All I Really Need to Know I Learned By Watching Rocky

My semester is officially over. Technically, it was over last week. But it's not really over until the grades are posted. And they are. I got an A in English, Psychology, & Stats. (That's right, an A. In Stats. Unbelievable.) I got a B in stupid freaking Art. Because I forgot to turn in an assignment that was due on Halloween. I blame my children.

At any rate, it's finally over. And this is what I feel like:

I mean, I won right? But look at my ugly beat-up face. Dang I got beat up. 

I love the Rocky movies. They are just the right amount of gritty and violent and cheesy, not to mention sheer montage perfection. My husband does not like them. I think there is something wrong with him. He wouldn't even buy them for me for Christmas one year because he said they were stupid. I think there is a deep dark hole somewhere, maybe in North Dakota, for people who do not like the Rocky movies. I thought about reporting him as a terrorist, but then he wouldn't be around to check the mail. Or shovel snow. So I thought better of it.

But that is neither here nor there (although it is decidedly unnatural and UN-American.) The point is that I learned everything I needed to know this semester from my friend Rocky Balboa. Because he is awesome.

#1. It's Good to Be Able to Take a Punch

Rocky may not know much, but he knows how to throw a punch. He can break the ribs of a giant slab of hanging frozen meat. And have you seen what he can do to some Russian logs?? It's amazing. But Rocky doesn't just know how to dish it out. The man can take it. Jab after punch after uppercut after hook. Whether it's a headbutt from Hulk Hogan or a cross from Mr. T, the man can take it and just keep going. Well, let me tell you, I feel like I got my a*& handed to me this semester. One thing after another after another. I am bruised, I am bloody, I am exhausted. But I am still standing. My legs are shaking underneath me, but I am standing. Because Rocky taught me how to take a punch and get back up.

"It ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward."

#2. You're Never Too Old 

The year is 1976. Small time amateur boxer Rocky is challenged to a heavy-weight championship match by pro Apollo Creed. He is a little out of shape (But he is NOT a bum as some might have you believe.) With just a little help from Penguin of the original Batman series and some catchy theme music, he is in tip-top shape in no time. I mean, he made it ALL the way to the top of the stairs and everything. The man is in his prime. And I don't care what the so-called decision was, Rocky had that title. 

Fast forward to 2006. Rocky is old. Like older than me old. And he may not have beat Mason "The Line" Dixon, but the man held his own. And you don't see any statues of Dixon around, do you? Rocky was old, but still fierce. Just like me. Because you're never too old.

"If this is something you gotta do, then do it. Fighters fight." 

Apparently, even when they are old enough to collect social security. And a little brain damaged besides.

#3. Go One More Round

In both Rocky I & II, the man goes 15 rounds against Apollo Creed. 15 barbarous, rib-breaking rounds! Boxing matches don't even have that many rounds anymore. Admittedly, he only goes 3 rounds against Mr.T in Rocky III but those were some brutal rounds. I mean the guy said he was gonna bust Rocky up and he wasn't playing. I pity the fool who doubts it. Against Ivan Drago, AGAIN he goes 15 rounds. And winds up ending the Cold War and uniting Russia and America in the process. That's impressive. The point is, never give up. Even when you don't feel like you've got another round in you. You do. Keep going. And just like Rocky told Clubber Lang, you tell life:

"You ain't so bad. You ain't so bad. You ain't nothin!"

#4. There's Nothing Quite Like Good Old-Fashioned Hard Work

The Rocky training montages are arguably the best part of the franchise. Who can forget the moment a triumphant Rocky raises his hands above his head when he makes it up the steps of the Philidelphia some-kind-of museum-or-government-building-or-something in sheer victory? It's a great moment. But it doesn't even compare to the montage from Rocky IV featuring the formidable, eternally sneer-faced Dolph Lundgren training in his state-of- the-art Soviet facility and receiving Rasputin-made powerful mystery injections. Because there is Rocky, bearded and living in a cabin out in the middle of Siberia, lifting wagons, splitting wood, and jumping rope in a barn like a mad man. I mean how can a guy on a fancy treadmill even compare to one who can outrun a car?? My heart's on fire just thinking about it.

I am not one for spending hours on homework or on all-night study sessions, but this semester, and Rocky, taught me something. Nothing can beat good old-fashioned hard work.

"You're gonna have to go through hell. But when it's over, I know you'll be the one standing. You know what you have to do. Do it."

#5. The World Ain't All Sunshine & Rainbows

That's a quote from the man himself, so you know you can believe it. The world is indeed not all sunshine and rainbows. I wouldn't even go so far as to say that it is mostly sunshine & rainbows. It's pretty much predominantly clouds and crap. True story. Life will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. This semester damn near did that to me. And I am not at the end of my schooling. Not even close. I have many semesters ahead of me, but guess what?

