Yesterday was a very bad day. After I received that email – the one I posted further down the page – it utterly and completely ruined my day off. I am already borderline manic depressive with a touch of psychosis, sprinkled with a dash of OCD, but the email really set me off. When I get set off, instead of fighting, I shut down. I retreat. I quit.
Yesterday, I decided to post about it, just to gauge your reaction. The response was overwhelming. Every single comment was positive and supportive; so much so that it completely changed my mood. If you knew how difficult it is to get me out of one of my depressive moods, you would be rather pleased with yourself. It is not an easy feat.
I’m not letting that person get to me. I’m not letting that person win. Instead, I have been smiling for over 24 hours because of your kind words. Thank you.
There have been many occasions these past nine years where I convinced myself to shut this place down and never return. Every time I think I’m ready to pull the plug, something like yesterday happens. A reader says something nice about me and the co-bloggers, or shoots me an email praising SYLG. Yesterday you went above and beyond the call. To be quite frank, it made me a little emotional.
This blog is what it is. It will never be an internet game-changer, but it will also never be forgettable. Not because of the posts, not because of the “half-naked photos,” and not because the writers. This blog will survive – and strive – because of the comment sections and the interactions between us. This blog is a family. A dysfunctional one, but a family nonetheless. Thank you for being a part of it.
Far be it for me to brag about, well, just about anything personal. I do not think I am an attractive man. I think I am below-average looking, too fat, with a nose that’s too big. Mrs. Earp, bless her heart, used to think I resembled Alec Baldwin from The Hunt for Red October – before Alec went cray-cray. Any hoo, back to the original point: I’m an ugly guy. It’s okay, I’m comfortable with who I am.
Still though, there are rare times when I can be happy with myself. Times when my self-esteem rises about 5%. Today was one of those times.
You all know I’ve been walking since January. At that time I weighed 205, and I am 5’9″. I weighed myself today – before my walk – and saw this…
The last time I was 190 pounds was way back in 1994, when I entered the police academy.
Now, I still think 190 pounds at 5’9″ is morbidly obese, and I may cry a little when I lose one more pound, but reaching 190 is a monumental achievement. I’d like to lose more, and I never want to be anywhere near 200 pounds again.
Late last night I was browsing the SYLG archives in an attempt to look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Some day I’ll tell you why… but not today. And hoo, I noticed a handful of people were viewing the site’s About Page. Who knew there was an About Page under the banner? Curious, I read what I wrote a few years ago, and it gave me a chuckle.
I decided to re-post it here:
Once in a great while, a blog comes along that inspires awe, surpasses all expectations, and truly changes people’s lives.
This is not that blog.
However, if you’re interested in reading the rantings of a sarcastic police detective/ice hockey player, this may be the site for you. Since June 6, 2005, I have published my idiotic take on every topic, from al-key-hol to weight loss (although I don’t recommend using one to result in the other). In between, I have offered a smattering of opinions on every issue under the sun, delicately blended with the occasional war story from my chosen profession. Please do not think me a racist simply because I am a police detective. That would be ignorant.
I mean, I don’t like people from Canada, but that doesn’t mean I’m a racist…
A few years ago, we caught a case in the Roxborough section of Philadelphia. A young woman was jogging in the park and a giant tree branch fell on her, snapping her neck. She was listening to her mp3 player, and never heard the branch fall. We had to process the scene, take photos, etc. (I actually think I posted about it, but I’m too lazy to search the archives.) It was a terrible scene, caused by a freak accident, but I’ve been paranoid about walking in the park ever since.
In March, I started walking the park trails again. My FB friends can tell you I’ve been going at it like a fiend. I’m down ten pounds, and feeling pretty good. So today I’m walking, listening to music on my phone when I hear a loud crash. I walk a little further and see this…
So, my dermatologist appointment was today. I arrived early because the waiting room usually looks like the inside of Noah’s Ark. Today was no exception. There were probably fifteen people waiting, and the only chairs were by the giant LCD TV, which was – naturally – tuned to Rachael Ray, and then the menopausal skin sacks of The View. Grand.
