My heart pounding. Lungs burning. The sub-freezing air cuts into my chest with every stride. I gingerly plant one foot in front of the other through snowy terrain to avoid dangerous patches of ice lining the asphalt. My head is now pounding as I push myself to keep pace amidst snow slicing away at my ankle line. Finally the cranial pressure is too much, the white-out glare is magnified—I heave myself across one last stretch of my legs and drop. Hands on my knees. Panting. Gasping for air.

I’d been jogging for 3 minutes.

Loveland, Colorado is about 5,000 ft above sea level, which is about 5,000 feet above my Berkeley apartment. Accordingly, the altitude has its own special way of greeting the out-of-shape. It’s unfortunate that I subject myself to the pain of these Day Ones more often than not over the course of the year. So, it wasn’t any surprise that as I returned from a fruitful fall semester to the great state of the Rockies I’d find myself back in the panting and heaving state of Day One of getting back in shape.

About a week ago, I met a young gentleman from University of Florida at the airport just before my flight back. We’ll call him Marcus, since that’s the closest resemblance to his name that I can recall. Marcus, a relatively big guy, strutted up to me in baggy sweats carrying a long board as I waited in the Southwest Airlines on-deck line and immediately proceeded to compliment my shoes. Feeling good about my shoes, I struck up a conversation, and I would later learn that Marcus plans to attend dental school and used to play football before a shoulder injury. As the conversation progressed, I commented to Marcus that I see college as life in the extremes. We’re not sleeping one night for one reason and still not sleeping the next night for another. Whether or not it’s a choice or just the lack of maturity to commit to a consistent healthy lifestyle, college is a grand ol’ time to subject our bodies to the extremes.

I call it “rubber-banding.” And for me, exercising definitely falls into the rubber-band category. Regular workouts seem to only be either full on or full off, binary in nature. Hence, I find myself at Day One. The cycle generally involves me in some type of macho getting-buff competition during the Summer and betraying all efforts in the Fall as the schedule fills up. It’s just easier to rubber-band. I’m sure I’ll grow out of it when I’m older. Kinda like water wings.

Regardless, I figured it would be more auspicious to avoid making my Day One the first of the year since New Year’s Resolutions get a bad rap. And, I’m trying the keep the plan simple and stay realistic. There are two main steps. 1) Get Outside. 2) Move. And eventually we’ll build up to more extreme things like frozen lake parachute skating (I swear I just saw that the other day) and lifting big rocks.

So, here’s to the Day Ones, here’s to breaking the rubber-banding cycle of my exercise regime along with many other habitual extremes. Don’t worry, I won’t blog religiously about Day Two or Day Three, but you can do me a favor and send good vibes in hopes that this’ll be the last Day One at least for a little while.

**Written on January 18^th, posted ridiculously after the fact**

My mom tells me I’m unique. But that hasn’t really helped with the job hunt.

Applying for jobs oddly resembles applying for college. I can easily recall the feeling of submitting my final college apps. That day, I proclaimed to my mother, “I’m sick of being deep. I’m sick of talking about who I am, what motivates me, what makes me unique… I just want to be shallow, M-dog. I just want to talk about girls.” It was the search to portray myself as something special, one of a kind, bound to revolutionize the world… as a hormonal teenager who had no idea how to even iron his own shirt.

Doesn’t the adjective “unique” just sound so appealing? It’s the individual conquering all, the singleton rising above the sea of six billion other bodies; it’s ownership over an ethereal quality that has no comparison. It’s our qualification for an open position; it’s the unseen product that hashes open an untapped market, the undiscovered solution to a global issue.

I was flipping through a book on Western art the other day. Well, it was more like a modern tome; the book was almost two feet tall and a foot and a half wide. My journey through the manuscript’s lavish depictions and concise, digestible descriptions was a relaxing effort to feel more artsy and worldly. After quickly passing over the Byzantine era, I ran across the famous Renaissance names: Michelangelo, Masaccio, Leonardo… And apart from being stunned by the detail of their artwork I frankly became undoubtedly jealous of their titles. Whatever happened to the days of the painter slash philosopher slash scientist slash mathematician slash world renowned pastry chef? Seriously Da Vinci, was that really possible? Sure, I secretly long to climb the ranks as the world’s best Mechanical Engineer slash Department Store Soundtrack Producer slash Dodgeball Tournament Announcer but realistically…

Yet maybe the modern quest for individuality can take a page from the Renaissance masters. I recently stumbled over a blog entitled “Defining the New Singularity.” Senior VP of Creative at frog design (a creative consultancy in San Francisco) struck a chord with his opening line: “Mick Jagger is a beautiful man.” Mark continued to elaborate upon what he coined as the “Mick Jagger phenomenon,” the beauty that ensues from the perfect harmony of personality, emotion, identity, and talent: his singularity. The article was mostly concerned with the present and future of successful “design,” the poignant balance of form, function, consumer identity, and emotion among a myriad of other factors, but this manifestation of singularity is what stuck with me.

