X-treme

The whole "giving up blogging thing for Lent" excuse I used yesterday to explain the dearth of new blogging entries was as convenient as it was fabricated. Normally, prevarication is not something I'm so adept at, but Lent has always provided a morally-sound, irrefutable justification for not doing something, like the time when I was 10 and I gave up "cleaning my room" for Lent. Once, being a carnivore, I tried to convince my parents that I was giving up "not eating meat on Fridays." I had to go to confession and received a large penance for that blasphemous shenanigan.

But with a finite number of hours in any given day, in order to incorporate and accommodate something new into one's schedule, sacrifices must be made, things must be given up. So I gave up blogging, which I usually did in the early hours of the morning or mid afternoons after work. I had a new activity that seemed to fit nicely into that time slot, an activity that required as much mental fortitude as blogging and a whole lot more brawn, discipline, and dumbbells.

On March 1, 2009, I began the "Infomercially Famous" P90X workout program. With the guarantee of getting "absolutely ripped" in just 90 days doing the "most extreme home fitness program ever," I hoped to achieve a fraction of what the Gerard Butler and the rest of the cast of the movie "300" looked like when they finished the program in preparation for the movie. I wanted to be King Leonitis, except without the cape, sword, and loin cloth.

With so many testimonials about the results of the program and the convenience of doing it at home with a bare minimum of equipment (pull-up bar, yoga mat, dumbells, spray-on six-pack abs paint), I figured I'd give it a try. Besides, with my bum knee, running was now out of the question. The program offered enough variety (12 different workouts, ranging from pushups & pull ups, yoga, kenpo, plyometrics . . . ) that I figured I could slowly work up my strength and flexibility in my right leg.

With the unrelenting, but comical and unbelievably fit taskmaster Tony Horton (pictured at top) pushing me on the whole time, the first workout nearly killed me as well as my motivation to do it for another 89 days. With most workouts lasting 1 hour (except the 90 minute yoga-X workout . . . by the way, you add "X" to the end of every workout) and an extra 15 minute "Ab Ripper-X" workout three times a week, I knew the hardest part would be finding time to actually "squeeze" in these workouts around being dad, husband, teacher, Xbox addict, etc.

The workouts were very difficult but I figured there was a hump on the horizon I was about to get over, after which things would get easier all while my shirts became tighter. As the weeks went by, the hump never came and things didn't get easier. In fact, they became harder. As the program continued, my form got better, I did more reps, I used more weight, I became more flexible and stronger. I also got sleepier.

Waking at 4:00am every morning (no days off--"rest" days involve 60 minutes of extreme stretching) was beginning to take its toll on me. The increased energy from being in better shape was losing the battle to the sleep deprivation. Consequently, I began doing more workouts in the afternoon, but soon found that the last thing I want to do after work when I get home, after I feed the dogs, tend to the chickens, do dinner, kids' homework, pack school bags for the next day, etc. is listen to Tony tell me to "GET 'EM (knees) UP!" for 90 minutes. But I still press "play" on the DVD player every day.

Now into week 6 of the program, I'm nearing the halfway point. My bad knee is getting much stronger, but hurts everyday (in a good way!?) without the down time. My body feels much more dense. I'm drinking tons of Gatorade. I'm wearing a hole in my living room carpet. I'm a "Downward Dog" loving fool! I'm to the point of no return now. I've got to finish the program now. I've invested too much time, sweat, and tears to turn back now. Besides, I'm not yet "King Leonitis-esque," but I'm no "King Henry VIII" either--I only have one wife--and incidentally, she's doing the progam with me!!!!! That means TWO worn spots in the carpet.

Now that I'm blogging again and committed to continuing my body sculpting, something else has got to go. Grading homework and tests takes up a lot of my time, but I'm not sure I should quit giving those assignments lest the students mount a revolt in much the same way fans (both of them) of the shortlived "Cavemen" television series rebeled against ABC executives. If my students WERE to resort to violent agression, me P90X body and I will be ready for them. It's probably best to avoid that scenario altogether.

Perhaps I can get rid of those darn, filthy chickens? Or watching American Idol? Or quit spending time with my kids? No, no, no. Nothing is as worthless as an empty chicken coop, I like watching Adam Lambert, and my children like not listening to me too much for me to deprive them of that joy.

I guess I'll just give up a little bit more of my precious sleep. I can always take short Power-X naps, right Tony?

The Return

Who am I? Where have I been? What have I been doing? These are more than just the questions I ask myself after having sat through 2 hours of "American Idol" results shows, they are questions others are asking of me after having no new blog entries for over a month.

