World Cup? Not even close...

The World Cup of Hockey.

The very name evokes a global notion of sports competition and supremacy; And while I always cheer for Canada to do well on the world stage, this time feels a little hollow. The sport of hockey is almost exclusively dominated, in the last 10 years an6way, by the red and white of my home country and while it is good to win the game we claim to have invented, what is it we are winning? The talent gap is so large that this made for T.V., Toronto centric tournament had to cobble together two teams who have no host nation to call their own. The under 24 North American team was exciting and the Europeans have become the sacrificial lamb in the Gold Medal final with Canada, but how can we call it a world cup when we are unable to even ice 8 national teams that could be competitive. Outside of the Big 6 (Canada, Russia, USA, Finland, Sweden and the Czechs), no country can claim to have a chance of winning or even competing at this level.

Contrast that with the mind boggling, years long journey the 32 teams that make up the only real World Cup go through. Football (soccer for the North Americans) provides so much drama just to get out of the group stage and while its bloated bureaucracy and corruption threaten it long term strategies, the game itself is the true world sport and its champion can claim a legacy of winning its way to the top.

Contrast this with the ongoing World Cup of Hockey. The teams in the tournament do not earn their way in, some are made up and all are forced to play under NHL, not international rules. I am most assuredly not a Soccer fan, but I am fairly certain the rules don't change at the games highest championship. We dominate but it feels somehow less.

The Olympics, combined with the World Senior and Junior Championships are probably a better reflection of the game but it is still controlled by the same 6 teams and to be brutally honest, only Slovakia (in 2002) has broken that domination in over a century. How can we continue to get excited about being the best of 6 countries in anything. I love the gold medal feeling but this tournament is mislabelled and that could be a proper start to its legitimacy.

Bring back the true name of this tournament, The Canada Cup.

We are hockey and until someone can figure out how to level the playing field that will only change if someone gets very lucky. When we line up best on best, no one comes close to staying with us. Calling it the Canada Cup would once again serve notice that we bring the standard that other nations chase when it comes to the rink and despite their success and excitement, ditch the phony teams and let nations play their way in for the last 2 spots. It is Canada's game and I think it could be better if we bring back the original  name of the trophy and challenge the world to come and try to take it from us. It won't fix the gigantic talent gap or dwindling popularity of my favourite sport, but at least it will better reflect what this tournament should properly represent.
Just my two cents. 
Go Canada!

The Party

So many questions for this guy...

I'll be brutally honest, as always, and say that for an event that I've allowed to shape my life, I remember precious little about The Party. Lost in the mists of time and booze, many of my memories are clouded by what I've been told or think I recollect. The exact details of this life changing moment are never clear, but always there in my mind with one single word...Why?


Why did I stop caring about academics? Why did I turn my back on those who tried to help me? Why did I choose a life of struggle when I could have done so much more? Why did I reject everything I thought I wanted to be?


These are just some of the questions I ask myself when I look back and I have no answers. 43 year old me would love to help the confused 17 year old Rob to not make these errors in judgement, but I know in my heart I wouldn't listen to any reason. There are a myriad of examples of people trying to step in and help me back then and I rejected them all.


