Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day has morphed into a celebration of romantic love, but according to Wikipedia, it honors two early saints named Valentinus. One of these men, while jailed for performing weddings for soldiers, restored the sight of the blind daughter of the judge who had imprisoned him. Before his execution, he wrote the girl a letter and signed it “Your Valentine.”

CrossFit

You’ve heard the joke: “How do you know someone does CrossFit? They tell you.”

So, I do CrossFit. Working out, for me, pre-forty, was so I could be more attractive and feel better about myself, as I suffer from body dysmorphic disorder. Post-forty, I exercise to get my head right (as an antidepressant) and to cling to life—to feel less old. There’s a decent amount of research indicating that exercise is the only real youth serum. I’m usually the oldest guy in the class by two decades, which should be cool. But it isn’t.

You see, they treat me like Mick Jagger—so old, they find me inspiring. I walk into the box (what CrossFit calls gyms, for some reason), and the earnest comments begin (“It’s so great you’re here!”). Yeah, fuck you.

Often, the workout is a race against the clock, and I’ll still be working through my box jumps, burpees, and various forms of torture when others begin checking their phones and fist-bumping one another, already finished. Then something awful happens. They spot me (still) making the movements of a fish that’s been on a hard surface for too long, flopping every once in a while and gasping. They’ll surround me, no joke, start clapping, and say shit like … “You got this, Scott!” It’s awful.

Anyway, the coach at my NYC box is a kid named Sean. He’s twenty-three, looks fifteen, has black curly hair, wears neon red basketball shorts and a hoodie, and takes himself, and CrossFit, very seriously. A month ago I got to class ten minutes late, and he told me in front of the class—of other twentysomethings—“If you’re late next time, I’m not going to let you into class.” (Ironic, given my personal late policy; see page 48.)

Note: If it sounds as if I am guilty of asking people to “do as I say, not as I do,” then (again) trust your instincts.

I was twenty minutes late recently for a live TV segment on CNBC’s Squawk Box, and … they switched segments around. But not Sean—he’d had enough. Probably a good thing. I recognize I need to be reminded I’m not that important—home is a volcano of reminders.

Tell People You Love Them

Ten minutes into class, we find ourselves on the floor stretching, and my mind begins to focus on the horror that awaits me in the remainder of the hour. Wednesday, Valentine’s Day, I went to the 7:30 p.m. class, and five minutes into the stretching, the very serious Sean heard a distinct ringtone on his phone. An emergency? He retreated to the corner, near where I was stretching (i.e., lying on my back occasionally moving a limb to one side). Sean answered the phone:

“Hi, Grandpa, I’m at work, can I call you back?”

However, Grandpa was having none of it. He ignored the request and kept Sean on the phone. Every thirty seconds over the next three minutes (I timed it, as I was bored—see above: stretching), Sean would respond with the same five words: “I love you, too, Grandpa.” Six times.

I wondered what Grandpa was saying to Sean. Was he consoling him, because Sean didn’t have anybody to spend Valentine’s with? Maybe he was telling Sean about his grandma or his mother, or maybe just using the holiday as an excuse to tell Sean, repeatedly, how wonderful he is. What was clear is that, six times, he told his grandson, “I love you.”

Perspective

Old people get up close and personal with death as their friends and spouses begin departing, which heaps perspective on them. Marketers hate old people because of this perspective. They begin spending their time and money on things like healthcare, loved ones, and college funds for their grandkids instead of vintage sneakers, iPhones, and Keurig pods. In sum, they become fearful and remarkably less stupid … refusing to spend money on high-margin products that young people hope will make them feel more attractive or powerful.

We invest so much in our kids. Sitting on the sidelines as your nine-year-old goalie son reaches in vain for eleven shots that find the net behind him, or attempting to digest the food at a water park. The payoff? Several decades later, you can interrupt your kid’s kid at work, ignore their requests to call you back, and every thirty seconds tell him you love him, pause, and hear your grandson tell you he loves you, too. Wash, rinse, repeat … six times.

I have a love/hate relationship with CrossFit. However, I’ve decided I like Sean.