In the grand scheme of things, a month is just a blip on the existential calendar.

Apparently, my readership was larger than I ever anticipated, as I have been inundated with 3rd-party inquiries, informal polls, and hear-say speculations about the lack of my spewing of cyber-babble. Many have had to forgo their morning ritual of coffee, newspaper, hygiene, and "Off On A Tangent," simply because they ran out of coffee. Many more have had their daily routine disrupted because of my self-indulgent cessation and abnegation of the sharing of my daily diary entries with the denizens of the World Wide Web.

My goodness. What A God-Awful month it must have been for all of you. While I was basking in the luxury of my new-found freedom, spending the extra hour each day to do things like grade papers, make kids' lunches (infrequently as it was), cleaning bathrooms (even less infrequently), watching "American Idol" (gotta make the wife happy!), painting baseboards (what a Spring Break THAT was!), and painting my toenails (flat, extra clear color), the members of my Blogosphere were fumbling through their days like vapid zombies deprived of their caffeine.

At first, I didn't think my absence from the Internet was even noticed. I mean, even at my school, my paid place of employment, if I don't show up for three or four days in a row, the students start to complain to the principal out of "math deprivation." A couple days later, they mail a letter home. Later, then send a certified letter. Eventually, a phone call. The key is . . . they notice . . . and they act, they let me know . . . eventually. With me sleeping in on the extremely non-lucrative blog position within my own blogging fortune sqrt(-500) company ("Korpi's Blogging Emporium and non-Emporium items Emporium"), no letters came. No phone calls. Not even the passive, anonymous e-mail. I figured that my daily diatribes were for my benefit only, the energy of which could equipollently be released and expressed through other means like "Extreme Yoga (more to come on that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. I'm committed for two days now)," my fledgling "Fresh Farm Egg" business (up to 15 dozen eggs given away for free so far!), or my newfound preoccupation with Etymology (a word that has origin:1350–1400; ME < class="ital-inline">etymologia < class="ital-inline">etymología, equiv. to etymológ(os) studying the true meanings and values of words (étymo(s) true (see "ETYMON") + lógos word, reason).

So to those of you out there reading this as if it were a drop of fresh water upon upon the thirsty lips of a weary desert traveler, I offer you a temporary oasis. To have built up such a dependency among you only to give it up for Lent was such an act of unforgivable self-centerdness. Truth be told, I have felt an irreplaceable void from my absence, and my typing speed has atrophied as well (down to only 200 WPM from 300 WPM--where WPM = "words per moment"--where a "moment" constitutes an undeterminable, ambiguous amount of time.)

Enjoy ye dwellers of cyber-drivel. I shall return.

Hasta Mañana (if my Yoga-X coach let's me)!

TAKS ELA. Today. Hurray!!

The script is now over and students begin

To work by themselves ‘til they get to the end.

Some work really fast, some take frequent breaks,

But all understand that this test is high-stakes!


I actively monitor all through the aisles

And twiddle my thumbs every once in a while.

I sharpen the pencils that have worn to a nub.

And issue the dictionaries that came in my tub.


“Yes you may go on to part number two.”

Hooray! That means that we are almost through!!

Again through the aisles, checking out the essays.

Some are quite good, some . . . a little risqué.


Now there’s one person left, others look on with fervor.

And I have to admit, I’m, too, an eager observer.

He raises his hand. He’s done, I presume . . .

I’m wrong: “Mr. Korpi, can I go to the restroom?”


Oh, so close, yet so far away.

The TAKS has a way of making hours feel like days.

Finally, all tests are turned in,

And the process of learning can again begin.


And so until April, when we do TAKS once more,

We will practice and practice in preparation for,

The ultimate test, over which we obsessively stress,

‘cause we know our progress is measured by its success.

The perfect gift

Growing up, I was always getting taller, but I was also also struggling with getting a gift for my father every time his birthday, Father's Day, Christmas, and Arbor Day. Now before you miss my point, YES it is strange that I got a gift for my dad of Arbor Day, but believe me, that aside, a tree gets old REALLY fast.

It doesn't matter what we (my brothers, sister, mother, neighbors, The Pope) got my dad, he invariably forced a smile and a kind word as he opened it--"Geez, just what I always needed . . . . (insert thoughtful gift here.)" Consequently, he ALWAYS was prompt in returning the gift to either the retailer from which the gift came or to Wal-Mart if he didn't know where it came from or what it was. It got to the point that we didn't know what to get him, and the question always came down to "What would be the most convenient for him to return?" We got into the habit, before "gift receipts" were chic if not common practice, of including the sales receipt with the gift.