"Yo Adrian, I did it!"

And I'll do it again, too. Just watch me.

Losing My Religion. (Not Really. Just My Mind.)

A friend recently sent me a {freaking hilarious} list entitled, 35 Things All Toddlers Will Lose Their S*** Over Today. It's funny. And true. And lists things like:
 #8. Underwear is Ouchy
#16. Sun went behind a cloud  &
#13. Mac n' Cheese is too orange.

A truer story has never been told, my friends. My kids are mostly past the toddler age, but I have an impeccable memory when it comes to the tantrums and trials and sheer insanity that is raising little ones. My youngest is now 4, which I'm not sure qualifies him for toddler-status anymore, but if he's not, somebody forgot to inform him of that fact. Cuz he loses his s*** daily over the most insignificant things imaginable.

For example:

* I crush up cornflakes and fry them in butter to put on the sour cream potatoes that I make for Thanksgiving. Well, Officer Lincoln of the Incorrect Use of Cereal Patrol just about lost his dang mind over the misuse of said corn flakes. Like truly about lost it. Like was screaming and yelling and crying, "THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU DO WITH CEREAL!!!" for a good 20 minutes. (Naked. Because he had just gotten out of a bath he didn't want to take. And wasn't about to put on clothes he didn't want to wear.) Poor innocent Audrina, who was simply trying to help by doing the crushing received quite the clawing, and scratching, and pinching. Police brutality at its worst, let me tell you.

* I thought when I finally had a little boy after 3 {lovely, but high maintenance} girls that I would save myself some of the daily drama that is getting-a-child-dressed. Nope. Lincoln may be the pickiest of ALL my children. He is picky about his pajamas. He is picky about his underwear. He is picky about his shoes. He is picky about socks. He is picky about EVERYTHING HE WEARS. And just because he refuses to wear something today does not mean that he won't be happy to wear it on Wednesday. Because there is no rhyme or reason to his pickiness. It has nothing to do with texture. Or style. Or color. He simply is unpredictably picky. And yes, I am bigger than him and can force clothes on him. But he will just take them off. And hide them. Sometimes in the trash can. And sometimes outside.

*In addition to being picky about clothes, my stubborn little 4-year old also seems to have an opinion on everything else. Hair gel, TV shows, how you set up his Memory game, what style of cup, plate, bowl, fork he uses, who gets to turn the light switches on and off. The list goes on and on. I hate giving into his every whim, and mostly I don't. Sometimes, though, I have no choice. Case in point: He didn't like where I parked the other day when I dropped him off at preschool. So he wouldn't get out of the car. So I pulled him out of the car. Then he wouldn't walk into the building. So I carried him into the building. Then he wouldn't walk down the hall. So I dragged him down the hall. Then he wouldn't go into his classroom. And at this point, he got underneath a chair outside of his classroom and held on to the legs and screamed and cried. So I picked him up off the ground, took him by the hand, and we went back down the hall, back outside, and back into the car. And I moved to a different parking spot. Because he had already made me incredibly late getting back to work, and I had no time left to dig deep into my bag of negotiating-with-terrorist techniques. And then he went into his classroom just fine. Because he is insane. Because what the heck kind of child cares about where the car is parked?? A 4-year old one apparently.

And why is it that children melt down over the smallest, most trivial things? I am trying to have some sympathy for the little guy cuz his dad has moved away for a while, and there are very few things in the world that he has control over, so if it makes him happy to wear the red Ninja turtle socks today instead of the ones he picked out last night, OK. Fine. No big deal right?

And I'm sure he (and all children) think that grown-ups have it made and get to make all the decisions and rule the world. Except guess what? They don't. It's the sad, sorry truth. And if I could go around screaming and tantruming over all of the little (and big) things that go wrong in any given day, I so totally would. I would cry and yell and pound my fists. {And probably kick a few people if I'm being perfectly honest.} But, alas, I cannot. And neither can any of us. And that's why I might enjoy being a toddler. Just for a day.

So I could totally lose my s*** too.

The More the Storm, The More the Strength

I was going through some material yesterday morning while preparing for the lesson I teach for church on Sundays (insert judgements regarding my severe habit of procrastination here.) And I stumbled upon this wonderful gem by a poet named Douglas Malloch:

The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.

Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.

And that's when she started to cry, this tree that doesn't want to fight anymore for sun and sky and air and light. This tree that doesn't want the cold or storm or wind or snow. This tree that would rather have the perfect measure of glorious sun and just the right sprinkling of refreshing rain. This tree that thinks she would be perfectly happy to be weak and dependent and doesn't see why it is so important to be strong and brave. This tree that sometimes just wants to give up because she is fairly certain she is not equipped to withstand the constant thrashing of the heavy winds that life throws her way. This tree that more often than not does not believe she is equal to the tasks in front of her.