It all began on a March break in the early 90's. The family had left for a week and I was left home on my own because I was working and hadn't given my parents any reason not to trust me. I'm sure they suspected I would have a few friends over and maybe bend the rules a little, but nothing to the scope of what I did. As soon as they left, my friends descended by the dozens for a party that now seems to have stretched forever that week. Fuelled by teenage angst, I plowed through bottle after bottle of whisky, oblivious to the fact that we lived in a pretty tight neighbourhood and word of my misdeeds would no doubt get back to my parents. My nihilistic view on life at this time had plenty to do with it. I was losing interest at school, neglecting my studies with an a vengeance and not thinking of any future. I wanted nothing more than to party with my friends and be a "grown up". I put that in quotes because I had no idea what that meant, my arrogance making up for my lack of knowledge.
 I cannot tell you what happened, I see little snippets in my mind, but they are like ghosts in the works. Jack Daniels, pizza boxes and beer bottles litter the floor; a hazy smoke filled basement with hair metal blaring from the boom box and the feeling of this is how life should be linger in my memory as the week went on. I had no concept of what life really required of you, I couldn't do laundry properly or budget my money and yet I knew I was ready to take on the world. Such hubris is a common theme in much of my life since then and I struggle with those consequences to this day.
The Party itself was like a thousand other teenage parties before and after. Dumb kids get access to a place to let loose and someone has a friend who can buy them booze, mission accomplished on both points. While the exact events are not as important as what I did when my family returned, I really hope I had a good time because it was a long time before I felt happy again.
Knowing that I was deep into a whole world of hurt when Mom and Dad found out what I had done, I left before they got home. Long before cell phones, I cannot imagine their struggle to deal with what had occurred and my running away. Again, my memory is not clear on the details, but I know that I made a choice that week to throw away the plans I had been making since I was a young boy to go to university, become something bigger than myself and make a difference in the world. It wasn't a conscious decision, but it was one I made in anger, defiance and depression.
 I now know that I was struggling with anxiety and a darkness that had come down like a veil on my life. This was long before we encouraged young men that it was okay to be sad or express their feelings. You weren't supposed to show any weakness because that was a sign that you weren't man enough. I work hard today to change that not only for myself but for the young men I know.
 Part of my problem was that I was not getting the results I had in school when I was younger. Being labelled as "gifted" was a blessing at first, but as I levelled off and became part of the regular core of kids, I still yearned to be special. I imagine that if I had applied myself a little harder and worked on it, I could have achieved my lofty goals, but when the learning that came easily when I was young turned difficult, I was lost. Once again, I should have talked to someone, many people tried to talk to me, but I was building a wall that still hasn't come all the way down.
 The aftermath of that week long self indulgent, arrogant train wreck of life choice was years of wandering. I moved out and lived on friends couches for days or weeks at a time. Returning home many times, I attempted to go back to my life before, but couldn't stay straight for long. I dabbled in drugs but they never really did it for me. Alcohol was my fuel and it took many of my memories with it in its' wake. Things would be okay for a little while and then I would again begin raging against an imaginary slight and run away. This was my life for many years after and I think it is because my parents never closed the door on my return that I never truly was lost. I could cling to that happy memory and slowly I grew up...very slowly.
I eventually did finish high school, with a big assist to my Mom who made it her mission to see me graduate. I immersed myself in the local hockey association, coaching kids and walking away from the people I had partied with during those fateful years. Occasionally I would have a few beers, but it seemed I was moving away from those terrible days and had something bigger coming. But my self confidence had been shaken by my mistakes and despite an amazing offer to pay for my first years tuition from my Uncle Lyle and Aunt Cathy, I couldn't return to academia. Life was rounding into a form though and my time behind the bench seemed to be the path I needed to find to fix everything. I really thought I was bound for the NHL one day...
 This shows you how little I had learned, nothing is ever that easy and life was going to throw me a curveball once again. The next chapter of my life was both terrifying and amazing; Filled with memories that make me smile and cry, often at the same time...but that is something for another day.
 

Photographs

My favourite kind of photograph.



The older I get the more important photographs become. Most of my memories of events come from those photos themselves as opposed to actually remembering them. Its odd, but the further away I get from my childhood, the more I cling to those pictures as evidence of my life before now. Grainy 70's shots look odd and while I know intellectually that is me in the photo, I can't remember that particular moment or how I felt. I'm not sure when that started to happen to me but it seems to be the norm as I get older.

My childhood is commemorated by a lot of photos, especially when we are little. Captured moments of unscripted joy, unhurried lives and a bright future. At play, formal for those family events when we'd be dressed up and looking our best or just hanging around the house; we have documentation that we were there, we existed and those things happened. Moving into my teenage years, they become less frequent because I wasn't around as much and we had started the inevitable moves into our own orbits with friends, lovers and lives. There are many years where there are just a handful of photos with me in them because I was off on my own journey and that did not include a lot of pictures. I wish I could find more from when I was 17 to 25 but I am not certain that many exist.

