31

For our birthdays, Delma and I took a trip to Playa del Carmen with her family. We stayed at an all-inclusive resort which meant I could eat and drink whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I did a lot of both. In addition to eating and drinking, I did a lot of sitting on the beach with Joshua and staring out at the ocean. Here are thirty-one random details and observations and anecdotes about our trip because thirty-one is the age I am now and so I am going to write thirty-one things because numbers. Some of these are more interesting than others.

I.
Delma and I flew from Kansas City to Houston and then from Houston to Cancun. On our second flight, our bags were searched by TSA. There was some unknown liquid in our luggage, they said. Delma bounced Joshua in her arms while we watched the TSA agent open our backpacks and suitcase, rummaging through our belongings haphazardly.

The lady behind us was traveling with four children, ages ranging from three to twelve. She looked at us and smiled.

"I don't miss those days," she said. "It's way easier flying with these four than it is to travel with a baby."

"Heh heh," we laughed, nervously. "Heh heh heh."

The unknown liquid turned out to be Joshua's baby wipes.

II.
At our all-inclusive resort, there was a lot of wildlife roaming around. Mainly tejónes. Known as coati in English, they can best be described as long raccoons. Like raccoons, the tejónes were excellent scavengers. They would wait in the bushes until someone tossed an item into a trashcan, then climb up the bin, hop in, grab the trash, then run out.

I saw a tejón scurrying away with an entire can of beer.

III.
The resort also had a lot of mosquitos. A lot of mosquitos. Mainly in the rooms. I slept pretty bundled up, so I didn't get bit on my torso or appendages. My face, however, was very exposed. I left Mexico with seven bright red mosquito bites on my forehead. Cara de pizza.

IV.
Joshua was amazed by sand. He would grab a fistful of it and then slowly open his hands, watching the grains of sand slip through his fingertips. He would repeat this several times and we'd watch him and laugh and laugh. The one time we looked away, he took a fistful of sand and shoved it in his mouth.

V.
A similar thing happened with the pool water. We had him in a little floatie and it seemed like he was enjoying just floating in the pool, splashing water every now and then. We turned around for a second and, when we turned back, his face was in the pool and he was drinking the water.

VI.
There were a lot of Canadians at the resort. Probably because February in Canada is a miserable time. They were all very nice and one Canadian lady even bought us Jolly Rancher shots. And by bought I mean she ordered them for us because it was an all-inclusive resort so she didn't have to pay for them. Still, it was a nice gesture.

VII.
There were also a lot of Spaniards. I did not like them as much as the Canadians. They were rude and arrogant and smelled of elderberries. That last part isn't true, but the Spanish were not very nice.

VIII.
I saw a man walking along the beach with a "MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN" hat. Even in the Yucatan peninsula, we cannot escape Trump.

IX.
We rented a van at the airport. When the car rental people gave it to us, the tank was empty so we had to stop and get gas at an Oxxo (which, for the longest time, I thought was the Mexican version of Exxon, but I just looked it up on Wikipedia and it's apparently a separate thing WHO KNEW???). The total was 1,150 pesos. I gave Delma's dad three five-hundred bills. When he gave them to the attendant, the attendant angrily said "No, man, it's 1,150. You gave me two five-hundreds and a fifty."

"Oh, perdon," said Delma's dad who asked if I had another five-hundred.

"I gave you 1,500..." I said.

Realizing what was happening, Delma's dad angrily turned back to the attendant and started shouting.

"Hey, what are you trying to pull?! I gave you-"

"No no, I meant I owe YOU 50," the attendant interrupted him, laughing awkwardly.

You can't kid a kidder.

X.
Every day, I ran three miles to help offset the eight to twelve drinks I would have after lunch. On the fourth day, I went the entire day barefoot. At the beach. Around the pool. In the room. By the end of the day, the top of my right foot hurt a lot.

"Maybe it's plantar fasciitis?" Delma offered.

"Maybe," I said.

XI.
Every day, I had four cups of coffee and four glasses of wine.

Maybe that's why my teeth are yellow?

Maybe.

XII.
Every morning, I would wake up and stand in front of the mirror in my swim trunks.

"Ugh, I feel so fat," I'd tell Delma as I grabbed my paunch with both hands, squeezing my folds so that it looked like I was clutching a deflated football.

