Take The Chicken Out The Freezer

Talking to myself like I am Nina Simone's Inner Nina Simone but also talking to myself like I am Carl Wheezer's inner Carl Wheezer

It's 2022 and I got 3 bags of Tostitos scoops and a maxed-out credit card to my name,

Complete with sweater vests and bass clarinets, like when I used to be asthmatic.

I had my first epiphany when I was 17 and I was like "I'm out here epiphanying"

Whether the name is Jon, JODY, Jonny, or Jonathan,

My words stutter and get twisted like I was a twizzler caught in a twister.

Being my authentic self, but not that way ya' weirdo

She half white, half latina so her name in my contacts is Sriracha Mayo

Complete with

Sweet shea butter kisses, tastes so good like some cornbread with the pig feets collard greens and the sweet, SWEET yams, I wanna' smack ya' Momma Donna

Watching Kung Fu Panda, crying like my Auntie when they first elected Obama,

Just a wee-bit narcissistic, so my haters wanna' turn me into a llama

Raised my voice like when my momma' told me "take the chicken out the freezer"

They say the universe works in mysterious ways, 

So I guess the boys chasing me down in their dad's lifted pick up truck is adding double XP to my character development, 

But all I wanted was some chicken nuggies and Rebecca Black on vinyl. And maybe world domination so I can student loans and take like 3,000 naps but

Seems like all I got was a broken knee, microaggressions, and a binder full of Pokemon cards.

Maybe you’re the one Morgan Freeman sent to me and I’m the man Tilda Swinton wanted me to be!

Just thought if there were a little more Spicy Nacho Doritos and a little less Cool Ranch Doritos, it would fix what is wrong and right in the world.

So 2.27 billion seconds I'm expected to be in this galaxy. Like Chuck E. Cheese tokens, gotta make them count, 

So I gotta' show up to show out to show off!

Now I may not be shit to you, but my momma' think I made it

So don't touch me, I'm famous,

How to Ineffectively Solve Conflicts with Cornbread

I wouldn't consider myself a pacifist. The need for me personally to resolve conflict with physical conflict is as rare as finding a Moltres or Articuno in the wild. Let's begin, 

I know people may argue that it is what wild beasts would do, as people stand around and watch two grown adults fight at a baseball game (hold the phone sideways to be professional.) but I am not sure. I don't want anyone to touch my mother or father or niece or brother or cousin or bowl of Tostitos but there are other things to do than to actually harm someone with your body parts. Which oddly enough, ends up hurting you normally.

It's just I have other stuff to do, ya' know? Like whenever I was younger and I was being bothered or teased and things got physical, it was easy to walk away. I had an Xbox and two loving parents in a home. A dog needed to be walked. Tostitos were waiting at home. If a fight were to manifest then I would get suspended. No Xbox. Get but whooped (so technically two times I get beat). Teachers would take me out of the "Student of the Month" awards. No gift card to KB Toys.

Whenever I got older and grew into my body and played sports, obviously it popped up. But using words was even more effective versus flinging a wild haymaker at someone's temple. "Sticks and stones" blah, blah, blah; words will forever and ALWAYS hurt me. What's mightier, the pen or the sword? The silver tongue laced with poison *chefs kiss* was developed throughout my childhood, even as I managed a speech impediment (shout-out to Ms. Faye!).

But also recognizing to always defend yourself. Most people have some sort of community. Whether it be personal or professional or platonic or what have you, someone looks to a person for love and commitment and support. Sometimes the homie needs you to opt-in or square up when there is conflict. There will always be conflict. There will never not be conflict. 

And that's house this life works. There's a problem and a solution happens. It may not be pretty at the end, but an end will come. Most of the time it is within someone's self. Like maybe the kids who bullied me during grade school were mad that they didn't have a father figure. Or Halo 3 on the Xbox 360. I am sorry your family's lights went off but please stop teasing me about playing the bass clarinet. I was All-District, 4th chair.

"You gonna' let him talk to you like that?"

"No! I am going to walk away, so I won't be able to hear him talk to me like that."

Again, I am the guy who will eat the food even if my order is wrong. But also the guy who will ask for a manager because they ran out of curly fries.

#knowyourworthking

 

To Grow Old in Norfolk, Virginia

I never thought about too much in the future when I was younger. But I was constantly, painstakingly reflecting on my past. My past year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, millisecond, etc. Like how could I have done that differently being aware of every time I make some sort of mistake or a quizzical choice.

But as I grow older and my mistakes become more frequent and more costly (because remember, it's literally about me at this point in my life) I do start to ponder the bigger yet more concrete things that matter. People asking what I am going to do in my life, I'm not sure. There aren't really too many big-big plans besides getting my degree and opening up a studio. But even those two things I am not obsessed with. 

I am obsessed with being a great friend and being a great teacher and being a great student and being a great coworker and being a great partner and being a great parody dancer. But I'm not doing the things to do that right now. It's as though it's okay but not really. Because remember, I am constantly reflecting on these tasks and myself. I am past the first E, I've already identified and know how to fix the problem.

Those big goals, divided into smaller, measurable attainable goals have been what keeps me going. If one of my goals is to stay joyful, that means I need to sleep 6 hours a day or eat 3 servings of leafy green vegetables or run 3-4 miles, 3 days a week. Then the big goals slowly but surely are within my grasp and I won't even know it until it's already been passed and accomplished. Fortunately reaching my goal but unfortunately not celebrating the milestone, 

But I am tired, we all are and I sometimes just want to get through my days. And that's a huge issue, there are so many cool things that happen throughout my day and I want to enjoy them. But the days and weeks and months run together and I am not able to process anything.

If you made a pie chart of my 24 hour day, 2 hours would be spent exercising, 12 hours spent working, 6-7 hours sleeping, 1 hour school work, and then the rest hopefully is decompressing but rarely. 

I did that in a space and time a while ago and I was like poorly made grilled cheese: burnt out, melted down, broken down. Just pieces, on the ground, eaten up by street rats wings. I didn't want to grow old and die in Norfolk, Virginia or Denver, Colorado. If I can't process my days and decompress, then the repeat happens then it'll be a wrap like Saran. 