The advent of an affordable digital camera and subsequent improvements in cell phone technology has led to an explosion of pictures, good and bad, and it has made accessing those memories easier because we are always snapping shots.

I love to peruse Facebook or Instagram and see the pictures of my extended family and friends' and their ever growing brood. Time and distance has made it difficult to actually spend time with some of those people, so those cute shots on the Internet are my window into their lives. I have become a fan of taking a few shots myself with all my craft beer pictures, but it's become far more than beer that has captured my eye. I see the world in a new light because I am always looking for a unique way to show off the bottles in my collection and that in turn has led to my seeing things I've never noticed before and my camera finds them too.

. The digital revolution means my life in the last 10 years has far surpassed its documentation through photos than in the previous 30. I can look at my memories with the click of a button and there are times when I get lost for hours going through the albums on my computer reminiscing about days gone by. It's easier to catch a whisp in time now because we have such easy access to a way to do it and I am thankful for that. These pictures tell a story and the more we have, the better that story gets.

Copying Papa at Christmas time



Remembering Wingnut, our pet chicken

Not many photos exist from these days.

Mall Santa in the early 80's...a little creepy...

I got nothin'

 

My brothers and I, 1996

One of the best days.

Grampa and I would never get to share a beer, but I have this moment forever.

The Move

1987 Rob was a better dresser than 2016 Rob.

 Few events stand as life changing to me as much as our 1985 move from the gritty East End Hamilton neighbourhood to a relatively suburban Stoney Creek mountain one.  Growing up in the shadow of the steel plants shaped much of my character with its blue collar values, front porch sitting neighbours and the feeling that the whole community was looking out for you. The Move came at a time when our family was settling into its happiest time, yet it shook my life to the core.

As with any 12 year old, news that we were leaving all my friends and familiar landmarks behind was not greeted with enthusiasm. Who wants to leave their life and start over? Especially when you are like me and crave the simplicity and normalcy of routine. My best friend, Kevin, lived 4 houses away and we spent our free time on our bikes exploring the streets of the surrounding area. Adventure awaited every day and we felt safe no matter where we went. All that changed with a single move that led to some of my biggest triumphs and loves of my life, as well as some of my worst decisions.

We arrived in that semi detached house on Fuller Court soon after school finished and began to settle into our new lives. I had discovered a passion for hockey the previous few years and it was here that it blew up into a full blown obsession. The history, stories and numbers of the NHL gave me a foundation for stability and I grew attached to everything about the sport. I would spend hours in my room researching statistics and memorizing the players. With only 21 NHL teams, it was a simpler time and I immersed myself in everything hockey. Strapping on skates for the first time and taking to the net still remains a vivid memory and while my brief 5 year foray into actually playing hockey was filled with more defeat than victory, it stays with me as one of my happiest times. My talent never matched my heart but I soon found that those who cannot execute as a player drift towards coaching and that is where I found my calling, for a brief time at least. Our family became a Hockey one and we had a blast being part of that community for many years. This was my safe place, my refuge and these memories will always be close to my heart.

Old School Goalie!

My parents tried to ease the transition from our old neighbourhood, often bringing Kevin to stay overnight. But as any kid will tell you, when you are removed from the daily routine of hanging out, there comes a distance that cannot be filled. Not being part of the pulse of the old neighbourhood means you lose touch with the shared experiences. Drifting, I began to cut myself off from the world and live more inside my own head. I had a fantastic ability to create vivid imaginary worlds and inhibit them. With my love of books, I was never at a loss for material. The school year loomed and while I was in love with learning, the thought of being the new kid terrified me. This was a long time before any sort of anti bullying campaign and I knew what happened to the new kids. The larger problem occurred when it came to the actual school work. Several false starts and miscommunications about what I was actually supposed to be accelerated in led to a wasted few months and despite my best efforts, I started to struggle and that was new to me. I had been part of an advanced curriculum at my old school and remained so at my new one, but something had shifted in the transition. My grades remained high and my expectations hadn't changed, but the thrill of getting an A+ started to fade a bit.

