You're Doing Great!

by Tom Papa

  I felt like I had been coated in hot sauce, rolled in pepper flakes, and stuck in a rotisserie oven.

  “Venik!” Kira yelled.

  “Venik!” the men responded.

  And then he stopped. The hot sauna air felt like relief in comparison. I had done it. It was over. My heart was still beating. The Russian man yelled something. I figured it was a congratulatory salute. I said, “Thank you,” and got up to leave.

  “He said roll over,” Kira translated.

  I didn’t have time to respond. The other man grabbed me and flipped me like a burger patty, and before I could say anything I was beaten with the sticks on my entire front. Entire front.

  I was about to black out. That same intense heat was now on the tender part of me that I had spent a lifetime protecting. My face had been in trouble before, my chest often neglected, but never this part of me. For forty-odd years I have been this area’s Secret Service bodyguard. In a lifetime of organized sports, drunken mishaps, and dance floors, there have been maybe only two times when they’ve been exposed, let alone injured.

  And now, willingly, albeit deliriously, I was exposing them to the aggressive swatting of jungle twigs.

  A couple more swats and it was over. I was shocked and stunned. I was confused and vulnerable. Now he did say something triumphant, but I was too weak to rise.

  Kira helped me up and led me down the stairs like a doddering old man being helped out of church. We left the sauna and the cool air hit me but had little effect. I was on fire. I thought we were headed back to the locker room, but suddenly I was going up another set of stairs. Why? What was this?

  “Plunge pool!”

  A forty-degree pool of water. I had no choice. I let her push me into the pot like a resigned lobster. It felt amazing. I came up, smiled, and went back down. Kira cheered.

  “I told you this wouldn’t be fun.”

  “No, it’s really not,” I said.

  But somehow I felt great. And strong. And, dare I say, very Russian.

  We all need to be unwound once in a while. The stress of our lives physically manifests itself in crooked necks, sore muscles, and furrowed brows, and all the deep-breathing exercises and stretches will do only so much. Sometimes you need something more, something proven throughout history. Something like venik.

  But I recommend that you keep your shorts on.

  HAVE YOU EVER DONE A DNA TEST ON YOUR DOG AND FOUND OUT SHE WAS HALF BOSTON TERRIER AND HALF CAT? I HAVE …

  PRIMO DNA

  My parents and sisters did the whole 23andMe DNA test and it came back with some inconsistent if not surprising results. We always thought that we were mainly Italian with a little German thrown in, but suddenly there was some French and Arabic involved and it threw the whole family tree into an identity crisis.

  While I have always been reluctant to send my DNA to some strange lab for fear of cloning or being harvested for organs, my family felt that my test would be key to finding out the real story of our heritage.

  So, after spitting in a tube and sending it off to the lab, we finally got an email with the missing information about our family tree. To say we were surprised would be an understatement.

  It turns out that there’s a good chance I am the next Dalai Lama.

  I know. Weird. That’s like not even close to Italian.

  Now the nagging feeling that I should learn to speak Italian has been replaced with a more nagging feeling that I have to become the spiritual leader of all mankind. I really don’t know what to do with this information.

  First of all, I’m not a fan of sandals. I don’t like them. I prefer a nice shoe or if I’m near a pool maybe some flip-flops. But sandals just don’t do it for me. Especially when put together with what appears to be my new outfit—an orange sheet.

  Here’s something a little embarrassing about my new position: I’ve never been to Tibet. I’m not even really sure exactly where it is. I know, I know, how can I be the spiritual leader if I can’t even find it on a map. I’m not too sure. I’ll have to meditate on that one. (That’s a Dalai joke.)

  I went on the internet to brush up on my Tibetan Buddhism, and I have to say, now that I’m reading up on it all, it does make some sense that I’m the chosen one. For starters, I’ve always liked incense, and whenever I’m in New York I stop into those Buddhist shops in the Village filled with necklaces and rugs, and most of the time I think about buying some. I never do, but still.

  A lot of times the next Dalai Lama is selected when he’s a very small child, but in my early years I would have been very tough to find. I was living and going to nursery school in New Jersey. If they had tried looking for me, I doubt they would have had any luck. Back then Jersey didn’t take kindly to outsiders, so if they showed up at the mall asking a bunch of questions, there’s a good chance they would’ve gotten punched in the face.

  So, now that I know, what do I do? Well, for starters I feel like the monks need to be told, but they’re not the easiest to get in touch with either. I’ve tried Facebook, LinkedIn, Tinder, all the big ones, but no luck. The current Dalai Lama—or, as I now refer to him, the Old Man—has a website but there’s no contact info. It’s mostly a lot of pictures of him with famous people like Hillary Clinton and Richard Gere.

  Now that I’m aware of my destiny, I have to say that it’s pretty amazing how much we look alike. Neither of us has a full head of hair, and not only do we both wear glasses, but they seem to be the same exact style. Weird, right? It just happened without either of us planning it, like those twins who are separated at birth and find out when they’re reunited that they both love racquetball.