But once again, this has happened and I have been able to pick up those pieces and become the best Jon or JODY that I can be. It happened twice. But I have to slow down and provide maintenance when needed. Because honestly, I need me! Jon needs me. Jonny needs me. Jonathan needs me. JODY needs me. Hell, even Jo(h)n needs me. Hopefully this weekend I can go over everything and get it going. Wait hopefully, I mean it'll get done. I don't have a choice,

Me, You, and Ya' Momma Pt.1

I always thought it was important to check in with yourself and what you need on a daily basis. Or at least weekly. I am fully aware of the minus and plus that come with living on Earth as a young black man in the United States of America with two college-educated parents. I understand that is not normal and as well. 

As a child, I would be holler out "Hey dad" and he would holler back "Yes, son" with that in itself being a big flex.

The privilege I have to check in on myself, as I have been doing subconsciously through my journals since around 3rd grade has been above all things, terrifying. I lived in the suburbs my entire childhood, and I remember being terrified even to go asleep. 

9/11 happened, what if it a plane runs into our house? The DC sniper, what if he is waiting outside for me? What if I have a heart attack from all of this soul food by the age of 12? What if I never make it into the Justice League?

The world is huge, massive yet the world in itself is tiny, bite-sized compared to everything else. When I listened to the words of Carl Sagan talking about being a speck of dust on a speck of dust scientifically speaking, what do you do? Where do you grow from at that point? How is someone who was afraid of any and everything, supposed to develop into a semi-functional human. 

Where did any sort of eternal sustainable happiness come about after so much self-conscious, degrading thoughts that were proven to be true when life hit as an adult.

Maybe it is when I got to college and started meeting folks. Maybe it was when I went to Alaska for a summer and was isolated. Or maybe it was between Me, You, and Ya' Momma.

The Off-Season

The Off-Season is upon us. Two months of recalibration, remediation, relaxation, recovering or what have you. It's a time not to be taken lightly as expired sweet peppers and avocadoes sit patiently in my vegetable drawer, waiting for me to take them out behind the barn to end their misery. I was going to throw them out and clean out my fridge during the winter, but I had to get disfectant spray on layaway on the Dollar Tree. I'm definitely taking time now to reevaluate my close personal and professional relationships. My social, emotional, physical, spiritual simulations, needs, wants, and desires. As soon as I left school today, I felt that exhale finally happen like I was Loretta Devine trying out new swimsuits after a BBQ. I did get through the last school year with a relative smoothness but still fell into my vices quite easily, as they tend to send out false vibrations, playing with my emotions. I feel like for every 1 vice I have (let's call them Tom Cruises), I need about 10-15 positive things (let's call them Bill Murrays) to only REDUCE the effectiveness of the Tom Cruises. Not eliminate, just reduce. And not doing those vices isn't very helpful because then there's a fear I'll fall back into them and just dive deeply into it more when I get back to that level. I always come back to them, like a deadbeat dad after their son makes it to the NBA. For example: Tom Cruises: Overeating, Overdrinking, Maintaining a failed relationship, Undersleeping, Overexercising, Over Social-Mediaing, Not Drinking Enough Water, Ignoring Warning Signs of Anxiety, Saying Yes, Stealing disinfectant spary from the Dollar Treem, Not expressing Needs from a relationship because it's "inconvienent" Bill Murrays: Eating vegetables, checking in with friends, Hydrating, Running, Yoga, Meditating, Listening to (informational) podcasts, Calling parentseekly, Keeping up with my sleep pattern, Burning incense or sage, Getting/receiving hugs, Making my bed in the morning, Petting dogs, Cursing positive affirmations at my plants, Saying No, Writing this blog that only my mom and Dee reads, Listening to Hans Zimmer when I am doing mundane activities, Dancing awkwardly around people I love, High fiving people until their hands hurt, Making up secret handshakes with people, Knowing when to go home, Performing entries from this blog only my mom and Dee reads, (TBC) And I feel it more, ya' know? I feel this over indulgence as I round to my 28th birthday, I feel the uneasiness of it all. It's there and always ready to serve to medicate me but I needed to meditate. Yes there's Jon, Jonny, JODY, and Jonathan but there is really only one Jon. And I need to take care of him, I need to take care of me. Whether I am wearing a wig or not. And damn that fridge needed to be cleaned out so long ago So how does the Off-Season going to effect my Tom Cruise-Bill Murray conundrum this year? It won't unless I sent some intentions soon. Like right now. I think it's important to see everything from the lense on how it effects not only other people but me. It's all about me when it comes down to it. I came into this world with my parents, a brother, probably some white dude slapping me on sight, and oversized heads. But ultimate-ultimately I was alone. And I will die alone. My intro and outro. But that middle, juicy, meaty part between those things is where I get excited. I'm overworked, overanxious, underslept, sometimes more sad than not but I am here with a lot of joy and a lot of faith, which I need to extend to myself. I am and will continue to turn up. I don't have a choice in the matter. But I need to breathe. I need to slow down and be with myself and in this sh*t or I'm never going going to attain the 5th and final Jon. #savethetostitos

I Love You Too, Jo(h)n Whiting

 "Who am I becoming as a teacher?"

I love talking about myself. I mean I love talking about myself. I am a black man, college educated born from a middle class family who loved me who always seems to have something new to reflect on every two seconds. And it is lovely because I have been unpacking “who I am” since I was young JODY. But throughout middle school, the grade I have been teaching since 2017, has opened up a magnitude of suppressed memories and feelings throughout my entire life. More specifically, my career as a teacher.

I was a “B+” student in school; I did my work at a fairly high level, I loved to read, loved to learn new things, loved that I had two, hardworking college-educated parents, loved to earn and give respect to my teachers and colleagues. I was bullied higher than average in reference to my peers, as I attributed to my geeky yet shy personality. My middle school was a nice pool of diversity, with mixed socioeconomic status and sociocultural differences (until a new school opened up years later, making it a low SES). My friends included a band geek, basketball player, low achieving student, book lover, a physically handicapped friend, and mentally handicapped friend. Not plural but all singular, as I had one of each. School was good to me and I reciprocated those feelings.