Because someone believes she is. Someone knows just what this tree needs to grow strong and unyielding. And to nurture and teach and protect the little trees that are now growing in the protection of her shade, but will someday face the elements on their own.

This certainly does not mean that this tree won't continue to whine and complain from time to time and beg for reprieve from the storm. Because she probably will.

But she will summon up the energy and the courage to face another day, cloudy or clear. Because, in the end, someone much wiser and with much more faith in her than she has in herself knows that she can one day rule the forest. And who is she to argue with that?

Probability

I don't know how many of you have taken a statistics class before. If you haven't yet and you can possibly avoid it in the future, do so. Turn around and run my friend. Run far, far away. Trust me. Math was never my favorite subject in high school. However, as I took college classes, I gained a new apprecation for the mathematic arts. You see each teacher has their own level of pickiness about anything written. It becomes a bit of a guessing game as to how each individual professor would like your writing to be. (And I am fairly certain some are just jealous when you write better than they do. Yes, I am talking to you Religion Professor at University of Phoenix.) Then after you turn in your first paper and get a feel for what they are looking for you can adjust and adapt and hopefully do well enough to pass the class. (And by pass the class I mean get an A. Of course. #insaneperfectionist.)

With math, though, there is normally one right answer and all the other answers are wrong. 2 + 2 = 4. It doesn't matter how you write it. It needs no citation other than (Common Sense). Either x = 7 or x = 32 (We won't get into the instances where x is undefined...I don't buy into all that garbage) it doesn't equal "I don't like your writing style" or "Your thesis is unclear." There's no rubric, no incomplete sentence structure, and (best of all) no formatting. In a word: objective. And one objective class in a sea of subjective classes, well, that is what is known as a life boat.

Or so I thought when I signed up for Stats 1040. Because I am a fool. You have never met a more made up and subjective math in your life as statistics. It's not really even math. Sure, there's a number thrown in here or there, but that doesn't mean it's math. I mean, a calendar has numbers on it. That does not make it math. (Although, it may be more math than statistics is.) I won't go into too much detail so as not to lose you completely, but I will tell you that the calculator itself is harder to master than any machine since the Bowflex. It should require it's very own class called, How to Use an Incredibly Complicated Calculator That Has Words On It Instead of Just Numbers for Morons & Old People.

I know there are people out there who, doubtlessly, statistics makes sense to. I believe they are called statisticians. But I can think of nothing worse than working with stats for a living. Or for any time longer than a semester. I would rather do people's taxes. Wearing socks with sandals. True story.

Well, one fun part of stats class is probability theories. They maketh no sense to me. I know they are great for people who want to calculate their odds of winning 13 out of 46 games of roulette while playing only the number 7, but I am happy enough to know that my odds of winning anything ever are the same as my odds of my workout routine ever making me look like Jessica Biel in a bikini. One in a hugely astronomical number. Like 1 in 1,000,000 to the 7,548th power. That's all I really need to know. Not how many times I am going to draw a yellow ball out of a box with 3 other colors of balls, with or without replacement. Because if I need a yellow ball that bad, I'll just look in the box.

At any rate, trying to learn all of this crap has got me to thinking about percentages and probabilities. So I "calculated" (meaning totally made up) some numbers about things I actually run into in my real life. Just for fun.

#1. The Odds of Getting a Decent Cart at WalMart = 2.74%
To calculate this, I went to WalMart. A lot. Because I live in a small town. That has nothing but WalMart. Each time I went, I used a shopping cart. Because even if I am alone and only need one thing, I hate to carry around my very heavy purse. And because it can be used as a weapon in the event that there is only one bottle of Neutrogena Oil-Free Moisturizer on the shelf. Plus, if you are pushing a shopping cart and looking like you are very much on a mission, less people stop to talk to you. (Did I mention I live in a small town?) So, I did some very complicated formulas and found that less than 3% of the time do I end up with a shopping cart that doesn't squeal. Or have a loose wheel. Or veer to the right. Or smell like cat vomit.

#2. The Odds of My Children Going to Bed By 9 PM = 0%
This is based on the fact that no matter how early or how often I tell my children to go to bed....No. Matter. What. They never go to bed on time. Ever.

