I Sat Next to an NBA Superstar Yesterday and You Have to Believe Me

MY WORLD:

I sat next to James Harden at lunch yesterday. Now, the reaction to that from the text message I sent to my friend groupchat, should have been “whoa, cool!” Or, “no way dude, he’s so good at basketball!” Or, “he has a big beard!” Or, I don’t know, why couldn’t ONE FRIEND write something like, “hey Jimmy, even though it was blind luck that you ended up sitting next to the NBA MVP Runner-up, you should treat this as an accomplishment in your life, feel better about yourself, and expect to receive praise from others when you tell them of this accomplishment.” WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING HARD?!?! But instead, all I got was “pic or it didn’t happen.”

So there I was, a 34 year old adult, contemplating how I could take a spycam picture of a 29 year old guy I’ve never spoken to before. The situation went from exciting to terrifying immediately, and I basically stopped talking to the person I was actually having lunch with because I was so caught up in my brain about what I should do. Some of the thoughts that went through my essentially useless brain, included:

-Do I ask for a selife? Go up to him, say something like “huge NBA fan here, James! Love watching you play! Mind if I get a pic?”

Yeah, that would’ve been a cool thing for me to do except uh…no it fucking wouldn’t have been. I’m not a selfie guy. I’m the guy who makes fun of people who take selfies! THAT’S MY ENTIRE IDENTITY!!! Although, yeah, I would ask to take a selfie with someone who actually IS a hero of mine (cough…Eddie Vedder…or someone who knew Chris Farley…cough) But then I started thinking of how big of a lie, that would be.

Okay, so I’m meeting James Harden for the first time and the first two things I tell him are FLAGRANT lies. 1) I am not a huge NBA fan. I like it, but I don’t really care about the NBA until football is over…and even then, all I think about is how “I miss football.” 2) I actually hate watching James Harden play basketball. If I was being totally honest with him (and isn’t honsesty ALWAYS the way to go?) I’d say “James! Whenever I see the Rockets are playing, I loudly exhale and text my friends something I’m only half-joking about, like how I’d rather cannonball into an active volcano than watch you travel on every play before bitching to the refs that you were breathed on too hard.” Wild guess here, but I don’t think he’d be excited about posing for a selfie with my fat face (you went to the gym yesterday, Jimmy. Did you tell them yet?) after hearing that.

-I should pretend to be texting on my phone, while slowly rotating my chair to the right-where James is sitting-while I really have my camera up so that once I get him in frame, BOOM! PIC TAKEN!

Clearly, I am not one of those people who have mastered the spycam technique. (It’s because you’re a scared baby). It’s not because I’m scared (it is, though) I just think that the risk of getting caught outweighs the reward. So…shit, yeah I’m scared (my Dad just called asking for blood sample. Something about “no son of his-“) Can we think, for just a second, about what would happen if I DID actually get caught trying to take a spycam pic of James Harden?

The bartender had already told me “don’t be weird about it” when the guy I was having lunch with asked if that was, in fact, James Harden. It was weird because I didn’t ask the question, but she looked directly at ME and said “don’t be weird about it.” Of course, I calmly, quickly replied with a, “too late,” that drew some laughs but…like, it was too late. I was caught in between staring and doing the “I”m not staring, I’m just drift-looking at the ceiling above your head James Harden”-thing. Yeah, weird was accomplished. So if after that, she caught the camera on my phone screen, there is a decent chance that she would have gently grabbed my arm, clenched her jaw and uttered a furious, “I fucking said not to be weird!” Then, I’m the PROVEN weird guy who has to be touched to be believed. She would probably be thinking “I have to touch this person to make sure that I’m not hallucinating that I’m witnessing an adult being THIS weird.”

And what if James Harden caught me? (Can’t call him just ‘James’ because we’re not close enough friends) With how petty NBA players are, and how ready they are to air their shit on Twitter, is out COMPLETELY out of the realm of possibility that he would take my picture in retaliation only to post it on his Twitter with the caption “Chicago Creepo”? Guys, that’s fucking possible and you know it. YOU KNOW IT GODDAMN WELL!

Next thing I know, people are printing kitchy, graphic t-shirts featuring the pic Harden took of me on them with his caption underneath. Then I’m walking down the street with The VP of Ops and people are whispering while staring at me. So the VP curiously asks, “why are people looking at you and whispering?” I pretend not to hear the question and just keep walking, until some girl starts laughing as she approaches me pointing and saying “you! You’re the Chicago Creepo!” Then I’m trying to explain that the reason a girl called me “The Chicago Creepo” is because I got caught taking a spycam pic of James Harden, but she won’t believe that. No, she’ll go straight to “a girl pointed him out, so that must mean he was taking spycam pics of girls.” So we’ll end up getting divorced, and any date I have with any girl after will be a terrifying “I hope she hasn’t seen that James Harden pic of me” experience.