I began journaling privately in 7th grade, as I started to find my identity amongst my peers. I loved talking and reflecting about everything in that journal.  I played basketball, loved reading, loved playing my bass clarinet; I loved doing hobbies. My parents continuously (somewhat forcibly) encouraged me to follow different pursuits and numerous activities and I even have somewhat of an interest in. I liked them but not necessarily loved them. But I wanted to know the how of everything due to my eagerness to try new things and learn new things from my peers.. This was an ideal that is now extremely important and relevant to me as a 27 year-old, as my amount of interests only increased as time went on. 

Fast forward to my college years, the same amount of energy came up. Wanting to know how things work and how I could possibly make the world a better place through education. I wanted to hold that space for folks who may not have a group they belonged too because I couldn’t find one either. College gave me this platform to finally be a facilitator of information for anyone who wanted to learn. I was a part of running club, clean-up club, gardening up, environmental science club, dance club; anything that would prescribe me this piece of mind of me finding this identity. But as I people found these loves and passions in college, I became discouraged. How was I going to find what I was looking for and become this high-level professional adult in my career?

My teaching career started primarily due to me trying to figure out what I wanted to do post-college life.  All of these skills and talents I had and learned from working as a biologist, tour guide, recreational assistant, etc. had gotten me nowhere. I did not know what to do with my college education and my vast amount of knowledge and experience for someone who was 22 years-old. And I went into my first year of teaching, tiptoeing and I got exposed. Heavily. Terribly. I wasn’t a trained teacher when I first walked into a room full of 7th graders. I was a scared 12 year-old who used to get bullied by EJ and them boy and only talked to a bunch of weirdos. Whether I was 5’3, 130 pounds or 6’4 200 pounds, I walked into my first year of teaching 7th grade like I walked in my first year into 7th grade, as 7th grader. And I cried a lot those first couple of years I taught. Not because of the kids, mostly because I had an identity crisis. If I love teaching and love these kids and can’t teach these kids then who else is going to do it? 

  So I continued to teach without any regards to my emotions to a point I was gently asked to leave my career. The career that exemplified all of amazing attributes was exemplifying all my insecurities. I didn’t know how to talk to 7th graders, I didn’t know how to talk to my black 7th graders. It’s because I was the kid who talked to all of my teachers or read during lunch break. I was not going all in with little bit of gas but constantly going full-speed. All I had to do was push it to a gas station and gently drive off. 

The feeling of not being the best or not fitting in was a common trend. Yes, I had a wave and pool of friends but I only chose those outliers who helped me learn that specific skill. Managing and holding a space for groups of people became a talent I didn’t know I had until my current year in teaching, as my culture-setting for each of my classes is now beautifully executed. My family is a big deal to me and rarely do I like something but I always love something. The glory and pain of failure is a driving force for me. All of the teasing and isolation really hurt me growing up, especially from my black peers, especially from peers that I know are hurting as well. Sometimes I took it too personally but I always knew that if someone made even the smallest attempt to connect with me, whether it be as a peer or as a teacher, they were going to have a safe space to be in. Even if it was only for 5 minutes at the bus stop.

Where Dem Hoes At? Part 2

 

Imma' tell you something beautiful,

More beautiful than cornbread, fish, and collard greens

More splendid than iced tea on a Tuesday evening after a 10 hour-shift at the shipyard,

Everlasting like, like, like, like 'Tuck Everlasting' 

Prettier than Cassius Clay sashaying in a square Kinshasa

You thought you have seen an angel when Willow pulled up at a local Waffle House.

And a niggy was there,

He told me that he's not going to ask me again, "where dem hoes at?"

I told 'em underneath the kitchen sink

I left a note for ya'

7 in the bedroom, 12 in the living room

I heard some people like the Snake and some people think my hoes look Deliciosa

And they would die without me, especially when I sprinkle them with that miracle water and essential nutrients 

Some thirsty daily, some thirsty weekly, but they all wait in line and get the sprits when need be

Most of them androgynous like they Megatron, 

I got more on the way, but they're back ordered like bread and eggs when the Austin Powers out,

I like to keep a couple of them in the cupboard because they don't like being exposed to the elements Corinne Bailey Rae's,

Whispering 'em sweet nothings, so they know daddy love 'em, and they always give me some sugar

Like my nickname is booger.

Imma' tell you something beautiful and don't think about too explicit, thank about how ya' moms would feel.

But if ya' mom has some hoes, tell her to keep 'em trimmed!

Lunch in the Library

"This can't be the mind that read 2 novels per month in 5th grade" I used to read. I used to read a lot when I was younger. The letters, words, and sentences would leap out at me and pimp-slapped into a stories I could never have dreamt of. Reading became the source of my happiness via escapism when I was a child. Escapism. Why was I always trying to leave a space? Whether it be mentally or physically. I wondered if I truly was unhappy when I was younger or even 'til now. My teachers would recall me wanting to sit in the classroom during the lunch period or getting the rare and special privelge of having lunch in the library. The library: the place that held all of the stories of triumph and heartbreak and grown men running around half-naked with kids (apparently that's funny?). The books I read had nothing to do with what I wanted to read with at the time, I just read them. If it book was there or existed, I picked it up and started reading. How else was I going to learn about homoerotic fan fiction or how finnese a single mom into marrying you even though you don't like woman and have a second family. I didn't want to be in the lunchroom; their stories were boring and -spoiler alert- school lunch raises your chances of getting heart disease. And of course, their stories made sense. I wanted to learn about some little white boy killing a Michael Jackson doppelganger who had alopecia and was for a vampire for some reason. From reading my journals, I could tell a lot of my time was sitting and waiting around, yearning to be an adult. An old, boring adult. Well congrats Jon, But why wouldn't you want to travel to middle earth realm or go to a high school where everyone is endowned with special powers? Where would I be without E. Lynn Harris or Kurt Vonnegut? Maybe a white picket fence with a beagle. Or extra bags of Tostitos.