#3. The Odds of My Husband Falling Asleep Before the End of a Movie = 98.7%
It's really 99% but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and added in a little room for sampling error. I think in 14 years of marriage, he has completely stayed awake for about 11 out of 845 movies that we have watched together. And that's giving him credit for ones where he fell asleep in the middle and woke up sometime before the end. I'm talking X-Men and Gladiator and Fast & the Furious here, folks. No romantic comedies. No Nicholas Sparks drivel. I don't know if I 'm not good company or if it is just because there aren't enough University of Utah football players in the movies we watch. Maybe it's a combination of the two. But 9 times out of 10 once the snacks are gone...so is he.

#4. The Odds That When I Buy a Box of Cereal For Myself There Will Actually Be Some Left When I Want to Eat Some = 0.14%
I have probably bought about 25 boxes of cereal for myself in 19 years. I have eaten about 1/3 of one of those boxes, combined. I am not so foolish as to think that just because I buy something for myself, I will actually get to partake of said something. Those hopes were dashed the moment my children were mobile enough to accesss the pantry. Or the fridge. Or the very back of my nightstand drawer underneath a map of Bryce Canyon. Every now and then, though, I get this feeling like if I buy my kids 12 lb bags of Fruity Pebbles and Captain Crunch With Crunchberries, they will leave my one poor tiny box of Vanilla Almond Special K alone. Silly mommy, Trix are for kids. And so is everything else. Everything.

#5. The Odds of Me Going to the Bathroom Without Someone Coming In To Ask Me Something = 3%
Kids. Husband. Doesn't matter. The kids are so tenacious, they'll just go grab a butter knife and unlock the door on those occasions when I bother to close & lock it. It's just their little way of once again letting me know that my time is not my own. That 3%? Those are the times that I am home by myself.

It's Not a Tunnel. It's a Cave.

I've had some moments over the past few months where I take deep breaths and think, "I can do this. I can totally do this!" Then, there are the (increasingly more frequent) moments where I think, "Um, actually no. No I cannot." I have had quite a few of the latter moments lately. Moments where the enormous undertaking that is full-time school and work, and the thought of supporting my family, and the disgustingness that is my house, and the rarity that is a home cooked meal or a full-night's sleep just build up to this crescendo of immensity and insanity that threatens to swallow me whole.

It happened again today as I registered for next semester's 14 credits worth of classes. And made the HUGE mistake of actually reading the syllabus for each of the classes. Silly, silly me (or "Fool of a Took!" as Gandalf would say.) I haven't even made it through this semester yet. Although I am dangerously close to barely surviving it. Emphasis on barely. And I'm already stressing out about next semster?? Why yes. Yes I am. And then the thoughts come. The dark, dark thoughts:

What if I can't do it? What if I can't even pass these classes? What if I picked the wrong major? What if I don't have time to get a master's degree? What if my family can't live for 4 more years on Top Ramen and love? What if I can't even get into graduate school? What if I can and I spend all of this time abandoning my children and home to get my degree and I can't even get a job? What if it turns out that nobody wants to hire a 45 year old school counselor?? (Even if she is ridiculously young looking.) I start to think about how much my kids need me and what was I even thinking going back to school. And then I think about the fact that my husband is leaving in 3 weeks to live in Salt Lake for 2-4 months (to get some training for his low-vision that he desperately needs.) And who will make my (totally disgusting) protein shake every morning and wake up our middle-schooler at 6:30 when I can't possibly pull myself out of bed? Who will wash my picky 4-year-old's laundry 3 times a week so he always has a selection of Shaun White pants to choose from every day? And it's going to snow while he's gone. And not that I am not capable, but I absolutely hate shoveling snow. ( I pretty much hate everything else about snow, too, but that's a story for another time.) Not to mention checking the mail. I don't check the mail. I don't even know which mail box is ours.

The dark thoughts are real. And they are like a big, hairy, slobbering monster sitting on my chest and making it almost impossible to breathe. Except to hyperventilate. Apparently I can still do that just fine. It is at these dark moments that I think maybe that illusive light at the end of the tunnel gets a little bit hard to see because it is not actually a tunnel. It's a cave. There is no light because there is no end. This so called "light" that everyone talks about, maybe it doesn't exist. I am walking endlessly on and on to try to get to the other side of this tunnel only to find myself finally reaching the back of a deep, dark cave. And it sounds horribly depressing, but it might very well be true. And what if it is? What if my life never gets easy? What if there is not a point where I can sit back and say, "Wow! I can't believe I got through that." Because when this is all over, chances are that something else will take its place. And what if that's just life? What if it is?

Not everything about a cave is bad, right? I mean, there're bats and creepy stuff like that, but sometimes there are also breathtaking stalactites and stalagmites. And doesn't a cave also offer protection from wind and rain and the elements? So maybe it isn't a tunnel. Maybe there is no light at the end.

But, hey, I can do cave. And I have a feeling I'm not alone in here.