Put That in Your Stovepipe

Originally published in the Comic’s Log on June 14, 2023.

I turn 40 this year. And I could die happy.

That’s not to say I want to.

There’s nothing wrong with me, at least not that I can tell. Besides the obvious, constant gas, I feel the best I’ve ever felt. Thankfully, the most suicidal streak I have is a proclivity to overindulge in both uncured bacon and Manhattans. Not at the same time, although that wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

I’m in a Louisville hotel room, writing from bed. Wiff, Bailey, and I are heading to Chicago today to visit a city neither of us have visited since moving out just over 8 years ago. Earlier this morning, I was looking at old photos we took in Chicago, and came across one of myself that caught my interest.

In it, I’m in my underwear. [Don’t get excited.] It’s not risqué, unless you call the sight of slight pudge spilling over an elastic waistband risqué. It’s tasteful pudge. I’m in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. My temples are still brown, a color they haven’t seen since Obama’s second inauguration—we both went gray soon after—and my face is a little pudgier. My shoulders are narrower. They’re slightly rolled forward, the way an office worker’s become from too much time hunched over a laptop pretending to work. And the iPhone I’m holding is an iPhone 6, a relic! It was the first photo I took of myself when I decided to start working out.

Up until then, I’d bragged that I didn’t go to the gym. I’d find ways to bring it up in conversation. Someone would ask, “Are you sure you want a third helping of Mac & Cheese?”

I’d respond like a smarmy magician letting the audience in on a secret. “Well, you’d never guess by looking at me, but I don’t work out. Can you believe it?” I’d wait for their eyes to go wide but the surprise never came. They could always believe it.

I used to say the same thing about reading books. Someone would ask what I was reading and I’d proudly tell them, “Oh, I don’t read.” I’d follow with a joke, the way you do when you realize what you just said was just about the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said. “I mean, I did enough reading in college. Or did I? Hahahaha. Haha. Hahaha. Ha…” It would get a courtesy laugh, the kind you’d give when someone just said the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said.

I’m not sure why I bragged about not taking care of my body. It’s not like I was some hulk of a man, with giant shoulders, six pack abs, my engorged pecs one sneeze away from ripping my too tight t-shirt clean off my waxed chest. My father-in-law described my body as a stovepipe.

And about the books? It’s not like I was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author making a joke at some fancy cocktail soirée. It’s one thing for Robert Frost to joke about having never read a book. But me? What was I trying to prove? That I was stupid?

Probably. I mean, I wasn’t stupid stupid. But I was stupid in the way people get when they don’t want to learn new things. Choosing not to learn new things is choosing to be stupid.

Gun to my head, I think I was covering for a fear of failure. It’s one thing to start on a journey and fail, but another thing entirely to have never started in the first place. If I was a stovepipe, at least I was a stovepipe because I never tried to be anything else. I wouldn’t be a stovepipe because I hadn’t worked hard enough.

There’s comfort in not trying. It’s safe. It’s like being a critic. From the comfort of your balcony seat you can judge the actors doing the actual work. Or it’s like being a fan, judging the shortstop when he bumbles a throw to second and misses the double play. Have you ever had to field a grounder with forty thousand fans rooting for the guy who just hit it?

I took another photo a few months ago. I’m a little leaner. I’m a little broader. I’m still pulling a goofy face—some things will never change. I still have obvious, constant gas, and I’m still mostly stovepipe. I’m not where I hoped I’d be by this time, but at least I haven’t quit.

And that’s the important part. Failure depends on where you draw the finish line. I get to decide when to fail. If I quit working out now, I’d fall short of my goal of looking like Captain America [before he transitioned]. If I gave up comedy now, I’d have made a good run, but would have certainly fallen short of my goal of international stardom.

I guess I’m not ready to die. I’ve still got shit to do!