2.82

I graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree from Georgia College (formerly known as Georgia College & State University) on December 15th, 2015. I majored in Environmental Science with a concentration in geography/geology. My coursework includes hydrology, hydrogeology, ecology, agroecology, independent research on groundwater contamination, chemistry, blah, blah, science. 

Upon completion of my courses, I received a 2.82 GPA, about 80-82 average or a B- scale. Now, do I believe my intelligence over 4.5 years is a B- overall as an adult? No. Did I believe that during my undergrad program? Duh. Let's dive into it,

College is hard. It's probably the hardest thing I have done since pretending I care about Tyler Perry movies. To me, I was an intellectually sound Jonny and I could comprehend things at a high level when my interest was strong enough. And the strong interest in science was such a huge deal and it was overwhelming what one could do with a degree in environmental science. It seemed like the opportunities were limitless. 

All of the times I badgered my peers for study groups, worked in your underground geology lair, stood at my professor's door clutching my marked up tests, asking graduate students about how to fix our broken spectrometers that are always broken, taking mental breaks at permaculture farms, nothing can take away from how beautiful everything was during that time.

Freshmen year wasn't the greatest for me, as I navigated the regular party scene, sleeping in a tiny room across with some yt dude I never met before, and my low appetite to do either one of those things. I went out every once in a while and tried to be social but did not care much. I was most notably known for going to the library at 3pm on Fridays and renting out every DVD from the circulation desk.

My school was tiny, so minute that I knew who was going to be in my class and who to sit with for labs. In my junior and senior(s) year, my 3 professors for (all) my upper level courses knew of me and I felt they did not believe in me. For my senior capstone when putting "eradicating invasive plant species on federal land" was dulled down to "mowing lawns"and got rejected by my advisor, I was not in the best of modes. Sometimes I think they saw me as a custodian, my side job in school. Of course nothing wrong with being a custodian but there is something wrong with someone who doesn't want to be seen as a custodian who is trying to become a hydrologist.

 But during those formative years and post-formative years, it took intentional minutes to convince myself I am smart enough and that I am an extra-ordinary negro. Sometimes I wish my professors sat and talked with me but there was never time for them to get to know me over lunch. I knew all about them, I wanted to emulate them. Just a little. As I became older and (sort of) wiser, I realized that I have my own path and own intelligences that may not show up on the stat-sheet. That may be a reason teaching has come to fluid to me and why my graduate program has been so much smoother than undergrad and why I pride myself off of helping students reach their full potential. Even if they think they're only Drew Gooden. You may not be LeBron James but I would like them to carry themselves like they are. Ya' know?

Unlimited Tostitos, Pt. 2

Do you ever just hear people say words out loud and you're just standing there like

"Nope."

I was listening to some comedian talk about "the older you get, the more you just spout of stuff you know nothing about" in regards to a regular conversation. For example I may ask someone who is the name of an actor in a movie, and I will get the runaround for 8 minutes in which most of the words are probably just a random sequence of sentences that have taken 8 minutes of my life. 

Because for a while I believed myself to be stupid, so I would eagerly await people to say words to me, all of the time. It was though I was waiting for little bit-sized bits of wisdom that I could enlighten myself with and be the next Nelson Mandela. Or Clay Aiken. 

But instead I received a lot of bit-sized bits of unseasoned trash. Am I eating trash? No. But listening to numerous professors in college saying incorrect facts or a mayonnaise amount of information helps me sift out the fecal matter. 

Can you imagine in that 8 minute time frame of me listening to someone say whatever, I could have created a blueprint for how to build a baby-sized space-shuttle? I could have created a cure for all the cancers. I could have won unlimited tostitos from a scratch-off from Food Lion. I could have took 10 seconds to google the actor in that movie (it was John Malkovich, duh!)

But instead I got this value-menu-Jonathan-Livingston-Seagull-probably-volunteers-to-picket-at-planned-parenthood-guy telling me about why Miller High Life is not only the "champagne of beers" but the "champagne beverage of all the beverages" and didn't even provide any scientific evidence. No articles from JSTOR or GALILEO or faux Wikipedia article.

As I may interject, as I am talking to myself, that most conversations are essentially useless. Unless we are talking about how to harness the power of unlimited tostitos, how is this topic helping us be better as people? 95% of conversation is small talk, and I have the faux Wikipedia articles to prove it. I'm a scientist, so I can throw out numbers and you won't fact check it. Believe me, I did independent research for my Hydrology classes. Nobody cares about where the numbers came from. *Wink*

Yes the phrase "constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating" always pops up in my head, but there are plenty of other talking points that help improve the human race, besides unlimited tostitos. (Reminder, I need to go to the store before they close!)

Here are a few constructive topics:

1. Did you delete your search browser lately?

2. What are your feelings towards the second season finale of American Idol?

3. Why aren't you trying harder, like, in general?
4. Do you not like to wear deodorant? 

"You Ain't Gotta' Lie" by Kendrick Lamar is the staple of this entire article. It's okay , you really don't have to lie!