Then I would go to the breakfast buffet where I would have the same breakfast every morning. A ham-and-chorizo-and-mushroom-and-cheese omelette, a bowl of yogurt with granola and raisins and flaxseed, two pieces of multi-grain toast, two pieces of French toast with cajeta, refried beans, chilaquiles, a banana and one mini-chocolate croissant.

All-inclusive, man.

XIII.
Josh likes staring at people. When they catch him staring, he'll give them a huge smile and then turn around with a bashful grin. Or he'll bury his head in the crook of my neck and rub his face against the fabric of my shirt, laughing to himself.

XIV.
I lost a shoe at the beach one day. I'm not sure how it happened. My theory is that it was in Joshua's stroller and that since we tried to push the stroller along in the sand, there were a lot of bumps and when we hit one of those bumps, the shoe fell out and was washed away by the waves, carried deep into the Gulf of Mexico, a sacrifice to Yopaat, the Mayan storm god.

Yopaat means leaf-penis.

XV.
I didn't wear my glasses when I went out into the ocean. I liked doing that because then I wouldn't lose my glasses to Yopaat, but also because I couldn't really see the other people so I naturally assumed that they couldn't see me and I wouldn't feel so bad about my deflated football paunch.

I didn't like wearing my glasses when I snorkeled because then I couldn't see things.

XVI.
I kicked a sea turtle.

It wasn't intentional. We went to Akumal, which is a beautiful beach known for its abundance of sea turtles swimming in its crystal clear water. It's a huge tourist attraction because you can go snorkeling and get real close to the sea turtles and they won't mind because it's not like you're going to hurt them or anything, right? ANYWAYS, I was snorkeling at Akumal and I wasn't wearing my glasses and I was trying to get close to a manta ray so that I could see it better and I guess the turtle was swimming behind me and I kicked out and felt something hard against my foot and when I turned around I saw a sea turtle zipping through the water, away from the asshole who kicked an endangered species.

XVII.
We tried putting Joshua in the ocean a few times. Each time, he would cry out and whimper because of the cold water splashing him. Then he'd get over it and stare at the waves, trying to process what they were and what their purpose was.

It's fun seeing babies look at new things. You can see their gears turning, trying to compute what they're looking at.

Then they'll get bored and try to eat sand or drink pool water.

XVIII.
One day, I had five palomas (Squirt con tequila) and I was drunk and I went swimming in the ocean. The cold waves were very strong and very tall. I would have to jump to avoid getting submerged in salt water. It turned into a fun game of chicken. I'd wait for the waves to rush at me, at which point I'd turn around and jump at the last moment, then crash into the ocean like a whale, the waves spinning me around, enhancing my drunken stupor.

XIX.
The ocean was cold, but pee is warm.

XX.
Delma packed a tent to provide shade for Joshua. The first day we set it up, it took way too long and I was getting frustrated because I wanted to have a paloma and jump into the ocean.

"This is a dumb idea," I told her. "Let's just put him behind the beach chairs so that he gets some shade."

The tent ended up being the second best thing we brought because Playa del Carmen gets very hot during the day.

XXI.
The best thing we brought ended up being an inflatable kiddie pool. It was the perfect holding cell for Joshua. We used it to protect him from the sand at the beach, we used it to feed him, we brought it into the hotel shower and used it to bathe him.

Sometimes, Delma is really smart.

XXII.
Other times, Delma is funny.

"I saw something in the hallway," she said to me, "and I thought it was a tejón, but it was actually a raccoon and we both stopped when we saw each other and I tried to pass him, but then he tried to pass me, so we both just got scared and ended up turning around and going the other way."

Later on, I would see that same raccoon eating two packets of mayo by the ice machine.

XXIII.
When we were walking back from dinner, Delma's brother pointed out several ants walking in a straight line alongside us. We crouched down to stare at them. They were leaf-cutter ants, each one carrying a small leaf back to its colony.

I wonder if there's any connection between leaf-cutter ants and leaf penis.

XXIV.
I saw a bridal shower at the beach. One of the girls was wearing a "BRIDE TO BE" hat so I shouted "Woo, congratulations on getting married!"

The girl looked at me and gave me an unenthusiastic "Woo."

Marriage is a depressing prospect, it seems.

XXV.
I tried writing standup jokes while on the beach. I riffed this one to Delma:

"People say that today's society is looking more and more like 1984. I really hope not because in 1984, I was a sperm cell."

She didn't think it was very funny.

XXVI.
I kept getting mixed signals from the hotel employees. Some called me muchacho, others caballero and others called me señor. Thirty-one is a weird age.

Who am I?