-I could tell the bartender to buy James Harden a beer and tell him that it’s from me.

So, I’m trying to pick up James Harden in a bar now? Either two things could happen here: 1) He could accept the beer, raise it for a “cheers” from down the bar and carry on with his lunch. 2) He could decline the beer, in which case the bartender would then return it to me–but I didn’t want to drink during the day on a Tuesday, so now I’m just sitting at lunch with this beer/”James Harden rejection trophy.” He’ll look over a few times to see what certified bozo-the-clown sent a Tuesday afternoon beer over to a professional athlete and I’ll catch him with a half-smile in an effort to convey “I’m not a weird guy.” He won’t smile back, though. Instead, he’ll look to the guy he’s actually having lunch with and say something like, “keep an eye on that dude for me.”

In the end, I convinced myself that doing nothing was the only option. So I sat at lunch, pretended to listen to the guy I was having lunch with, and made the executive decision that proving I sat next to James Harden wasn’t worth risking my marriage/dignity/future. BUT I FRIGGIN’ SWEAR HE WAS RIGHT NEXT TO ME WEARING A BIG HAT AND BIG FLANNEL SHIRT AND LOOKING FLYYYYYYY!!!!

OUR WORLD:

Continuing the theme from today’s “My World”, I’d like to educate my fellow early-to-mid 30s people on, aside from taking a spycam pic of James Harden, what other things you are no longer allowed to do. Of course, if you’re one of those “I don’t believe in the word ‘can’t'”-people, then this section will read as a challenge. But maybe, even those people can take a break from their life of posting inspirational quotes over their crossfit videos and actually contemplate whether “can’t” is something that they should incorporate.

-You can’t wear sweatpants in public anymore.

The sweatpants-wearing public has been fooled by the tapered (?) cuffed (?) bottoms of new sweatpants into thinking that those make it acceptable to go outside wearing them. Yes, this was a “Seinfeld” bit 20 years ago, but the emergence of Lululemon (and imposters for those of us poors) has caused a confusion that has led to a sweatpants-in-public resurgence. It’s like when you work out a lot and then think you can eat whatever you want. Next thing you know, you’re too sluggish from all the chips to go to the gym anymore and you’ve put on 14 pounds. Just because the hot mannequin guy is pulling it off in the store window, doesn’t mean that you and your puffy beer face can.

-You can’t go to music festivals and post non-funny videos of yourself there.

Was I the only one seeing people my age post Instagram stories of themselves wearing basketball jerseys and neon whatever while at Lollapalooza this past weekend? They’re cringeworthy, and even though I hadn’t spoken to these people in years, I felt like contacting them just to see “is everything okay?” Now, I’m not judging if you actually went–that distinction must be drawn. There are bands at music festivals that we are still allowed to love (oh thank god Jimmy told me I don’t have to give up music!) So you can go, yeah. But while there, if you find the need to send any sort of video of the band on stage, or you in the crowd, you better be damn sure that it’s a funny video. Because if that video says something like “all the feels” or is just of you doing some sway-dance moves that your drunk brain thinks are “actually pretty cool,” then you become THAT person to EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. One “look at me at this music festival” Instagram video after the age of 30 will cause: banks to never give you a loan; friends not to trust you alone with their spouses; and your parents to drink more.

-You can’t have dirty dishes in your sink when guests are over.

This one is deeply personal and, frankly, really fucking stinks. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a goddamn crime to put a DISH in a SINK! Unfortunately, I have been hit with one too many “you’re a slob, huh?”-looks from guests who see the plate I used at breakfast that morning sitting there in the sink. Now, thankfully, there is a trick if you have a dishwasher, aka “the best hiding place in the world.” Look, you don’t have to have every dish actually clean once guests arrive, they just can’t be able to see them without opening a SECRET door. So do yourself a favor, jam every dirty dish or kitchen utensil you have into your dishwasher right before your guests arrive. That way, when you’re giving them the grand tour of your 900 square foot apartment, you’ll get to shoot them a “bet you feel dumb for thinking I was a slob”-look when you get to the kitchen portion of the tour.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get your dog all riled up and running around your apartment, but then she accidentally jumps into a table and starts crying. You grab her, almost start crying yourself because it’s your fault and you think you’re about to pay $2,000 at the vet because her leg “has to be broken if she’s crying like this.” Only to have her, one minute later, walk around like nothing ever happened while you try to convince your wife that you weren’t crying.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really love this band and am reminded of it when their songs randomly come up on my Spotify mixes.