I Asked God To Come and Get Me, But I am Too Uncool

Some of my favorite/worst memories of my childhood was waking up real early on Sunday mornings to go hear Dr. Lance Watson preach in Creighton. I would never have my hair combed by the time we would leave, so my momma would always drag the comb through my hair, almost making my scalp come off. Call it the first ever S-curl accident. Sometimes if we were a little early to get to church, me and my brother would get chicken biscuits from McDonald's. While we sped to church down 95 and across 64, listening to Momma Caesar I would steal my brother's hash browns for the extra saturated fat. There was this girl there at the 10am services, she had cornrows and braces like it was her first day out. She probably already knew how to shoot a stepback jumper, heavily contested. I never spoke to her, but she looks like a Jamillah. Oh, and there were a few kids from my school who went there and I would try to make eye contact but as soon as they looked up, I looked down. I always wondered where I got church shoes from. I felt like they always appeared and I never asked for them. I wish it worked that way for Gameboy Advance Cartridges. While we sat down, my momma would give me a crinkled dollar bill to hand-off to some old dude who smelled of moth balls. What was he chewing all the time? I always held on to the money plate longer than I needed too because it looked like his arthritis was starting to kick in. Whenever the music would play (there was a score for walking into the church to breathing in the church to squirming in the church to passing out in the church) I wanted to dance or any clap my hands. Never understood why I didn't do so, even to this day. It was a continuous struggle to get to church everyday but it was a spectacle when you got there. If I took one of my white friends with us like Adam or Alex, you would have thought we were watching a soap opera. Pastor rapping off bible verses, old ladies passing out, single mom's interpretation of snakes, drinking the blood and eating the flesh off of some dude you haven't seen but apparently is ubiquitous. And there were so many hats. I would be so proud to invite seasoning to their lives. And you swore you left refreshed and anew and accomplished as much as Nelson Mandela himself. You couldn't tell someone anything who just walked out of church, not a got-dern-ting. Saying bible quotes and giggling with your best friend named Brenda you saw twice a week. Once at bible study and another at the line at the Piccadilly's. The one at Southpark. Wait is it shutdown? Sometimes I would pay attention to the pastor to intentionally, like I would  be the next up there. Like Martin Luther or Allen Senior. T.D. Jakes would be my speech coach. Mase would serve as my financial adviser. Everyone from my 3rd grade class, family, and friends would be there. Screaming and hollering righteous and sweet sayings right up there at the pulpit, guiding someone to change their life. To see their mom or their kids again after too many years. God would tell me I was cool and said I had a seat with them at the gates because I was so cool for being patient. Jamillah would be there too.



Then I woke up.

"Unhappy" by Outkast has remained one of the songs played when I am normally, well, happy.

How To Lose a Jon In 10 Days

I am firm believer that I am the LAST person in the solar system to be giving out dating advice, especially since I have continuously deflected dating in high school to get my K/D ratio at 1.2 on CoD (see what I mean?). So here are a few of my random quirks and backstories that have gotten (got?) me to this point as a 26 year-old man-child.

*Please be advised, once again, this is not dating advice. Because me giving out dating advice is like Steve Harvey giving out any advice. It just shouldn't happen,

I had the pleasure of growing up with Xbox live and a decent internet service. So my dating life conveniently was hindered in high school due to me playing Halo 3, Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2, and a whole slew of Rockstar games. The opposite sex was cool in my book, but me and Gtownboi88 had to set aside weekend nights to get those sweet, sweet achievements Xbox achievements.

As times progressed, I awkwardly and briefly stumbled into the dating scene when college started. I technically didn't have my first kiss until college since my teeth cut a girl's eyelid due to lack of aim on the first go around and it was bad. Well more pathetic because Google had failed me, 

Remember that Spongebob episode where he says "I'm ugly and I'm proud!" and Squidward subtly says "is that what you call it?" and he gains the bare minimum of self-confidence to exist? Yeah. But quick reminder that my mentality is "I am the sh*t but also I am a little sh*t" and that didn't fair well.

When post-college life came around, I had hit a stride and felt what I needed was attainable, and my communication came out of dormant. Punctuality became (essential) important, intention became tier 1, futures were discussed, but I noticed I started attaching myself to maybe 60%-75% of the a person. Like toxic traits were ignored and I only wanted to pick out the positive, beneficial ones. Maybe someone is intellectually, emotional, socially, and financially sound but romantically had some rough habits. Even though the communication was there, that trait didn't just lay around dormant. It still negatively impacted me. Which wasn't and still isn't healthy for me or any partner I was with,

It's also strange because I will get so jittery and happy when meeting that new person to where I get annoyed with my thoughts on whether I should text them or not. Every time I see that person, my heart would drop down to the soles of my feet. But also at a certain point, I had to think that I was only excited because someone chose to speak to me, and they could have literally done anything else today. (Yes, I know, Jonny is annoying)

Came to the hard truths, like understanding if people are too busy to date me at 27, what hope do I have of dating them when they are busy at 35. Humans will make time for you if they really want too. No one is that occupied. Unless you're The Rock (have you seen his IG?) people have priorities in life and it's okay if it doesn't involve me. People who I have known for years and years used to remain in my life because they create that time and space. But for years and years they hindered that growth to find someone. It's like I have been a dandelion being told dandelions are just weeds. When that's not that truth at all,

I still think there's more good women then men percentage wise, but it is vital to everyone's everyday life to just ask sometimes. You don't have to wait 10 days to do so. Seeing negative, undefinable bad tendencies in the first 5 minutes of a meet-up (one girl asked me if I was gay repeatedly because I wore a yellow shirt), it's okay to hit that step-back. Sometimes there are people that I meet over a dating app and wished that I met them at a Comic Con or in college. Just let them know how you feel, for better or for worse. And if someone asks you to stop talking to them, maybe (definitely) you should stop talking to them,

And it's okay to be intimate with someone you've known for years but there is a certain amount of respect for that friendship that has dissipated. I think that's real.

Almost everything about dating is nice to me. It can be stressful and a waste of time, but you get to meet someone new, someone who you talked to for a week or for a year and they are anxious to meet you. They don't know of your faults or mistakes, you get to make the same bad decisions all over again if you want to be that way. Or learn from them, that's probably better. It's like a weird time loop or Groundhog Day. You can change anything you want but it's always going to be the same result on your end. Just stay true to yourself but please, for the love of Jon, don't be a terrible. Yes, I am talking to you 21 year-old Jon,

When you bring me out, can you introduce me as JODY

You asked me to tell you a story about what I know 

Stories about how to make cornbread moist and why I Listen to chief keef on the way to teach 12 years about ecology 

Well...