XXVII.
I tried drawing people at the beach. It was my first time trying to draw real people. Some turned out ok. Some didn't.

XXVIII.
In Mexico, car seat laws are very lax. Since we didn't need to use a car seat for Joshua, Delma and I took turns holding him in our laps in the backseat.

Joshua enjoyed being able to look out the window at passing cars. Anytime a large truck sped past, revving its engine, Joshua would jump, startled, then put his palms against the window and stare.

It was nice not having to worry about keeping him entertained in the car seat, but with every twist and turn of the van along winding roads, I'd think about what could potentially go wrong. With every twist and turn, I'd grab Joshua tighter and hold him closer.

XXIX.
Joshua loves climbing me. He'll latch onto my shirt with his tiny hands and attempt to scale the mountain that is dad. He never gets very far, but that doesn't stop him from trying again and again and again.

XXX.
Delma and I got a couples massage on the beach. The masseuse lady started by giving me a nice back rub, then asked if I would like her to apply some more pressure.

"Un poquito más," I murmured, enjoying the feeling of her hands squeezing my back.

Then the squeezing intensified. She began to press down with her knuckles, pretending my back was a tube of Aquafresh and she was trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out. She would knead and squish and chop and punch my back, at times nearly bringing me to tears.

It hurt. Very much.

At one point, it became a game for her. She would start applying intense pressure to certain muscles in my back and I would hold my breath. She wouldn't stop applying pressure until I stopped holding my breath and I would try to hold it as long as I could. Inevitably, I would sigh in defeat and she would slowly ease up, before repeating the entire process all over again with a different part of my body.

The next day, I felt amazing.

XXXI.
One morning, I woke up at 6AM to watch the sun rise. I put on my swim trunks, did my whole deflated football paunch thing, then walked on down to the beach with my plantar fasciitis.

As I sat on the beach staring out at the ocean, I watched the tide roll onto the shore, then slowly roll back, a gradual eroding of the sand happening with every wave.

A group of Spaniards, still drunk from the night before, walked past me, laughing and shouting.

They sat a few feet away from me and stared out at the ocean as well.

"¿Lo hacemos?" one girl asked.

Everyone murmured and nodded in agreement.

"Ok," the girl said. "FREE THE NIPPLE!"

Then they all ripped off all their clothes, stripping down to the skin they were born in, their nakedness flapping in the salty air.

"WOOOO!" the girl shouted.

They then proceeded to run into the Atlantic, crashing through the surf, laughing and screaming hysterically. They then stopped and took a group selfie, naked in the ocean.

Flight UA 208 (IAD -> LAX)

I wrote this on a plane. Isn’t technology wonderful, y’all?

I was in Rockville, Maryland this morning. For a client presentation. I hate client presentations. For someone who wanted to do comedy for a living, I really hate speaking in front of people. My hands get clammy, my armpits get soaked and, at some point, I’ll get the runs.

They usually go well. Not the runs. The client presentations. This one did, at least. Client loved everything we showed. “I loved everything!” were his exact words. After the presentation, I snagged an Uber and headed towards Dulles Airport.

At the gate, I bought a bacon cheeseburger as a reward. I used my corporate card so that I could expense it later.

That’s the best thing about client presentations. Free food.

The worst thing is preparing. That’s the biggest reason I hate client presentations.

The client presentation went well. But it only went well because I spent hours rehearsing what I was going to say. It’s the only way I don’t have a mental breakdown during client meetings. Practice.

I woke up at 5:45AM to run through the presentation a few times. Made some hotel room coffee, ate a Clif bar and opened up the PDF. Then I started rehearsing.

“The creative idea came from an insight which stemmed from a fact.”

I stood in front of the mirror and worked on my hand gestures. Too slow and they’ll think you’re stupid. Too fast and they’ll think you’re on coke.

“We want to start by launching the mission with content communicating the brand message in a new way.”

I practiced making eye contact. Meet someone’s gaze, maintain for a few seconds, then move on to the next person. Let them know you’re warm and affectionate. Like a toaster oven.

“In the same style we use for the visual campaign-“

“Mmm… Mmm… Mmmmm…”

I stopped and looked around. It sounded like someone was listening to porn in the other room. I waited a few seconds. Silence. I cleared my throat and resumed presenting.

“It’s essentially a partnership in which a notification appears whenever you-“

“Ohhhh, baby.”

I stopped again. Silence. After a few more seconds, I kept going.