I told a friend last night that “half of college is about finding balance,” and I think I finally believe what I said (moderately silly). It’s possible that truly excelling in numerous areas academically and creatively is not as feasible with modern standards, but maybe today’s Renaissance man, today’s sharply unique individual is a complementary mix of the right talents and traits, one who embodies singularity through his balance rather than solely his excellence.

The New Year passed about two weeks ago, and the I think the air is less about resolutions and more about sticking to them about now. I know my road through adolescence has been fraught with this struggle to unleash this inner Mick Jagger—and I’m sure the internal conflict won’t soon subside–but in some ways I like to use the New Year as another go at it. I’ve found time to evaluate, to weigh in, to make resolutions to better balance myself, and one can only hope such efforts will translate to a stronger, more singular embodiment of oneself.

Of course this is big talk for a soon 20-year-old who still wears a retainer to sleep in his truck blanket at night, but thinking forward never hurt. M-dog used to tell me I’m unique. Granted that was in the second grade when I was applying for the gifted and talented class about oceans, it was most likely a first step towards my wide-eyed, optimistic outlook.

Foolish as it may be, I continue to search for the right mix of experiences, influences, and inspirations. And at least until now, that’s been enough.

I’d venture to say that Final Exams represent one of the most perplexing of university phenomena. Undoubtedly, the experience varies from student to student. Some laugh. Some cry. Some laugh while crying, and others simply remain entirely emotionless for a full week’s time. I like to think I fall into category three, but that’s beside the point.

For me, Finals are a flurry of music and words. Countless hours are expended in the Unit 1 Academic Services Center (the ASC, a freshmen hot spot for studying that I exploit to no end since I live quite close) under the pulsating sounds of my ridiculously large Sony headphones. (For some reason my $15 investment towards cheap, fatty headphones was one of my best decisions in life. I have small ears. Earbuds hurt.) I believe last year’s examinations were coated with the cool beats of The Killers, Jack Johnson, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and John Legend, but as Taylor would say, this semester was all about the “jams.” I was aggressive, taking no prisoners this year, homie. DJ Girl Talk, Citizen Cope, The Hush Sound, Miles Davis, and T-pain (hell yes) basically pervaded every instant of my book-ridden, sleep-lessened, academic existence. I’d study with music, walk with music, relax before tests with music, shower with music, eat with music, go on dates with music, fight off animals with music… I’m sick of my music collection.

In some inspirationally juvenile mode, I like to envision myself during Finals as the center of some epic movie montage. A layered protagonist gearing up to dominate a rising challenge, a brilliant Russell Crowe surrounded by a world of equations, a humble bachelor pouring his heart into his work only to surmount the defining moment of his career, a scarred warrior soaking in the aroma of a cold landscape on the eve of war… At moments I can trick myself into believing it’s the battle-ready preparation kind of montage, but on the whole, my journey is more of a studying for my life—preparing for the world’s most grueling intellectual clash the world has witnessed—kind of montage. Although still an outlandishly exaggerated perspective on a measly semester conclusion, in some childish way, this time-lapse dimension paired with the perfect movie montage soundtrack (via the helmet I pass off as headphones) not only passes the time but helps me relish (dare I say enjoy) the workload.

Days in the ASC (even after hours with the workers) and 4am’s at Crossroads (always with three cups: hot chocolate, ice water, and too much honey with a little hot tea)…not to mention the optional nature of hygiene (no details necessary)…

At the very least, finally wrapping your head around a concept or exhausting every single practice problem is something to bite into. I feel like it’s part of the classic college experience (well, what you see in movies or in those pretty college pamphlets)… Of course Final Exams have their downsides. One of my favorites is the exponential decay of social skills. My own psychological analyses led to one conclusion, the allotment of the majority of my brain’s resources to silent reading and ungodly stacks of practice problems inevitably left my communicative efforts at a loss. Mumbling, incredibly lame and horrendously delivered jokes, and aversion of eye contact resound among my symptoms as tell tale signs of a hard working, Mechanical Engineering Golden Bear.

And on the real, our time honored college tradition is really not that bad. Sure there was a Saturday morning where I woke up and just thought, “Wow. Hmm… I’m kinda tired of waking up with quantum physics problems rattling through my skull.” Say what you will, take it as is, for me, it’s just more chaos to relish in.

I began writing this post during my flight home yesterday, a start to a promising break that holds a little more time for a few neglected past times and a couple new interests. I’m reading a bit more now. I’ve always avoided simple recreational page turning but I’m giving the revolutionary practice a shot and let me tell you, it’s wild. Who knows, there might be a few more blogs on deck as well as a chance to hop back on the buff-getting train.