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

Yeah, I know, this may be a bit heavy, but I’m always trying to be really honest in this blog and I think a lot about my Mom. So, until I start gambling again (“I can’t wait!” said the VP in a shitty, sarcastic tone) I’m going to share some quick memories of my Mom.

When I was 15, my parents got me a 1984 Ford Escort hatchback to learn on. They didn’t want me to learn on their much nicer cars, so they gave me this hunk of junk and DARED me to say anything negative about it. Within the first week of having it, my Mom backed her Chevy Suburban directly into the driver’s side of my Ford Escort. I was outside when it happened, and I watched like it was slow motion. She left a massive dent in my car, while there wasn’t a scratch on the Suburban. While I stood in the driveway watching, she rolled down her window and very matter-of-factly said, “we’re not fixing that,” before driving off.

K, bye.

The “Are You An Adult?” Test

OUR WORLD:

There aren’t many things more annoying than hearing someone younger than you say, “OMG, I’m so old!” I know this, and I want you to know that before reading the following…If you’re older than I am, this ‘Our World’ has the potential to make you hate me (are you a fucking agist, Jimmy?!?!) Don’t worry, I’m not an agist (unless…you’re younger than me). But, after some exhaustive research over the past 34 years, I have come up with the Top 3 “whoa, I’m really an adult now”-moments.

Working Out in the Hotel Gym on a Trip

(Wait, isn’t this just your way of telling us that you just did this on your trip to Portland, Maine?) Did I mention I worked out in the hotel gym MULTIPLE TIMES during my trip to Portland? (SONOFABITCH!!!) Remember when hotel stays, whether for work or vacation, meant that calories didn’t count and exercise wasn’t even an option? Everyone under the age of 32 abides by the rule where if you’re out of town, you don’t have to work out. It’s my favorite kind of rule; clean, with little room for confusion–like “if you’re standing while eating, it doesn’t count.”

But then you reach a certain age (let me guess, 34?) and a lot of your pants are getting REALLY FUCKING TIGHT FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN YOU’VE BEEN EATING LIKE SHIT AND NOT WORKING OUT LATELY, and you go “shit, I think calories count even when I’m out of town.” Hotel gyms are depressing little rooms with way too many mirrors, and only a few machines, so you’re going to feel like you’re on a shame stage. It’s as if the hotel gym architects were like, “how can we instill as much shame as possible on people who are, otherwise, in the middle of treating their bodies like a dumpster? I know! More mirrors and less machines!”

There is a silver lining, here, though. The hotel workout counts for 2.7 times more than a workout at home. (Seriously?) I’m not even fucking exaggerating, guys. Thus, if you walk 2 miles on a treadmill at a hotel gym, it’s the same as running 5.4 miles (did he just do that math in his head?!?!) Screw a silver lining, that line is gold babayyyy!!! Why? Because the more viable excuses there are to not work out, the more calories are burned. And fighting through excuses is the top qualification for “being an adult.” So after that uphill walk on the treadmill (can’t run because of the ankle/knee/hip) make sure you walk through the lobby showing off your sweaty t-shirt to all the children.

Being more excited about morning coffee than night drinks on the weekends

You still won’t admit it, but I know. You’re not “just tired.” The reason you’re not ordering another drink with your now-more-fun-than-you friend is because you know that drink puts your Saturday morning coffee trip into jeopardy. All you’re thinking about is “jesus, the next drink guarantees a meaningful hangover, doesn’t it? DOES IT? WILL SOMEBODY TELL ME IF THIS DRINK IS THE ONE THAT CAUSES THE DIZZYING HEADACHE TOMORROW MORNING?!?!” Next thing you know, your friends are asking why you’re holding your arms out and screaming “GIMME A SIGN!” into the cool, night sky.

What you’re doing, though, is trying to make sure that you squeeze every second of I’m-off-work enjoyment out of your weekend, though. THAT is adult; knowing that all a crippling hangover does is ruin precious not-at-work time that is meant to be spent doing things other than asking your wife “why didn’t we get Gatorades last night?”

