget the dangers of not appearing to know everything. They teach me to see a much less complicated place. The how comes so prominent in my daughters’ lexicons are chances to see the world from three feet tall.

All of a sudden, it is I who learn something from their take on the world, a view not yet tainted by the “important concerns” of our adult world; an outlook unblemished by the hundreds of credit card offers for zero interest that come in the mail everyday, or the images cast by teen idols decked out in tight, strategically torn jeans and equally planned tank tops in TV commercials for soft drinks, or the ecstasy promised from driving the newest leather-interiored, gas-guzzling, road-hogging SUV to the mall.

My children teach me that it is we adults who routinely twist things into Gordian knots, who shrink from saying what we really think—or even try not to think what we think we should not. It is in a How come? that I can find table-turning education at the hands of daughters and then I have the privilege of understanding them—and life—better.

As they await my answers I think that I spend too much time in the adult world worrying about adult things. About pleasing bosses and customers or how I can HBO without paying for it, or whether I will ever see the Detroit Tigers win a pennant. I’m lucky I don’t play golf or I would have even more to fret about.

Once they asked what had become of our two cats, Tigger and Roo. They hadn’t said anything before about why Tigger and Roo weren’t sitting in the windowsills or on lying on the couch anymore. I explained that cats sometimes just get sick and they die.

“How come, Daddy?”

“Well, just like when you great-grandmother Mimo got sick. She died too.”

“Are you going to die, Daddy?”

“Yes, honey, one day I will die.”

As I wipe breakfast from the little one’s face and she and her bigger sister, satisfied for now at the answers the impostor has offered, turn back to their Disney movie, I understand how this time is a precious, short-lived way station. My two little girls will grow up all too soon, the make-believe and the music of their childhood faded into memories.

And they won’t need me so much because they will discover their own answers. I will be left here in the dining room with the echoes of “How come, Daddy?” And, hopefully, once in a while, they will find that their Dad was really was not such an impostor after all.

I pulled up the essay from more than 10 years ago reinforce my point about both the timeliness of our roles as parents and the limits of our responsibility to get our kids to adulthood. I struggle with both of these ideas everyday.

I miss the days when my daughters adored me unquestionably and needed me. At the same time, it’s extremely cool to see them grow into the little women they are today.

Everything has both pain and joy. I know my friend is wrestling with questions that have no perfect answers. Just like we all do.