I know I never forgave you for stealing my lunchables from the 1st grade, 

I know I’m still half Black, half licorice 

I know her tinder profile said she is a mother of 4, But told her I’ll book the sitter since I already bought the 2 for $20 from Ruby Tuesdays 

I know I’m like Ye’; wish I could run across a beach and jump into my own arms,

I know I have a shade a field nigger, but where’s the sunscreen because I’m still not trying to get skin cancer 

I know I’m cut from elastic, long built like Mr. Fantastic 

I know tall Ethiopian women rule the world through tibs, honey wine, and coffee

I know niggas don’t give a fuck on what street I stay on,

I know I still giggle every time I say penis or doo-doo, 

I know the worth of 3 dollars and 6 dimes, call it knowledge, wisdom, and gumption

I know my momma and auntie worried about me but that’s why I keep sage, cocoa butter, and an Acts of Faith comp in a bedazzled Fanny pack 

I know my seat don’t roll back, 

I know the next shade of my skin isn’t black, it’s purple and that’s royalty 

I know Renny & Smiley love me, 

I know Jonny, Jon, and JODY still love me,

I know hugs from old black ladies who call me suga’ is the closest thing I’ll be to heaven on earth 

I know I cry too much for a heterosexual cis educated black man who grew up in the south. Air Bud is just a great movie 

I know I want to be a superhero and I just want my dog back

I know that players is quitters, JODY is Jon, I have more love than Jonny Bravos love for his mom, and gentrified cornbread is bomb

Good God Almighty

The following (heavily edited) excerpt was taken from a journal entry written in 2006.

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones.

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means.

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood.

Chris Gemstone, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Phase 1 complete.

"T.R.O.Y." manifested by Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth first captured my fascination combining hip-hop & running. 

Been Ballin'

I thoroughly believe in the quarter-life crisis and all of its splendors.

The post-college limbo, the uncertainty of a profession, running rapid like a stray dog in heat (or a 46 year-old white man training for the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon in Virginia Beach); this sometimes feign depression hits people in different ways. I decided to ignore most of these mid-20s dilemmas by completely submitting to everything.

Jody is the epitome of a quarter-life crisis; moving to Denver without any self-sufficient funds, leaving a job and partner with a tin of gin in one hand and a 40-pound kettlebell in the other. Staying in 7 cities in a year, mooching off of friends, going on dozens of Tinder dates, accumulating credit card debt are things that a 21 year-old Jody would not condone.

But Jody is also the epitome of a quarter-life euphoria; moving to Denver with blind optimism, starting 3 new jobs that will be hold dear, moving on from a relationship, dating people freely, doing yoga and mimosas on late Saturday mornings, experiencing almost every city in the Denver metro area.

From the age of 21 to 25, the soundtrack of my life going from “Angels” by Chance the Rapper to “Been Ballin’” by Ballout. One song inspiring hope and joy and optimism while the latter inspiring hope and joy and optimism with a side of a fickle and frivolous baller-ish lifestyle.

Every time my Newtons hit the pavement, every time my fingertips reach my toe tips, every time I toss a weight in the air is the only certainty I feel. It’s nice because most people do not even have that and it has chiseled off of the confusion of my 20s. I know exactly what my body will do and when and how it will do it. It won’t fail me because it can’t. Because I am not sure what I do without it.

"Been Ballin'" By Ballout ft. Chief Keef has been looped in my head from my favorite social media favorites King Vader and Lenar.

Navajo

It has to be noted that I don't think Masego in his song Navajo is a racist for making direct yet sexy references to a woman who he calls an "Indian" who people normally identify as somehow who has been there since the beginning of a relationship or someone who is rooted in their culture. Eh, maybe he might be a little racist. Still hits though.

I am going for a 4-miler and queued up 3 Masego tracks that keep my pace honest. I think about my worn burgundy sleeves that stretch about 3 inches past my wrist, how my knees look like I've been kneeling on mummy caskets, and if I should switch out my Colorado expired tags to my unexpired Virginia tags.

Finally have gotten back into teaching yoga which flopped after my full attention had been diverted to the school year. I routinely forget that I have my 200-hr yoga certification, and it seems like I am not to assertive about earning back that $3k.

Yoga has been by far the best physical fitness to practice to remediate me after yelling at precumbescents and having my award-winning hips planted in a car for 1.5 hour commutes lately. I still have night terrors that my booty will look like Hank Hill's gluteus maximus.

The butt which is famously connected to the hips is by far the most interesting part of the body to me. It can be a pancake or resemble to apples or have the texture of a spoonful of jell-o, or big and hard like something that may be big and hard. I obsess about the genetics that I am alley-ooping over to my young ones when they hatch from underneath their momma's buttcheeks which will be bountiful. What id I have one of those loser's kids who have no booty or maybe the kid who has to have butt-pads installed so it won't hurt when they sit because it is all bone, like wings from B-Dubs. What if my kid is twerking on someone and somehow elbow them with their own butt? Tragic,

Tragic.         

The song "Navajo" by Masego found its way into my playlist through it's hard bass and sexy sax solo towards the end of the song.

Gentrified Cornbread

It's 3:18 pm and I am sitting in a coffee shop. I used to say coffee is the devil's nectar but here I am sipping on a venti caramel frappuccino with a dose of espresso. It is not called 'express-o' don't worry, I checked.

So as you can see, I reopened my blog (again) with ultimate hopes of "chillin' tf out" during this next school quarter and updating folks on why I love physical fitness and how it connects to my overall Jonny spirit. 

This is not a "how-to-guide" on how I balance teaching yoga, running dogs, and the high-and-lows of being a 3rd year teacher as well, as I do my own fitness practices. This is just how a Jonny boy does it and yes, these things may nest its way into my blog.

I will be blindly optimistic, vent, rant, praise, throw up, eat the throw it back up again,.I will sing, dance, yell, laugh and I will do it by making paragraphs 2-5 sentences in a palpable (that's for you JW.)

I think highly of myself (even as far as calling myself J.O.D.Y. = Jon of Da Year) but I know how much life can suck and I know how blessings just fall on top of head while I ignore them because I am still cursing on why life sucks. 

But there is so much to the little things of life that are so important: like getting a good crack-of-the-neck, kids who try to race me on my 5-milers off Colfax, that guy in Planet Fitness that falsely told me I look like Terry Crews. 

Oh geez, I keep telling y'all what this blog is about to be about and what 'imma do' and la-di-da. Wait well let me get one more attempt in,

This blog is about all of the things in life that make me happy, make me sad, make me tired, make me glad; this blog is about how I ran a 5k in 17:12 while I was hungover from 2 40s and a few shots of moonshine; this blog is about how kicked a lady in a face while I was demonstrating a headstand; it is about my 5th grade P.E. teacher who called a 9 year-old with a fragile psyche fat; it is about my mom's cornbread that had a little too much butter in it that had to be gentrified by using olive oil & basil leaves. 