What you should be doing is getting up and taking the doggo to the coffee place with the baked TREATS! and people wearing cooler clothes than you. Eventually, you’ll be one of the people showing up in workout gear, having just got out of some class taught by a woman in her 50s who is FUCKING RIPPED, but let’s just take it step by step. First step is being there not hungover, and wearing something other than sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in. Guess what? You’re wearing jeans AND A NOT-THAT-WRINKLED GOLF SHIRT!!! (Standing applause?!?! Y’all are too much!!!)

Now listen close, how do you tell that you’re in the right kind of coffee shop to maximize Saturday morning enjoyment? The more unwelcome you feel, the better the coffee and TREATS! are going to be. The air inside the shop smells not just like coffee and bread, but THE BEST COFFEE AND BREAD. The trade off is that the people who work there aren’t going to like you. Big stinking deal is what I say! I wouldn’t like a decently dressed adult getting to enjoy a lovely, not-hungover Saturday morning while I was busy getting berated by my boss for not perfecting my “flower design thingy” on top of the lattes I was serving.

Listening to the music your parents listened to and saying things like, “I can’t believe I used to complain when they’d put this on.”

It doesn’t make much sense that at the same age you realize that you were a dick as a kid, that you’re simultaneously making the decision that you would like a kid of your own. 34 is right about the age where you start really listening to the music your parents played when you were a snot-nosed little bitch in the backseat of their car. In between eating your boogers, you’d barf out “this song stinks!” or “ughhhhhh, no more country!” while your parents just shook their heads. How my parents never barked something back like, “until you stop shitting your pants on a semi-regular basis, shut the fuck up!” is amazing to me. But kids are dicks, and the time when you realize this THE MOST is when you’re 34, sitting in the backseat of a car and a song from The Eagles comes on and you think, “this song is fucking awesome, and I can’t believe I ever criticized my parents for liking it.” (To everyone saying “the Eagles suck,” I’d ask you to really examine if you actually think that…or, if you just love “The Big Lebowski” so much that you feel compelled to say that whenever hearing The Eagles.)

I remember hating The Eagles, country music, Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, and, GOD I WAS SUCH A DICK AS A KID! That music is so good! Maybe all kids are just undercover hipsters who think that saying they don’t like something that those closest to them like will make them seem “different”? Or, maybe kids are just selfish people who think that their decisions are better than people who have been making decisions for far longer than they have because…their brains are small? Whatever the reason, they’re just not nice! And the time that this really crystalizes comes around the same time you’re telling you’re wife that you “think it’s time”. “Now that I know for a fact that kids are a-holes, I’d like to add another to the population.” HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!?!

But maybe that’s just it: the time you know that you’re ready for a kid comes at the exact time that you’re adult enough to realize that you were a jerk as a kid for not liking your parents’ music. So, try this: if you’re thinking that you may be ready to bring a tiny jerk into the world, put on that band/artist that your parents used to listen to ALL THE TIME when you were young. If you put it on, and you still think the music sucks, guess what? Still not ready for a kid. But, if you put it on and immediately feel guilty for heckling the people who paid for your entire life, then you’re ready to be a parent. We’ll call this the “Jimmyschair Parent Test” and I would patent it if I knew how to do that and thought it could actually end up becoming profitable.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving tomorrow and…well, things are stressful in Casa De La Chair. Last night we got mad at each other for no real good reason, but we’re still kinda’ not talking to each other because neither of us want to give in and admit that they were wrong. Do I think I was wrong? Yeah, duh, I know I was wrong. BUT! I’ve been taking a lot of “L’s” lately and so, I’m just not in the mood to willfully accept another right now.

What will probably happen is I’ll get home after work tonight, pretend like we’re totally fine and then notice that The VP isn’t making eye contact with me. She won’t give me the TOTAL silent treatment, but her answers will be short and the jokes will be forced. If I make a joke, she’ll pretend not to hear it because laughing = saying we’re “okay”. So it’ll get tense, but I’ll tell myself to hold off just a bit longer until SHE’S the one to break. But then I’ll make a FAT cocktail (fancy boiiiiii) get deep into it and really start to miss feeling like the person I live with doesn’t hate me.

Then I’ll break, admit that I was wrong, have to nod through her reliving the blow by blow account of EXACTLY when I went wrong, and then…get kinda’ mad but stifle it and remind her of the things that “weren’t the best.” This whole “trying to save face” exercise for the both of us will go on for no less than 16 minutes.

Happy Friday!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Moving. It’s the fucking worst.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The post-move drink. It’s a top 5er.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I think I’m done until football season…WHICH IS FAST APPROACHING!