I found out years later that my parents had discussed letting me return to the old neighbourhood to live with my grandparents because my depression was so deep. My struggles felt so huge and I was unsure what to do. I still get that feeling of sadness in my chest when I think of how lonely I was. But, as with most things when you're young, life changed. I met a kid from the next court over and slowly made friends at school. It was in trying to fit in that I first used humour, especially the self deprecating kind, to make myself part of the majority and it was then that I began a sideways drift towards what would be a lifelong battle with my self image. But in the meantime, I was finally happy. Our family was becoming part of the new community, especially at the arena, and life was once again appearing normal.

That time we met Gordie Howe!

The last two years of grade school present no real stand out memories. I functioned well as part of the leadership group in class and I remember mostly joyful experiences. We played road hockey, explored the ever expanding growth in our area and enjoyed many happy family times. But part of me never felt wholly present living there and despite everyone's best efforts, I yearned for a past that didn't exist anymore. Graduating from Grade 8, I tried and won a scholarship to a prestigious private high school in Hamilton and rather than continue with the friends I had made in the last two years, I decided to once again be the new kid. Looking back, I have no doubt that I was engaging in what has become a real theme of my life, Starting over. The feeling that if I just change everything about my circumstances, my life would be better. I lasted a year in that school before transferring to the local public high school because I couldn't fit in with the wealthy crowd that ran Hillfield. It was becoming obvious that I had no idea what I was doing and my grades began to drop. I started seeing school as an interference in my life rather than a help and even starting skipping class. My social network started anew, but with less than the best kind of results. No one knew what to do and while many tried to help, I was no longer listening. A theme that will present itself again in my life, many times, with the same results.

It's been almost 30 years since these events and most of reminiscing is of the happy kind, but that notion of changing everything and fresh starts remains. The next part of my life shaped the direction I would take for close to a quarter century. One decision took me off the path that most people, including me, thought I was on. One choice and I descended into over two decades of self medication and poor choices. It was a future wholly of my own volition and it started with The Party...but that tale is for another time.  

The Tragically Hip - Their Music, My Memories

The Hip, circa 1988

Last night was a singular moment in time that was shared simultaneously by millions of Canadians. The Tragically Hip's concert in Kingston was perhaps the final time we will see them perform and it has been an event I dreaded and anticipated at the same time. Gord Downie's cancer diagnosis left us all in shock that this vital and vibrant Canadian icon has had his time on this planet cut far shorter than anyone could have ever imagined. He is not just a musician, poet and writer of dreams; He is a father, husband, brother, son and friend to the people who know him best. We will mourn the loss of a legend but they will lose something far greater.

All of this leads to what I have felt bubbling around my head since the announcement that shook all fans of the Hip. I have read so many amazing tributes that talk of what Gord and the Hip mean to Canadians and how their unique way of telling our stories for us makes them so valuable and necessary to the national identity. I cried at many of the brilliant words that friends and strangers put on their Facebook pages or shared on mine. All the things at the macro level about the Hip are true and I was at a loss as to how I could contribute to the voices of others in saying Thank you to the boys in the band for all they mean to me. Then it struck me, my relationship with the band is not really about them at all, it is about what the music they make connects me to when I hear a song in the car or sitting alone here in the Grotto. The very personal connection of so many Tragically Hip songs to the last 30 years of my life is real, raw and continuing.

At 16, driving around in my Dad's car with Up to Here in the tape deck, dreaming of a future where I would meet the girl of my dreams and have a job that meant something. Wearing sports jackets over t-shirts because Gord did and singing Blow at High Dough at the top of my lungs as I drove around the Hammer with my pals. The young me loved the Hip because they were vibrant, loud and boldly Canadian.