Welcome to Gentrified Cornbread.

Running Man Challenge

Apologies on how sporadic I am at maintaining a blog. Haven't had a functioning laptop in a while. I could also note other numerous excuses, but for now I am just going to dive into the recent running activities.

I ran the Richmond Anthem Marathon this past November, 46-seconds under sub-4:00. First and probably only time running with headphones on. To say 26.2 miles showed me the 'gas face' would be an understatement. After being almost two minutes late to the actual race, I reached a hiccup during the run. 

I despise running over 10 miles. Oops.

Only running 20 miles twice in my life and expecting to qualify for the Boston Marathon off of that may have been a potential problem. This thought first occurred as I gobbled down multi-flavored gels like it was some chicken pad thai I bought with a Groupon. It's as though my body knew I had only ran a certain amount of mileage. So besides getting my third I mean thirteen wind, besides producing all that lactic acid, besides summoning Chief Keef to get my body through this self-inflicted pain, it hit me. No, I mean it literally hit me.

 

First in the inner quads then outer quads then calves and then feet and then stomach. The unsolicited cramps, ouchie. My body told me it was time to go home, but my ego said only a tiny, little, 10k left. Then we can go home and buy more pasta off of Groupon. I ran to about the half marathon mark at 7:30 pace, finished the race at a 9:30 pace. I hit every 'Power-up' button poster, every candy joint, every high five from toddlers; I would have summoned Shenron if Krillin was running with me. 

Despite my ill-preparedness for yet another RVA-based race, the vistas surrounding the James River looked as though they were forged from The Joy of Painting. The mild gusts of wind carried the water down the stream, making its way down and through Belle Isle. The roads and back-roads took runners through the West End, which I never went to as a child. They had me thinking about moving back one day. Homes and houses caught my eye, distracting me from the eventual ensuing pain I would have a mile 20.

An old lady (I only say she was old because she told me she was 75) caught me at 23 miles. She said "woop-woop, woop woop woop, woop woop woop, woopity, I'm 75, keep woop-woop-wooping," because I could only hear her through the pauses in a Solange melody. My old 7th grade gym teacher was there, giving out medals. Still had the same goofy smile and frizzy hair, dabbed with a little bit of gray. She was nice to me. At mile 9, a young man had Domino's and beer for each person willing to sacrifice pit-stop time. I hung out there for about 5-minutes before I realized I still had to finish a race. 

And as I crossed the finished line after whizzing by Grace, Broad, and Cary Street while running like I had a penny stuck in my arse because of leg cramps, I thought only one deafening notion as I walked back to my Honda.

"Only 54 minutes to shave off my time... I'm going to have to try again next year for Boston Qualifier, don't I?"

Dance Party on a Tuesday Morning

Recently I moved out of my parent's Richmond home and relocated to the port city of Portsmouth. Haven't posted much in the past month due to this transition. There's something about moving out of your parent's home and beginning a new job in a new city with crippling student loans that will keep a Jon on edge.

BUT

Of course there are the runs (not those runs) that keep my emotions and thoughts stable as I began my adult life $58,000 in debt. I live in a nice neighborhood; my landlords cook me dinner every once in a while. Charted out a nice route to run before work (4:30 am cardio sessions are a bit of an adjustment) which leaves me passed out by 8 or 9 at night. Been running about 25+ miles/week along with upping my weight training back to 3 times a week. My fitness goals goals right now is to get down to 195 FOREVER. Maybe getting in a marathon by November. Knowing that my mom's showstopper meals will help me keep off the pounds.

Source: giphy

There's the subject of running and exercise that I talk about when it comes to being me staying mentally and physically complete. But without positive/distract(ive) reinforcement of music, I wouldn't be able to get far. As stated earlier, I run based off those feelings of uncertainty. Morning before a big final? Run. Stepping back into a state of depression? Run. About to ask a Nubian Princess out? Run. Evening before a new DC/Marvel movie coming out that has mixed reviews? Run. Just had a bad race? RUN! My anxiety levels peak over the simplest of tasks, and the little things I do can counteract those negative aspects go a long way.

How does an emotional bastard even get up before an exam go for a 45-minute run? Wouldn't that add more frustration? What's the incentive? For one, Running groups are great for people. Finding a good paced group and hanging out with new people while discussing a whole spectrum of topics is great.. Unfortunately for me I'm in a weird spot. I'm not exactly a casual runner but I'm not align with someone who does a marathon in 2:30 hours. I also only run before or after the sun sets due to strict personal preference. That's where the beats, rhythms, and rhymes come in.

My running playlist is as highly maintained as my running shoes. I'm constantly swapping out songs weekly and painstakingly on the hunt for good songs. Some people listen to audiobooks on racial diversity or listen to scientific journals or informative podcasts. Most people listen to upbeat or energetic songs that keep them at a certain rate of intensity during a workout. The emotion may be empowering or techno-y. I definitely have that type of music on my playlist, but I have a mix of emotions. Songs can be menacing and Debby-downers or songs can match the intensity of a RATM mosh pit. A song I can listen to that makes me cry over a romantic movie soundtrack can as easily be in my playlist as a song by The Black Eyed Peas. The common theme is tempo. Whether it's half-time or full-time; that beat has to be in alignment with my stride. In addition ot has to grab my emotions and I need my imagination to capture the song. I need to be consumed by it or the song has to be scrapped. It's not a technical as it seems. Here's an explanation of my current top 4 running songs.

Get Away

The Internet
A break-up song about a couple who want to go on a trip but their relationship is too turbulent to even leave the house together. This neosoul-indie mixed with R&B-infused group is backed by a persistent bass that keeps my running tempo high. The guitar melody gently covers the singer's voice that keeps a serene atmosphere.

My emotion: Relaxed. It feels as though I go back-and-forth between drinking warm milk and vibing out in a small club with a few close friends.

They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.)

Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth
This early '90s hip-hop group samples some jazz using a saxophone and upright bass that helps the rapper effortlessly spit lyrics about past family members and friends. It reminds me of why hip-hop is my favorite genre, as I am fully invested in hearing this story I've heard over thousands of times over the past two decades.

My emotion: Nostalgic. The song came out around the time I was born. A lot of my earliest memories come from hearing this played in the background of my initial thoughts as a toddler. 

Paint It Black
The Rolling Stones

This song hits me right in the face whenever it plays. It overwhelms with this psychedelic, almost melancholy feeling. But with enough aggressiveness to where if I was at a funeral, I would immediately want to kick the ass of the person who murdered a loved one. Even if cancer killed them. I normally have no business listening to '60s rock music, but this song aligns right into a mood I rarely try to feel. Which is...

My emotion: Anger. This song puts me in delightfully angry mood. It's as though I'm warming up my car to go to work. But I drive a 1968 Plymouth Road Runner Hemi. And I need the avenge the death of my father. (He's still alive right now but just saying)

Radio Ladio

Metronomy
This indie-electronic band is one of the few bands I keep up with on a regular basis. During a time I despised the existence of electronic music, this group combined the up-tempo rhythm with a repetitive but ever-changing-melody. It's hard to explain, due to the fact I lose my mind every time it pops up.

My emotion: Enthusiastic. I first heard this song on a video game and instantly begin irritating like a inebriated barista. 

source: lolworthy

Thanks for reading! Share if you would like. Here's the URL of my everchanging playlist on Spotify. Or you can search it. It's called Loretta Devine.

https://open.spotify.com/user/1216617677/playlist/2giHCRxBZbSxeipvcGqBGB

A Fat Boy's Guide to Running*

Recently, I ran my first 10K (6.2 miles) this past Saturday in Richmond, Virginia. This event is the annual Ukrop's Monument Avenue Race, with almost 25,000 participants on a gusty Saturday morning. With a posted time of 39:46, I was disappointed in my quest for a 37-minute PR. I failed to live up to the expectations of my CW Flash t-shirt; in all actuality should have not been worn unless I had a legit chance of running this race in the sub-35. Not 35 minutes but in 35 seconds. Or maybe 3.5 seconds,

Anywhoooooooooooooooo, I thought of something. A thought, plucked from the dusty cabinets of my corner office from a company that's owned by Delhaize. I wanted to jot it down on a notepad, but then again it would probably be good to finish this race first. But during that brief moment of inexplicable pain from my thighs and the pain from letting Wally West down, there was a theory. The Theory of Why?

This is the 1st race my uncle and I have completed together. According to him it'll be the last

Why am I running this race?
Why do I feel happy that my uncle is here in this self-elected suffering?
Why did that girl not to go to the middle school dance with me?

Enter: 5 Philosophies I have about Exercise. As a self-described extreme fitness-minimalist and semi-narcissist, I compiled my own list of reasons why running has stayed in my routine. Why did I list 5 reasons? Because I love the number 5 dammit. Now these aren't thee set of guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist, these are my guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist.


1. Food I don't want to imagine the amount of food I swallow on a daily basis. Yes, I said swallow. I don't chew. The food quantity may be high but so is the quality. Not a fan of salads, but I veggie boast all of my meals. Grilled cheese sandwich? Sprinkle some spinach leaves and sweet peppers in that thang with flax seed bread. Generic box-pasta dinner? Take all the veggies, yes all of them and throw it in. Minus the left foot.

Source: Tumblr

I do eat out 1-2 times a week because I am firm on the belief of "treating yo' self." I have no idea what a cheat meal is to be honest. Cooking in bulk for two or three days definitely turns me off from getting cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's. But I will consume cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's.

2. Schedule My daily agenda always incorporates exercise. Whether I'm sweating or not. I keep a general schedule of going to the gym or doing yoga or running because that's what I programmed myself to do. Do I want to exercise this much? Hell no. There's no specific routine I follow; I don't time myself on my runs or log how many sit-ups I do. On certain days, I will go to gym and hangout or just put on workout clothes but watch SportsCenter. And leave.

So this doesn't mean I'll peer review scientific journal articles on an elliptical. At the height of my workload in college (18 credits), I would spend no more than 45 minutes exercising. Most people halt their Pilates session due to cramming for an exam their undoubtedly going to fail or a hangover from one too many St. Ives at Snoop Lion's house. But that time was blocked out, due to my...

3. Emotions 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. I'm a fervent little shrew. If I'm not doing a violent movement or activity every day, I'm extremely irritable. Never been able to figure out why. If I don't release that energy onto a tangible structure then it is as though someone told the ill-est yo' momma' joke and it will pester me the whole day. It's only a brief amount of brief amount of agony.

Source: Tumblr

4. Breaks 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. But not every week. I'll take a break due to food comas, exhaustion, laziness, revamping my entire existence, etc. It's important to know your limitations. You don't have to go Dwayne Johnson or Sarah Paulson's tempo. Take your time; reward yourself and your temple. It's the only one you have, normally.

5. Music I don't know how people get through a workout and not listen to Flava Flav blaring in your ear. Do they enjoy the potential cramps and shortness of breath and dizzy spells without a little Shakira to move their tailfeather? Or maybe Daft Punk isn't enough to help them to do that yoga? Perhaps Katy Perry doesn't have enough hot sauce in her veins (swag)?

I could go on all day, but music one of the biggest reasons I can get through 4 sets of push-up rows. How it can help me finish that last 400 meters. Or breakdance when hitting that downward dog. A personal preference that has been plenty essential to round out my philosophies.

As a recent fan of CW's The Flash, I decided to rock it with my ever-present zebra headband

No matter how terrible a race or how upset I am with myself for any reason or how much I don't want to do what I need to do, there's always one thing that is constant. One thing to look forward to. I may go about it an alternative way, but I am still able to reap the bounty.

Like a saying I overheard in a conversation outside a middle-Georgia Bar between two Donald Trump Supporters:

There's more than one way to skin a cat

--


*The reason for the title is because "technically" I am considered overweight for my age and height.