It almost seemed like he enjoyed the process of returning the item more than the item itself. Whether it stemmed from his penchant for standing in lines at Customer Service, his desire to save money, from his totally altruistic, modest personality in which he truly felt he didn't "deserve" nor wanted to "bother" others with the "hassle" of a gift (a trait I either inherited or developed independently with the same symptoms of someone with a penchant for standing in Customer Service lines--which I loathe.) But I digress . . . (and digest . . . ) . . .

Being my Dad's son, one year for "Beluga Whale Appreciation Day," I surprised my father with what I thought was the Perfect gift--for him at least. Did I get him a card that said "I don't deserve nor want this"? Did I get him a nice property insurance policy? Did I give him a personalized Acrostic poem of his name (hard to return)? NO.

I got him a pair of high-heeled ladies shoes that weren't even his size much less his style and color . . . with the receipt, of course.

At the extreme, embarrasing risk that he might actually like them (hopefully secretly, at least) I gave him a gift I KNEW he'd (probably) for sure take back, with the added potential embarrassment of having to return such an item. What I didn't think through is that either he could either tell the customer service clerk that he was returning them for his wife (afterall, I used this line when I bought them), or that my father, confident in his peculiarness, would not be embarrassed by telling the customer service clerk that "they didn't fit, nor were they his color." When I thought how he might actually enjoy "alarming" the clerk, it only reaffirmed my notion that he would enjoy the gift, but lessened my pleasure of the "ironicness" (or is it "ironisism") of the gift itself.

Being my son's grandfather, he thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the gift. He returned them promptly the next day while making up a story about how the scuff marks came about on the bottom of the 1/8 inch heels.

Fast forward to today, then rewind a couple of days to three days ago, the slowly advance forward to one day later (putting you at two days ago.)

This is the day my wife (no blood relation to me or my father) actually returned two gifts to Kohl's, one from each of her kids given to her on her birthday.

Now before you say, "How can a mother return thoughtful gifts from her children?!?!" Rest assured that not only did the wait an appropriate two week before doing so, but that the children really didn't pay for the gifts themselves, but rather only picked them out in haste as their grandfather's son urged them on, knowing the sly trick of his father all along.

With everyday being a one-day, once-in-a-lifetime-if-you-are-a-Mayfly sale, I knew that when I went to Kohl's to get my wife the Jumbo-oversized-super-sized fry pan (not to be confused with the 'you are too jumbo-oversized-super-sized' AB-CRUNCHER from years ago--wound still healing), my kids would want to get their beloved mother some jewelry.

Last Christmas, my wife did the best imitation of her fahter-in-law as she opened up her "buy one get one free" sterling silver necklaces from her son and daughter. If she was a worse actor than my father, you might thing she was sucking on spoiled lemons when she opened the gift. Since those were the FIRST she had received from her kids (recommended by their cheap, "unromantic" father), she kept them, and has even worn them once (all the way from the living room to the bedroom where her jewelry (deep) storage box is located.

Whe she opened the Amethyst necklace (from her daughter-also the "full-priced $50 item") and then the matching Amethyst earrings (the "get the next one for a buck" item") from her son, she looked like she was sucking on a rotten lemon . . . that had been dropped into a vat of spoiled sauerkraut that was infiltrated with sewage.

She smiled as she tried them on.

I had the receipt stored safely in my top drawer.

The kids were elated as they saw the "genuine" joyous expression on their mother's face as she quietly contemplated what the heck in her wardrobe mathed with purple Amethyst, so what if it was her birthstone. She gave me that knowing look like I was behind it all.

I gave her a glowing nod in acknowledgment of making my kids and wife happy.

As it turned out, the whole situation was really a no-lose proposition. My kids genuinely got their mother something they hoped she'd like, my wife enjoyed the gifts, if not the pure, genuine look on her children's faces as she opened the gifts, I looked like a hero when she opened her "not an Ab-Cruncher" frying pan, and SHE got what was a $50 "gift certificate" to a great store once she returned the gift with the reciepts I had kept.

My kids have long forgotten about their gift to their mother and don't even notice when she doesn't wear them or how they are curiously missing from her tangled jewelry cabinet.

Best of all, instead of getting something else she really wanted, my wife just had the $51 credited back to the credit card, an unselfish act that means she got nothing more out of the ordeal but the hassle of the return process.

Good thing she's my father's daughter (in-law.)