At 18, wandering through the haze of bad decisions, drugs and alcohol, I found Road Apples and more than anything it was my anchor in a sea of anger and denial. Never will I here Fiddler's Green and Long Time Running and not feel the hopelessness at my running away from the path I thought I was supposed to be on. They consoled me when I was alone and carried me while I struggled to put my life back together.

At 23, saying good bye to the first woman I ever loved. Watching the Hip late on Saturday night Live perform two songs from Day for Night while we lay on the couch was contrasted by the video to Ahead by a Century from Trouble at the Henhouse playing on a TV in the background a year later as I saw her for the last time and knew it was truly over. We married far too young, too fast and not for the right reasons. Fast forward 20 years and I am proud and happy to call her my friend and read her brilliant words. Always in my heart with the songs of the Hip and the memories now are only of the fun we had.

At 25, meeting the last woman I will ever love in Kathryn and driving around in that broken down car I owned learning about each other as Bobcaygeon played over the tinny speakers. I will always recall her smile as we learned to love and she helped me right the ship of my life. Phantom Power's Fireworks and Something on take me back to those Tim Horton fuelled days and nights when I found her as the completion of my soul and the only person who can truly understand me.
At 31, getting married to Kathryn and seeing the future as brighter than I could have imagined in my darkest years. Putting our lives together with In Violet Light and taking her to her first of many Hip Concerts, I often joke about being The Darkest One, but when I hear It's a Good Life if You Don't Weaken, I think of holding her hand that day we said I do and cherish the memories of every day since.
At 40, losing my business and almost everything I had worked so hard for. Now For Plan A came into my life and I leaned hard on Gord every night. At Transformation played many times as I struggled in my battle with alcohol and felt at a loss as to what to do next. Kathryn was by my side the whole time and it was more often than not I dragged out the Hip and put my head down while I searched for my salvation.
At 43, today I am mostly whole. No longer hiding behind alcohol and leading a life I am finally proud of. A new job and the letting go of the dreams of being a parent. Heart wrenching at the least, but a realisation that I have so much life to live and all I have to do is go out there and get it. Man Machine Poem comes out, Gord's cancer is announced and the last Hip concert is broadcast worldwide by the CBC. We gathered in the Grotto, sang along, cried and Kat held my hand as the tears rolled down my face.

That night in Kingston. One more time, for Gord.

My life has so many more moments, big and small, that I can connect to the music of the Tragically Hip. They have been, quite literally, the soundtrack to my life and I think that is what I get out of the band. The real personal connection to my life that each album brought. From the first chord on Small Town Bringdown off of 1987's The Tragically Hip EP, to the final bow last night in Kingston I have always kept them close to my heart and I imagine I always will. The songs mean that I can have my memories close at hand and while many call them Canada's band, I will always think of them as my own. I may have to say goodbye to Gord someday and I will weep when that day arrives, but I will  have the music and that is what keeps my heart from breaking entirely.

Today is a good day and my yard is filled with my favourite songs from The Hip. My mind is flooded with so many memories and I will sing along and smile, knowing the music will never end.

Growing Up Happy - Part 1

My Childhood

That hair!

My childhood was wholly unremearkable. Please don't try to misconstrue that in any way other than positive. I was lucky and privileged enough to be born in a time when one parent could stay home and manage the household on a single salary. My father worked at Stelco, the local steel mill, and my mother was the one who stayed with us, being on call for 4 kids whenever we needed her. Not wealthy, but decidedly middle class, we grew up never wanting for the basics and occasionally splurging on luxuries. Growing up in a large family and being the oldest meant I knew responsibility early and was always on the lookout for my brothers and sister.



So young and over 40 years later, still beautiful.