The core plans include home cooked meals, idiotic adventures with good friends, and the mountain slopes, three elements of a quality recharge. Cheers to another semester whisked away in a blink and another successful Final-Exams-battle-montage. With some luck, I’ll replenish not only my music collection but also my social skills.

Happy Holidays

To be perfectly honest, I’ve been a smidge out of whack recently. I think it all really started that one day I got hit with an egg yolk.

No, seriously. Some hoodlum actually threw a freaking hard-boiled, yellow, cholesterol bomb at me. I was on a bench in the Unit 1 Courtyard, just reflecting upon life over the phone with my mother and before I knew it—kapow. And accordingly, my life proceeded to disintegrate into shambles.

There was something beautifully disastrous about that day. I went grocery shopping with Kristy that fateful evening after the egg yolk incident. A few weeks earlier I discovered that my good friend and Berkeley Group colleague owned a car, and the prospect of hitting the Safeway without the sinking dismay of being forced to haul all of one’s grocery-loot back on the 51 Bus was too hard to pass up. Specifically, I bought eggs that night, (a consumption staple for my high protein, giant muscle diet) a brand new carton of eggs that I proceeded to drop on my kitchen floor less than an hour later.

Flexing my machismo I had intelligently decided to carry all eight bags of groceries in one trip back to my kitchen (you have to, it’s Man Law: one trip for groceries no matter what) and the single bag that escaped my grip had to contain my eggs. The moment I saw the oozing yellow substance, I sprung into action. There was absolutely no hesitation. Like a crazed chef, I immediately threw a non-stick pan onto the stove and with a quick whirl of olive oil I was gingerly salvaging what was left of my carton directly into a flurry of scrambled goodness. There was no way I was losing my eggs.

Then, the fun began. As I cleaned up the last remnants I managed to bash my head against the freezer door. And moments later, as I hastily washed my frying pan I somehow maneuvered my sponge in the perfect sweeping motion to launch a deluge of scalding hot water onto my body. Nice.

I really should have taken a hint as I trudged back up to my room, battle scarred. At the time, I was working on a report for my Technical Communication course about Snowboard Design. It was actually amazing, I spent three days just learning everything I could about the modern snowboard—trolling through the websites of Burton, K2, Sims, Ride, as well as reading research papers about cutting edge modeling. So there I was, without eggs, but ready to print out my midterm paper. I had already expended much of the day hopelessly attempting to wrap text around some of my images, but somehow, by an act of pure pure college-student-frustrating, Murphy’s-Law-fulfilling, salt-in-my-wounds-rubbing evil my Word Document just started generating pages. Seriously, on page fourteen of twenty, Microsoft Office decided to continuously add blank pages. This wasn’t a small matter, as my document reached 4000 pages (no joke) I was ready to crack some skulls. I dashed across the street to grab my laptop from my house–almost got hit by a car–and after an hour of finagling and troubleshooting I was finally ready to print the devil’s paper. I was finally ready as the Color Printer chose to just laugh at me and only produce one page at a time. Eventually, I dragged my worn psyche back to my house around 3am with little fire left in my bones and cracked open some physics homework.

As the clock struck 4am I passed out in my desk chair and at 4:30 I somehow magically found my way out of my pants into my bed. The problem was… I had to turn in that midterm paper at 9:30am—and I forgot to set an alarm.

Now, at this point in the story most people gasp (trust me, I’ve told this way too many times to drown my mediocre sorrows in unnecessary pity, pity hugs to be exact). So dawn broke, morning showed its face, and I snapped open my eyes in stomach-wrenching fear. I knew it the second I woke up, I forgot to set that damn alarm on my stupid phone. I desperately searched for my phone to uncover the damage that had been done, and I caught a glimpse of the clock…

It was only 9:20am. By some act of God, I had managed to wake up at the perfect time. I literally just sat up in my bed, raised my arms spread, and like a moron–howled in victory “WOOOO!” I dressed, brushed, granola bar-ed, and leisurely walked to 42 Bechtel Hall in triumph over a night that had left me weather beaten.

Happy ending. That whole fiasco turned out relatively well and in hindsight the day really wasn’t that bad—just a number of annoying occurrences that seemed to add up at the time. But between you and me, the last few weeks have truthfully been a little off. I’ve always been the kind of kid that lived for the weekend. Not in that ready-to-go-party-crazy mode, but simply the concept that I could easily justify hours and hours of work with the comfort of a stress-free Saturday on the horizon. Nonetheless, there have been a couple more hours lately, and a few less vegetative states. I’m learning a lot; my head just isn’t all “there.”

It’s probably that time of the year; I feel like there are a lot of people in limbo at the moment. The easy solution: drop everything and start an organic farm in Mammoth. My solution: cry.