  Ever since I found out, I do have an overall sense of calm and I feel like a lot of questions about myself have finally been answered. For instance, I always wondered why I was kind of spiritual when I went away to college. Out of nowhere I started listening to the Grateful Dead and I also had like three dream catchers and a lava lamp in my room. And there was this hippie shop that I would go to in New Hope, Pennsylvania, where I would buy crystals, and I even bought a kaleidoscope once. I didn’t even know why, I just did it. Now I know why.

  I am a little worried going all in on the whole Dalai Lama thing, because I’m just not sure I’m really ready for this kind of change. I’m extremely busy and I just bought one of those Peloton bikes and it took a long time to set up the Wi-Fi and everything.

  And I know, as a Buddhist, you’re not supposed to really want material things, but I really love my Tesla, which I’m still trying to pay off. I got it only so I wouldn’t have to buy gas, but still the rest of the monks might think it’s kind of flashy.

  I’m not even sure if the Dalai Lama is allowed to drive. There are no pictures of him driving on the website. What if they can’t use electricity? That would be horrible. What if the monks are like the Amish, only with more colorful outfits?

  The current Dalai Lama, number fourteen, does go out on tour a lot, so that part of my life wouldn’t change too much. And I’m pretty sure that once people find out that I’m the Dalai Lama, it’s really going to bump up my numbers on social media. Not that it’s the only reason to do it, but being the Dalai Lama is really going to help me define my brand and I’ll have like tons of stuff to post on Instagram.

  I did check out the Old Man’s Twitter account and I’m totally down with the whole “be nice to others” thing that he talks a lot about. I mean, sometimes he can be kind of repetitive, but again, I like how he stays on brand. That’s really important.

  And it’s better than tweeting hateful stuff or responding to all the haters out there. I bet he gets a lot of haters. I’ll try not to read the comments if I can help it.

  As for my family, they seem to be pretty cool with it. They’re taking it much better than when we found out my mother had some French in her. At least this revelation doesn’t muddy the family tree with speculation that someone along the line had an illicit affair in a dimly lit bistro. It’s much less scandalous that the univer
se just called upon me.

  If only there weren’t the sandals.

  Maybe I’ll be the one to modernize the outfit a little bit, like when nuns decided at a certain point to no longer wear those giant pointy hats. I’m sure that didn’t just happen. At some point one of them must have just shown up at breakfast and shocked everyone with a smaller hat. Outrageous as it must have been at the time, it had to be done. I mean, I’m not going to be totally disrespectful. Maybe I’ll wear something sandal adjacent, like Crocs or Vans. Does the Dalai Lama ever walk around in the snow? I’m going to have to google that one.

  It’s pretty remarkable that we’re all carrying this ancient DNA around inside of us. Think about it: a part of you has hitchhiked, dated, and survived through the ages. In this vast and violent universe, you are a survivor of the human race and it’s up to you to keep it going. And whatever it is that you’re made of, I know, without a doubt, that you can do it. And I should know.

  I’m the Dalai Lama.

  HAVE YOU EVER LOOKED AT A MENU AND DECIDED THAT RATHER THAN TRY AND EAT HEALTHY YOU’RE BETTER OFF JUST UNDOING THE TOP BUTTON ON YOUR PANTS? I HAVE …

  I LOVE YOUR LOVE HANDLES

  There are a lot of things I like about you.

  First off, I love your love handles. There’s nothing wrong with love handles. You have them, you’re always going to have them, get used to them. I have them, too. When I run down the beach, it looks like two basset hound cheeks are flapping off my sides.

  I didn’t really like them until I realized what they say about me. Each handle tells a story, like the rings on a tree. They speak of years of good times, ice-cream shops, and hot pastrami sandwiches. They tell people that I’ve enjoyed my life and there’s a good chance that the handles and I are up for anything. We love parties, late-night drinking, and birthday cakes. We eat pies, bake cookies, and aren’t afraid of dipping garlic bread into a pot of sauce when no one is looking.

  That’s why I like yours, too. I know straightaway that we could be friends. When I see someone with six-pack abs, I know we won’t have fun because that person doesn’t know what fun is. Their idea of a good time is putting on tight shorts and working on their stomach muscles. Someone with love handles is putting on oven mitts and working on baking the perfect cinnamon buns. They’re fun.

  I also noticed that some of you are big in the caboose. Good for you. A small backside is okay, but it takes real time and care to grow a big one. That really shows character. Nice work. A big rump is even better when it comes with big thighs and little tiny feet. That’s the balance that a good life requires.

  Much of our appearance is out of our control. I’ll admit, when I see a tall, skinny guy in a perfectly tailored suit, I wonder how nice it must feel to naturally look like a fashion model. But I’ll never know because I wasn’t born that way. When I put a suit on my broad upper body I look like a former wrestler whose wife told him to get a job selling used cars on Route 17.

  But at a certain point you have to realize that we’re all fat. All of us. You’re either really fat, kind of fat, or trying not to be fat. Either way, fat’s coming. And that’s all right. Do you know why we’re fat? Because we’re winners. We’re one of the first generations that doesn’t have to fight for survival. There’s always food within arm’s reach, it’s the perfect temperature everywhere we go. Every day you wake up in America it’s a perfect seventy-two and snacky.