“We want to leverage this behavior and-“

“Oh, baby, don’t stop.”

“-tap into local influencers so that-“

“Keep going, keep going!”

“-we create buzz through their engagements and-“

“Yes. Yes!”

“-partner with major broadcasters for mass reach and awareness-“

“OH! OH GOD! I’M THERE! OH GOD!”

I stopped rehearsing and slammed my computer shut. The people in the room next to me were vigorously fucking at 7AM. The woman’s moans legit sounded like porn. I decided to do some other work until they finished.

At 8:45AM, there was a loud, prolonged grunt (it sounded like “HRRNGGGHNNrrghghhghg”) and then the moaning stopped. I opened up my laptop so that I could start rehearsing again.

“You liked that?” her partner asked.

“I loved that,” she moaned.

“Ok, my turn,” said a third voice. “We only have two more hours.”

At that point, I walked out of my room and went to the fitness center.

On the treadmill, I started thinking about the woman and her moans. It honestly sounded like somebody was watching Rectum Wreckers 4. As I walked along at 3.3 MPH, I wondered if she practiced.

Did she stand in front of the mirror and rehearse her moans? Did she try out different facial expressions to see what her clients would like? Did she think about what was going through their minds as they engaged in coitus?

What if she suffered from the same debilitating stage fright I did? Did she get the runs before performing? Do you think she had to mentally prepare herself for hours before her client presentation?

“The implications allow us to engage consumers in new and impactful ways,” I muttered to myself.

After an hour on the treadmill, I went back to my room.

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” came her moans from the other side of the wall. Each “Yeah!” identical to the one that preceded it.

I sighed and opened up my laptop. There were a dozen new emails, so I wrote quick replies and then went back to practicing.

“These visuals could be used as social, OLA, print or even outdoor depending on the media available.”

“Oh, baby! Oh, baby!”

As I continued rehearsing to the sweet sounds of lovers in a passionate embrace, I thought about something an old creative director once said to me.

I was complaining about the amount of assignments we had been put on. My partners and I were spread thin. We had to stay late and even came in the past two weekends just to keep up with the amount of work there was. He laughed, took a sip of wine and said

“The prettiest whores get fucked the most.”

“Mmm…”

Thoughts on Squats

My knee is crunchy. I think that's the right word to describe it. It makes crunchy noises when I walk.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

A crunch with every step. Like I'm a walking bowl of Rice Krispies. Or if a Sunchips bag is localized entirely in my patella.

Crunch crunchity crunch.

It doesn’t hurt much, but it is tender. If I run, it gets worse. If I take slow, deliberate steps, it gets better.

I'm not trying to diagnose the problem. I'm just telling you about it. Talking to you about my day, how I've been feeling lately. Just making chit-chat. You know, conversing.

I tweaked it last week. While squatting.

Oh, you didn't know I squatted? Well then, you should pay more attention when we're conversing.

Delma and I began squatting about a year ago. Powerlifting, actually. Squats, deadlifts, overhead presses, etc. She wanted to get stronger and I decided to tag along.

I didn't take it seriously at first. Or at least no where near as seriously as Delma did. For her, it became an obsession. She'd read books on powerlifting and watch videos on proper deadlifting/squatting form. I'd wake up in the morning and find her calculating her macros on the living room floor, typing everything into an Excel spreadsheet while sipping on a shaker filled with protein.

I just went through the motions. I’ve had a gym membership since the 9th grade, so I assumed I knew what I was doing.

I did not.

To a novice, Olympic lifts are intimidating (especially the clean, snatch and jerk press. Also, doesn't that sound like a sex move?). Take deadlifts, for example. It looks simple enough, right? Grab the bar and stand up. Boom. Done. But there’s more to it than that. You have to push through your heels and you have to not round your back and you have to keep your chest up and chin down and activate your posterior chain and squeeze your glutes and your arms are ropes and I don't know what it means to have my arms as ropes. My arms are arms. How can they be ropes? They're arms.

After a few weeks, I came to the realization that I had no idea how to lift correctly. I didn't want to hurt myself doing those lifts, so instead of doing the sensible thing and learning how to lift with good form, I took it easy and lifted manageable/light/ wussy weights. Delma, on the other hand, went HAM and tried to lift as much as she could every time we went to the gym (go big or go home, etc).

In addition to learning the complex technical aspects of powerlifting, I had to hike up my caloric intake in order to get stronger (you gotta FEED those muscles, brah). Which worried me. I wanted bigger legs, but not if it meant a bigger belly.