My earliest memories play around the edges of real or nostalgia. All day bike rides with our only connection to home being that it was our neighbourhood and the people who lived there looked out for one another. We had to be home for dinner, but lunch would often be some sandwiches and a precious can of pop tucked into your backpack. Out again as soon as the dishes were done, we would pause only when the streetlights came on and begrudgingly head home, with promises to meet up with our friends the next day.

Pictures were a luxury, as you had no idea if they turned out and getting the film produced cost money that would be better spent on groceries or the ever growing kids in our family. Yet we have album after album of smiling faces, family events and road trips that brought so much joy to our lives. We may have thousands of pictures on our computers now, but none of them compare to those dusty photos of 4 kids and their parents having fun. Smiling faces and happy eyes make me see just how much my parents gave us.

That time we met Gordie Howe!

Summer meant vacation and for my mom, that meant no rest from the demands of 4 busy kids. She always kept us moving, taking us on day trips, making sure we ate and engaging our obsessions, which would change from day to day as we found new and exciting things happening in the world. Our house was often the focal point for all of our friends as its joyful demeanour was a respite from their own chaotic lives. The pool was always full and one of the first outdoor responsibilities that we learned after gardening was if you wanted to have your friends over, you had to vacuum the pool. It prepared me for the many parties I would host over the decades. Always make the house ready and you can enjoy your time with friends. No one was ever turned away from that house on Glassco, the door swung open at all hours and even though I was a kid, I knew my parents were constantly helping those who needed it.

Still cute together and always up for an adventure

Occasionally and with great anticipation, we would go away for a vacation. I can't even begin to imagine the logistics of packing 4 kids, sometimes a dog and all their perceived needs into a car and either going camping or in later years to my Aunt Jennette's cottage in Wasaga Beach. These trips were extra special because it meant that Dad didn't have to work and we could spend some time with him away from the stress of his job. Like most kids whose mother stayed home and father worked, I didn't understand how hard they both worked and it is only with the wisdom of age that I see what they did. A vacation for us kids meant beaches, swimming and other sunny adventures. For my mom, it meant taking care of the 5 of us in another place with more dirt and less amenities. But we never knew or felt that. She always smiled and made sure we were taken care of first. I don't think she ate a hot meal for most of our trips and always put our enjoyment first. It was selfless then and I can't help but marvel at how we never knew she was working so hard to make our lives so much fun. 

Dad always manned the BBQ and of course the Pie - Irons (essentially a cast iron sandwich maker that you use in the hot coals of the fire). Perhaps a beer in hand, he loved to grill up whatever mom had brought and if you were lucky, he'd let you have a little taste of what was cooking. I know now how hard he worked to provide us with everything we needed and the skills he taught me have made me the man I am today. While I inherited his quick temper, I also heeded his wisdom on how to contain it. We were always the focus of his attention, the jokes, stories and he was an involved presence at everything we did. Being a father in the late 70's and early 80's was far different than it is now and his very attentive and sympathetic way of listening and offering advice was years ahead of its time.Our later conflicts brought on more by our similarities than our differences, but the bond forged in my childhood never let me doubt his love.

The boys are forever best friends.
We may not see each other often, but the love is always there.

 All of these memories come from that warm place inside my heart. I can feel the love I was given and the safe embrace of home still resonates today. The things we did as a family and the happiness it created are what saved me when I was at my lowest years later. I always joke that any mistakes I made in life are no ones fault but my own because I had such an easy going childhood and a set of parents who supported me even when I didn't deserve it. All of this happened in a simple house, on a suburban street with two people who gave everything they had to make sure their kids grew up with a sense of family and joy at being part of something bigger than yourself.

Thank you Mom and Dad for always making us your priority, then and now.

 Your dedication to your family is a big part of why I smile when I think back to those days on Glassco and the glory of my youth.

 

The family has grown and the love has multiplied.

 

I'm Okay with Who I am.