  So, yeah, we’re going to be a little chubby, so don’t hate on it. This is it, my friends. You’re a grown-up now. This is what you ended up looking like. Game over. So you don’t have the body of an Olympic athlete. Well, you’re not an Olympic athlete. You’re Don, from sales. You have a fat ass, you wear khakis and hike them up when you walk. That’s okay, we still like you.

  So don’t tell me what you’re quitting. I don’t care. I don’t care what your low self-esteem told you that you should quit this week. Every day someone comes up and tells me that they’re quitting meat, or gluten, or chewing. I really don’t care. You might be feeling bad about yourself, but you’re my friend and no diet is going to change that.

  Honestly, you looked awful yesterday, you’re going to look a little worse tomorrow. Why are we even talking about this? Let’s get some ice cream and enjoy the day.

  Now look, if you want to feel healthy and exercise helps your mind, I’m all for it. A good run around the block can completely change my mood. But don’t starve yourself and run around like crazy just to change your appearance. You’re fine just the way you are. Stop pressuring yourself. No one is asking us to take our shirts off for a magazine cover. Unless they start printing Kind of Chunky Weekly, we’re safe.

  You do your best, you try and work out, but you’re going to skip. A lot. And that’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Do you know why you miss workouts? Because you’re an intelligent human being and you know your life isn’t being threatened, so you’re not going to run your ass off for an hour and a half on some pretend getaway machine.

  You’re doing great.

  My workout now is my Apple Watch. It buzzes once an hour and tells me it’s time to stand. And I do. And I feel great about it. It must be why people love the Fitbit. That makes perfect sense to me—strap something to your wrist and count what you normally do as exercise? Get it.

  “I walked from my car to my cubicle. Eighty steps!”

  “Good job, Carol. You’re an athlete now. You should run the 5K. Just a couple more steps, you can do it.”

  Look, I don’t want to be irresponsible. Don’t die. You seem nice, so just don’t die. That’s all you’ve got to do. That should be the only thing on the Post-it note on your refrigerator: “Don’t Die.” And act accordingly. Walk the dog the long way. Touch your toes once in a while.

  Don’t die.

  You don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night sweating for no reason, trying to figure out which is the bad arm to be tingly.

  “Do we have any baby aspirin? I think we’re supposed to eat baby aspirin, or baby food, or lick a baby? Call the neighbors, see if they’ll bring us their baby.”

  I understand that it’s hard to feel good about you, and I’m not going to pretend that I’m always okay with who I am. I’m not. There are times when I hate how I look more than anyone else. I have so many chins and such weird body hair that it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that my great-grandfather was an orangutan. But that’s only my mind that thinks that way. No one else is thinking that because they don’t care. They’re too busy worrying about their own chins.

  Our minds are our worst critics. We do it to ourselves. That’s why I can be completely honest when I say, I love your body. I don’t care if it’s small and bony or round and plump. You can wear size 56 jeans and have boobs that go in two different directions. I don’t care that you wear sweatpants because they’re the only things that fit. I don’t mind that you’re shaped like a watermelon with shoes on. I love all of you. Every blubbery inch of you.

  Because you’re not me. And when I look at you, I have nothing to worry about.

  IT’S DATE NIGHT

  I know it sounds corny and it is. I know it sounds like the most unspontaneous thing you could do. And you’re not wrong. But it’s date night and if you’re in a relationship, you really have to do it.

  If you don’t plan a date, it won’t happen, and it has to happen because without it you will never see each other. Sure, you’ll see your spouse in the kitchen as they stumble around or run into them when you’re brushing your teeth. You’ll see them when they’re struggling to put on their socks or running down the hallway in search of a new roll of toilet paper, but that’s not really seeing the person you fell in love with.

  And without date night you won’t really talk either. Most of your conversations when you are married are about logistics. Who’s picking up the kids? What do you have today? Did you drop off the dry cleaning? Not exactly romantic phrases. I’m sure there has never been a romantic novel that ever began
with the phrase “The toilet’s leaking again.”

  This is why you need date night.

  When you go on a date, you return back to the time when you were in pursuit of each other. When you were working hard to get them to like you. That’s what dating is all about. The problem with marriage is that we already have them and think that because we sealed the deal years ago we no longer have to work at making this person like us. But the truth is, you have to try harder than ever before.

  It’s much easier to make someone like you when they don’t know anything about you. The beginning of a relationship is like a magic trick: a series of distractions and illusions meant to dazzle the audience while not allowing them to focus on the ugly parts of you.

  But when you’re married they know every single thing that’s wrong with you. They’ve seen all your tricks. They know the real you—what you lie about, what bad habits you have, how you really act when you’re under pressure. They know everything. So now more than ever you should buy her a nice gift, get dressed up, and take her somewhere special.

  I know it sounds lame. I resisted at first because I considered just the need for date night to be an indication that something must be wrong. That if we were really in love, we wouldn’t have to plan for a time to be nice to each other. We should still be as spontaneous as when we first met. Sure, and I still fit in the jeans I wore in high school, I can still drink without getting hung over, and I have enough free time to play video games all day and night.

  Life changes, and the truth is that if you care about certain aspects of your life, they need a little more focus.