So I half-assed it. I wouldn't go ass-to-grass with my squats. I'd use my back and shoulders more during deadlifts instead of my legs (which is a great way to fuck yourself up). I didn't really eat enough because I didn't want to get chubbier (while Delma would always get double chicken at Chipotle). I really, really did not want to gain weight. It's a big concern of mine. Being chubby, I mean.

After a few months, Delma was squatting over 200 pounds. That's as much as an adult male red kangaroo. Her quads were huuuuuge. Meanwhile, I plateaued at 160.

Then she got pregnant and stopped powerlifting. I presume so that she wouldn’t poop out the baby while squatting (that’s how it works, right?). So I stopped too.

And then I did get chubbier.

Not fat. Just chubbier.

It's a stupid concern of mine, I know. Who cares, right? It does't matter whether I weigh 150 or 450. I can still write, I can still crack jokes. I can still do all the things I want to do and hang out with people I like. Most people wouldn't even notice if I gained a few extra pounds.

But I notice.

I used to be fat. As a kid. People are always surprised when I tell them I was a fat kid. And I don't mean a chubby kid. I mean, at the beginning of 8th grade, I topped out at just under 200 pounds (remember, adult male red kangaroo).

Growing up, my pediatrician would warn my mother that I was borderline obese. Which, later on in life, would mean diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, osteoarthritis and other fun health conditions. All that seemed far away, so I didn't worry about it. Why bother with my future health when I feel fine right now? I just wanted something tasty to munch on while I watched my telenovelas (big fan of La Usurpadora and Dos Mujeres, Un Camino). And, as a kid, portliness/chubbiness/flabbiness/whatever is a somewhat endearing trait.

In middle school though, it is not an endearing trait. It is a weakness, a scab that others can pick at and pick at and pick at until you have a ragged, gaping hole in your arm, oozing metaphorical blood and pus. Kids can be cruel, but middle schoolers are savage, relentless and unforgiving. At that age, you're struggling with so many changes, you search for a way to help you deal with the insecurity of it all. Picking on the "big boned" kid is an easy outlet. Because, while you might have terrible acne or a voice that cracks or raging erections 24/7, at least you're not fat.

Truth be told, I was handling the abuse pretty well. I would get called "fat ass" and "lardo" and "Alfonso Za-FAT-a" while waddling through the halls during the passing period, but I was in the "gifted/talented" classes which housed all of the nerdy outcasts. My classmates understood what I was going through. For most of the school day, I was safe, so I didn't really care about being Za-FAT-a.

That changed one day in 7th grade during Pre-Algebra. I was solving for 'x' when Adriana Bautista came up to me.

"You're Alfonso, right?"

I put my pencil down and nodded. Adriana wasn't just the most attractive girl in Pre-Algebra. She was one of the prettiest girls at Spring Woods Middle. I started sweating. Partly out of nervousness, partly because I always wore a sweatshirt to hide my fat, even when it was 90 degrees out.

"Someone's been telling everyone that I like you..."

I gulped and wiped sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

"Well, I just want you to know that I could never like you."

My heart stopped.

"You're too fat," she said. And with that, she walked away.

There was no wit in that comment. No cleverness, no tact. It was a cold-blooded truth that tore through my sweatshirt and plunged straight into my core.

"Too fat."

Since then, I've associated my being "too fat" with being unliked.

There were other incidents that led to that conclusion. The time my mother took me to Dillard's and I was too "husky" for the husky pants. The time I took my shirt off in Mexico and a cousin said that my boobs were bigger than hers. The uncle who would constantly say that I looked como un barril.

But "too fat" pushed me over the edge.

I'm not conversing this with you to gain any sympathy. I don’t want you to think “Ay, pobrecito.” Just merely giving you some backstory. Making more chit-chat.

Every one has body image issues, right? No one's body is perfect. That's the cool thing about bodies. They're all unique. And, if you’ve ever been to that Bodies exhibit, you know we’re all just blobs of muscle and guts and cartilage and spongy tissue. We’re all made of the same shit underneath.

But, in 7th grade, it’s hard to keep that perspective when your body is deemed "unacceptable" by your peers. In my mind, all of my problems were tied to that. Being too fat is why I didn't have friends, why girls didn't like me, why I wasn't cool. And that's stuck with me since, even though I stopped being fat once I reached high school.

Fat is bad. Thin is good.