Twenty minutes later, they called me back. The woman who met me was a med student; medium height, short blond hair, and a body you would literally start a world war over. She said something to me, but all I heard was, “Wyatt, I love you.”
Then she pulled out the scissors. This was going to be kinky… Or not. She had to cut my stitch. She did so, then told me my wound was healing nicely – which is girl talk for “I want you so badly” – the exited the room…
All of you know I’m a sarcastic jackass – it’s okay; I was born that way – but the reason I continue to be a sarcastic jackass has a lot to do with my environment. You see, I am surrounded by sarcastic jackasses in work, and we feed off each other like teenage girls at a One Direction concert. Case in point:
Two days after my biopsy, I walked into work with a bandage over the stitch. My sergeant was the first to see me and asked if I was covering a pimple. I stopped, looked at him, and in my most serious sarcastic voice said, “It’s stitches from my biopsy. Good to see you find the humor in my pending death.”
Not missing a beat, the sergeant replied, “Well, make sure your reports are all filed before you kick…”
Remember this? This was the “after” photo of my skin cancer surgery. A little pain, a lot of stitches – twelve to be exact – and a kickass scar. The surgery took place in November, 2009.
I may be going back.
On Thursday, I had my annual skin cancer screening. Everything looked okay, and my psoriasis seemed to be under control. My dermatologist is awesome, and he always tells me to look for abnormal bumps, etc. when I get out of the shower. I noticed a small bump near my nose, just under my left eye. I pointed it out, he looked at it, and said, “We’re gonna do a biopsy. It looks like your cancer is back.”
The doc took the biopsy, stitched me up, and I’ll find out if it’s cancerous on Thursday. I wasn’t going to waste your time on a post about nothing, but Realwest asked in the comments yesterday. I don’t like keeping you guys in the dark.
If it’s cancerous, I’ll have another surgery – my third since 2009. If not… not.
So yesterday I’m walking during the kids’ lacrosse practice. I was doing laps around the high school fields, but the rain turned them into a swampy mush. I was almost finished when I stepped into a mud puddle…
Then it happened.
I must’ve landed wrong, because my ankle twisted, and when I put my weight on it, I felt something. Something bad. I collapsed into the ground, and while I didn’t scream, I certainly wanted to. I sat there for a few minutes then drug myself up. I hobbled the quarter mile to my car and collapsed inside.
When the kids were done practice, I drove them home, dropped them off, told Mrs. Earp what happened, and drive straight to the hospital.
The ankle is broken, and I’m now sporting a shiny new cast. There’s a pic of my ankle below the fold. No worries if you’re squeamish; the cast is mostly visible..
Philly has seen three inches of rain this weekend, and it has wreaked havoc on the family’s plans. First, Erik’s track meet was cut short on Saturday morning, but not until after he tried his new event: the long jump. His friend bailed out of the event a half hour before they were set to go, so Erik volunteered. He never practiced the jump. Not once. He and three of his teammates walked over to the jump track, and received three minutes instruction from me beforehand. I did the long jump – briefly – in high school. I told Erik to run like he’s running the 100m: sprint. When he got to the line, I told him to leap with one foot and push up and out. The competitors were given three practice runs, then three official runs. The best jump is the one recorded.
Erik’s first jump was 8 feet, 5 inches. His second was 8 feet, 3 inches, and his last was 7 feet, 7 inches. Not bad for a first timer. Erik had the second-best jump for his school, and – I think – a top five overall. Afterward, he said he wants this to be his new event…
Well, it’s official; I’ve put pen to paper. Well, chubby fingers to keyboard. Book #2 – my first solo effort – is on the way. I’ve sketched out the first scene, and have ideas (and some names) for the characters. Granted, it’s not much, but I figured you guys would want to know. I’d like to be finished by the end of the year, barring any major distractions – I had a few, self-inflicted, today. If I’m done before then, even better.