***I am going to preface the following post with this little aside. I do not want advice on how to diet, exercise or otherwise lose weight. Your experience with those three things is singular and doesn't apply to anyone else. I write this because I love who I am and you should do the same for yourself. If you want to help someone, look in the mirror because when it comes to who we are at our core, the only opinion that matters is your own.***

I am a fat guy.

Not a shock if you know me, follow along with my beer adventures at The Drunk Polkaroo or have encountered me in real life at all. I weigh in the neighbourhood of 270 pounds and being only 5'6", it's a big gut on a small guy.

I'm neither proud or ashamed of what I look like. It is who I am and despite years of thinking about doing something about it, I never really have.

Perhaps I am lazy;

 Maybe I don't really care about myself and eat poorly;

Drink too much and have poor nutritional skills.

No...None of that is true.

Yet those are some of the things I've heard over the years, along with what exactly I should be doing to be more like everyone else. Eat less, exercise more, try this fad diet, see a sepcialist or engage in someone else's newest passion. While I may be a beer guy and shout my love from the rooftop, I always say that you should drink what makes you happy and to hell with everyone else. Maybe the people who want to change how I live should do the same.

So why bother writing about this at all? Why not just keep on living life and let it slide? The truth is since I've started to explore the wider world inside my head and outside my comfort zone, I don't know how not to write about what comes forward. My being fat isn't a disease and it doesn't mean I have to listen to your advice or even want it. Why is someone's weight still the one thing that people feel they have the right to weigh in on? (Pun intended)
I walked over 10 kilometers last week in Quebec one day and felt wonderful. I wasn't out of breath, tired or sore, even the next day. I walk to work quite a bit lately because the Jeep is broken, 2.5 km each way and it's not an issue. But still I get the looks, comments and unwanted intrusion into my appearance. Even at 43, I can't get away from people who think they have the right to impugn upon my person because of how I look.

 I refuse to hide behind the walls of my home, though. I make videos and take pictures with my shirt off because I love who I am. I expose myself to the potential ridicule, but I don't care because I want everyone to know it is okay to love yourself for who you are. If you want to lose weight, get more fit or engage in any other form of self improvement, I say go for it. Attack your life with a ferocity that will help you achieve anything you want. But don't expect me to come along with you. I applaud your efforts and wish you well, but I am pretty happy with myself and the life I have (re)built.

Many times I have lost some weight and then put it back on. The master of the Yo-Yo diet, until one day I just couldn't take it anymore. I decided to just be myself and see where life takes me.  I eat pretty well, mostly home cooked meals with a good balance between greens, grains and meats. I try not to eat a lot of junk and almost never patronize fast food joints. My beer consumption is surprisingly small despite what people perceive. While I do have one beer every day, it is often just that single beer that enters my system. I am on my feet 9 hours or more at work 5 days a week and spend a large chunk of my days off working around the house. So I am far from the lazy, beer swilling, nacho eating character that usually embodies a man of my girth. I am active and probably have more energy than most people I know. I greet each day with enthusiasm and find other's lack of positivity to be a larger problem than the few extra pounds I carry around my middle.

I know this sounds like a rant and in my head it didn't start out that way. But body and image shaming have no place in a civilized, modern world. We must strive to be more inclusive in our approach to creating an open and better society with our words and actions. I make bad jokes at my own expense all the time and I know that it is because I learned early on that humour can mask the pain that other people cause. I recognize my own need to be more accepting of who I am and work harder to create a better narrative for my own story. Your journey, like mine, is inherently personal. You can choose to be joyful and to make other peoples lives the same or you can be negative and hateful. If you're a downer, take your bullshit somewhere else, I've heard it all before.

I might go for a walk tonight. Or a swim. Or maybe I'll prop my feet up on the deck and have a few pints. Whatever I decide is because it makes me happy and at the end of the day, that's all I can do.

Be kind to each other and yourself. Unless someone asks for your advice, keep it where it belongs...in your head. Be fierce in your passions and gentle with your faults. Nothing has to stay the way it is, but don't let anyone else take over the wheel of where you're headed. The only person driving your life should be you.