Logically, I know that's not true. Logically, I know that a) I am not fat, but even if b) I were fat, it would be ok because my friends and family love me for my winning personality and endless puns, not my looks. Because the people I associate with are not vain, shallow assholes. They're good, kind people.

It's hard to shake that mindset though. "Too fat" is ingrained into my subconscious. To me, being fat is tied directly to the way people perceive me. Even though, like I said, I logically know that's not true.

It's stupid. And I know it's stupid. If I have a six-pack, people aren't going to automatically like me. Delma won't love me any more. I won't be smarter or richer or happier. I'll be me, only with a six-pack. Which no one will be able to see anyway because we all have to wear shirts in the modern day workplace. Again, logically, I know that this is true. Buuuut...

It's hard to accept that.

Which is partly why when I started gaining weight after Delma became pregnant, I tried to embrace it. Almost as if I were trying to tell myself, "See? You're chubby now, but people still like you!" The other part was to get back into powerlifting.

That’s the reason I've been squatting a lot recently. And why my knee is crunchy. The more I eat, the more I lift (go big or go home, etc).

I've gained twenty pounds over the last few months. A combination of sympathy weight and lifting more. According to the BMI calculator, I am indeed overweight (though to be fair, the BMI calculator doesn’t take into account muscle mass or my beard).

Nothing's changed, really. I mean, I'm stronger. Like, I actually have leg muscles now. My pants fit snug and my belly pops out more when I wear a tight t-shirt. But my wife hasn't left me. I still have friends. I haven't been laid off.

If anything, I'm ever-so-slightly happier because of beer and ice creams (sometimes at the same time).

And yet, I still can't get rid of that feeling of being "too fat" and all of my problems stemming from it. There's this disconnect that I can't shake, a mental gap between knowing that and believing it that can't be bridged.

In my mind, I will forever be "too fat." In my mind, I am forever unlikable.

I don't know if I'll ever get over it.

We all have our own insecurities, physical and otherwise. Some we get over, other we don't. Some we never get over and all we can do is push them deep down inside ourselves and hope they don't affect us too much. Plug our ears, ignore them and drown them out with the good stuff. Like squats and beer and ice creams (and the fact that I’m about to be a goddamn dad is pretty exciting).

There's a lot of bad to focus on. With me, it's not just the belly. It's "Am I smart enough?" and "What if I'm not funny?" and even trivial stuff like "Does my beard look good?"

But there's a lot of good stuff too.

A lot of good stuff. Not just internally, but so many good things around me. My family, my wife, my dog, my friends. I've been so #blessed that I take it for granted. I spend so much time focusing on the bad, I forget the good. No one cares about "too fat" except me. The people around me, the people who love me, they care that I'm a good person. They care that I'm going to try to be a good dad (been listening to Will Smith's "Just the Two of Us" on loop for the last eight months). They care that I'm trying to work hard and be kind and make people laugh. They're not worried about me being "too fat." They're worried about me and my well-being and my happiness.

It's easy to forget that.

I'm not trying to get anywhere by telling you this. There's no point, no moral. Again, just conversing. Chit-chatting. Just wanted to tell you about my crunchy knee.

Crunchity crunch crunch.

The crunching is annoying, but it's harmless. And it's an indicator that I've been pushing myself. A reminder that, "too fat" or not, I'll someday (hopefully) be "too swole." I'm almost up to squatting 200 pounds now (what up, adult male red kangaroo?).

Everyone's insecure about one thing or another, right? We just gotta focus on the positives.

What's the opposite of an insecurity? A security?

That doesn't sound right... But we'll go with it.

Don't let the Adriana Bautistas of the world bring you down. Remember your securities, y'all.

Remember the Titans.

Dance Yrself Clean

You know what I really like?

Dancing.

I'm not what you would consider a good dancer though.

I am a great dancer.

My dancing isn’t traditional. I didn’t graduate from dance college. You’re not going to see my moves in an Usher music video. But when I get out on that dance floor, any dance floor, I move to the music like it’s my life’s purpose. Like it’s the only thing that matters. Every rhythmic beat, every pulsating thump invades my being and possesses me to move in ways that no man should move. My body contorts itself into various figures and shapes, convulsing and undulating under the flickering lights, limbs flailing, head whipping back and forth. I bring an undeniable energy to the dance floor. Energy that inspires and invigorates others around me. It is infectious.

I'm not being cocky. I'm just being me.