What?

A guest speaker once showed me a speech by Jimmy Valvano, the late college basketball coach and founder of the V foundation for cancer research. During his ’93 speech at the ESPY’s , Jimmy (who had been diagnosed with cancer) said that everyday we should do three things: Laugh, Think and Cry. If we lighten up, spend some time in thought, and have ourselves moved to tears…hell, that’s a full day. I’m not really a wreck and my life isn’t charred and torn to shreds, I’m just a little tired and extended time in the college bubble can understandably throw you a little off center.

So I’m going to do the following and I extend an invitation for anyone to join me. I’m going to take a deep breath of something. Whether it’s filled with laughter, brilliance, or tears, I’ve just been pining to take a deep breath of something with some bite. And afterwards, I plan to savor the aftertaste, stretch out, relax my shoulders, throw on some Frank Sinatra, and lose myself in the comfort that I still wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world than where I’m sitting right now…

…unless some other idiot decides to throw another egg yolk at me.

So some might ask where I’ve been since my last blog post two months ago. Well there’s one solid answer to that elusive question. I’ve been getting buff. Working out. Sculpting the guns. All day. Everyday.

I’ve told a number of people about the summer challenge. A few weeks before spring semester at Cal came to a close, I proposed a challenge to the dudes on my floor: whoever could get the buffest over the summer, I would buy an entire pizza for to undo everything he did. I’m sure everyone took it to heart. I figured Dan the Bear would be the stiffest competition since he could already out bench me by… double. But it was a “most improved” sort of contest so I figured I had a chance. If Bister or Fatty worked out religiously they probably could have got cut real quick since they both weigh a buck twenty-five but that would mean them working out religiously which at least for Fat would be next to impossible.

So I set to work. Ish. It was more a kind of guilty make-up ploy for all those Top Dogs ™ and Gypsy’s Calzones ™ over the past school year. I told everyone at home jokingly about my challenge. It was one of those “qual” (a phrase my brother coined, just watch you’ll start using it every chance you get) stories you reserve to tell every single person you’re reunited with so you can seem exciting and intriguing right off the bat. Nonetheless, it seemed like everyone was gunning for me to win the challenge.

Faceface started to call me every day to go on cramping Altitude-Sickness-Inducing-Runs (ASIR); my Dad started making sure I was lifting three times a week… He had been in the habit of making my mother and him fresh juice with his Birthday Present Magic Bullet ™ and he even started making me a batch each morning. I would soon find out he was slipping Protein Powder into my smoothie. I had even taken embarrassing “before” pictures that I discretely hid in my laptop, so if you ever search through my hidden files you’ll find some moderately embarrassing shirtless photos of me not flexing in the mirror.

But the quest for a ripped “bod” was good no doubt. Summer workout sessions made you feel like those movie stars that just get paid for two months to learn how to sword fight and get ripped so they could make an awesomely bad action flick. I even watched the making of 300 where the guy said they would engage in 3 hour workouts, twice a day, 6 days a week for 3 months… not to mention the bench pressing between takes while filming. I was on the road to getting huge.

If you ask me in real life I’ll tell you I’m a freaking beast of a man with giant muscles on muscles. But to be perfectly honest I’m not that ridiculous. Though once again, I’ll never admit that in person.

Nonetheless, it was odd, my habits really did start to change. I was on vacation in Vietnam and I started going crazy after not working out for a few days. I was used to this sweet one track routine in my Colorado home—work out, eat well, summer job, and this vacacion was totally throwing me out of whack. I actually started caring what I was eating. It was one of the most disturbing, slightly depressing, “qual” changes in my esteemed 19 year life thus far.

I had already Wikipedia’d “How to Get a Six Pack” so I was eating fruit for extra fiber, drinking plenty of water… At the same time last summer I was downing those chocolate chip cookie sandwiches like there was no tomorrow while washing it all down with three Blue Koolaid Jammers ™. But this year… when I hit 2 of 5 ice cream cookie wheels… I felt guilty. Of course I still did it but hell, I felt kinda bad—like every bite was taking a chunk out of my carefully chiseled physique. It’s depressing really, losing that carefree, shove your face adolescent attitude. Nobody wants that, it’s one of those things your parents said would eventually change in your life and you never believed them, but kaboom, there it happened (e.g. not dancing like an idiot, not waving at strangers from the car window, not making loud “woo” noises in public areas).

Nonetheless it is a change for the better I have to admit and in some ways I hope I don’t recede back into my old ice cream shoveling ways. The goal is to lift twice a week while at school—I’ve already cast away prospect of maintaining cardiovascular endurance so I figure it’s a reasonable goal.

But who would’ve thought, one second you’re just trying to get “cut” and the next you’re growing up. At least my triceps are huge.