Some would disagree. Mainly, those who try to dance with me. I'm a great dancer, but I'm a terrible dance partner. Or maybe it's that I'm a great dancer, but everyone else sucks?

That's probably it.

I don't know what it is. I can never quite match up with others when it comes to dancing. Either she moves too fast or he takes too many steps or I've had three too many whiskey gingers.

I have my own dancing style. It's frantic. It's frenetic. It's me.

It doesn't mesh well with others.

And I'm ok with that.

Because dancing isn't a competitive activity. I mean, I guess technically it is if you're like in a drill squad or you're a group of ballerinas auditioning for something (a flock of ballerinas? a squad? what's the collective term for those who like to partake in ballet?). But drunk dancing, the kind of dancing you do on the sticky 3x6 square ft. hardwood floor of a dive bar at 1AM? That's a team sport.

You know how you can shout at a pigeon and your shouting is loud? And you know how if two people shout at the same pigeon, it's even louder? And how if a group of people start shouting all at once, in their own unique voice and shouting style, at that same pigeon, the noise is deafening and the pigeon flies away?

That's dancing.

Only our dance moves are our voices and the pigeon is our anxieties and concerns.

A person grooving individually is loud, but put several sweaty, gyrating blobs of flesh in the same space, turn the volume up and you're going to end up with something magical, something that sends flocks of pigeons scurrying for cover.

Dancing is pure energy in physical form. A manifestation of everyone's power and beauty and grace and strength. When I dance, there is limitless power. I can move like this or I can bend like that. Look at me, moving, occupying this space, being here, being now.

I dance in the shower. On the way to work. While I'm making a spinach-and-mushroom omelette for Delma. Because I can and because it’s me.

Dancing with others just amplifies that. It's dancing to the nth degree. The energy put out exponentially increases by a factor of however many people are dancing around me.

Dance in numbers, y'all.

So, yeah. I'm a great dancer. And you can't keep up with me because you're not me. But you, too, are a great dancer. In your own way.

Let's dance next to each other. Not together. Just in the same vicinity. Because your energy combined with my energy creates. Creates what, you ask?

Who knows. Who cares. Just dance.

Babies Having Babies

We found out Delma was pregnant as we were getting ready for a Halloween party. She was dressed up as Morticia from The Addams Family. I was Finn from Adventure Time. Delma came out of the bathroom and showed me two pregnancy tests she had just peed on. Both of them positive.

"A false positive is really, really rare." she explained.

I nodded and slowly took off my Finn hat.

"I see." I said.

Delma went back into the bathroom, took off her black wig and sat on the toilet.

"Shit." she said. "Shitshitshit."

"This is good news!" I told her, smiling, but the way I said it, it came out as "This is good news?"

But it was good news. Great news, really. We weren't trying to conceive, but we also weren't not trying. We hadn't been not trying for a couple of years and nothing had happened so I just assumed I had a low sperm count or something. We both wanted kids. We just didn't expect to have one so soon.

"This is good news," I repeated.

I calmly walked to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine and chugged half of it before sitting down. I was still smiling.

The next morning, I was not smiling. Partly from the hangover, but also partly from the "Oh shit, Delma's pregnant..." realization.

The news rocked me so hard I couldn't see straight, my mind buzzing incessantly with internal chatter. I couldn't finish a thought without immediately jumping to another. Worries, anxiety, elation, fear. A hot mess would be the best way to describe it. That or fugue state. I'd walk into a room, forget why I walked into that room, then walk into another room, only to forget why I had left the previous room. I forgot how to perform basic tasks. In the middle of washing dishes, I'd stop and ask myself "Wait... How do I sponge?" I'm surprised Delma even let me drive, but her mind was probably in a similar condition.

I was overcome with joy, of course, but there was this nagging fear eating away at me and I couldn't quite place where it was coming from. There were the normal fears. I was scared for the baby's health, I questioned whether I'd make a good father, I was worried about the finances of raising a child. But this was something else, something I couldn't pin down.

It's been nearly five months since we found out and things have settled down some. We've seen the baby. He's a he. We know because we've seen his penis. He's healthy and he's moving around a lot and his heart beat sounds like the thumping bass line from a dubstep song. "Everything's great," the doctor said. A+. I snapped out of the fugue state after a few days. Also, Delma's boobs are now crazy huge which is awesome, except I can't squeeze them because they're very sensitive, but daaaaaamn girrrrrl. I just keep staring. Very nice.

A few of those fears have been lessened over these past few months. They're still there. They've just chilled a bit. Baby seems to be healthy. We're slowly making a dent in our debt and making a financial plan for the future. I'm still worried I might not make the greatest dad, but I also won't be the worst dad, right? Maybe? Guys? Half the battle is showing up or whatever? Whatever.

And while those fears have died down (a little bit), our excitement is growing. We're having a baby. A child. A little person who we're going to raise and take care of and watch grow into a productive member of society with his own personality and quirks and hobbies and interests. The miracle of life. We're having a baby (annnnd the fear just came back again oh-god-I'm-dry-heaving).

It alternates. Some days I'm scared shitless. Most days though, I'm elated.

A month after that Halloween party, we went and bought his 2016 Halloween costume.

Please ignore those creepy disembodied baby heads.

It's fun thinking about the future. We're making so many plans. My sisters have already started showering him with gifts. Baby clothes, baby toys, baby bottles, Baby Bash. Our moms can't stop talking about him (they're practicing saying his name which we're thinking is going to be 'Joshua,' but since both of our moms have thick accents, it comes out as 'Yoshwa'). Delma's dad is already talking about taking him to Disneyland.

This baby is going to be very loved, and that is something I am happy and thankful for.

But that one gnawing fear is still there, rising above the usual ones. A couple weekends ago, I realized what it was.

I'm scared I'll go from 'Alf' to 'Dad Alf.'

Look, I know I'm going to be a dad. That's kinda what happens when you have a kid. You become a parent. I understand this and I am ok with it.

What I don't want is for that to be my identity. I don't want 'being a dad' to be my sole purpose in life. I mean, I want to be a good dad. I just don't want that to be the only thing I be.

Call me selfish. Fine. I'm selfish.

I'm selfish and there are a lot of things I still want to do in life and I'm scared that having a baby will prevent me from doing those things.

I still want to travel. Before I knocked up Delma, we were planning a trip to Patagonia. It's on hold now. For how long? Who knows. I'm scared that it's postponed indefinitely.

I still want to go to the movies and read books and go to nice restaurants and order charcuterie boards. I've never actually ordered one, but I'm worried I won't be able to once that baby pops out. Kids can't eat charcuterie. They can't even pronounce it.

I also don't want to do certain things. I don't want to go to Little League games. I don't want to go to PTA meetings. I really don't want to sit in a room making chitchat with little Susie's dad about the weather while we wait for our kids to get done with dance rehearsal (Joshua is going to be a great dancer, just like his dad).

Above all, I still want to make funny shit. Whether it be through writing or improv or stupid videos or otamatone covers, I want to just keep making funny shit. Or start making funny shit, I guess, if you haven't found anything I've done to be funny.

I'm scared I won't be able to do that.

Parenthood is sacrifice. I get it. No, really, I do.

And, like I keep saying because I'm trying to convince myself so hard, I'm excited at being able to spend time with my little one and have a ton of awesome new experiences with him and Delma. Being a dad is going to be amazing (nerve-wracking). I'm very optimistic (scared) about it. Terrified but thrilled. Paralyzed by a mixture of fear and excitement.

I think, more so than not being able to do these things I want to do though, I'm scared that I'll use having kids as a convenient excuse to not do them.

I have a tendency to be passive. It's something I've been trying to work on. Whatever happens, I just accept it. A lot of the time, it feels like I let decisions be made for me rather than actively choosing to do something. Many things, I do because they are easy.

My worry is that I will stop trying to make funny shit because it's easier to just not do it. "Well, I have a kid now, so I don't have time for this nonsense..."

And I'm going to have to keep reminding myself that that's bullshit. Kanye has North and Saint and he just released that album that's supposed to be really good, but which I haven't listened to because it's on Tidal and there's no way I'm getting Tidal when I already have Spotify Premium, man, I'm just going to wait until it comes out on iTunes or something.

But you know what I mean? People have kids. And they continue to do what they do. They make it work. They have their kids and raise them lovingly and still make time to do the things they love.

It's harder, for sure. They have to make the time. But they make it work. Because they really enjoy doing what they're doing. Whether it's writing or playing the keytar or painting miniature figurines.

The rest of this post will be me giving myself a pep talk.

Sup Alf. It's me/you, Alf. Having a kid is going to be to tough, man. He's going to try to devour you. That boy will demand your every waking minute and then, when you sleep, he will invade your dreams. In a loving way. You'll love him and he'll love you, but love is hard. And you two might come to hate each other at times. There might be some Oedipal-shit going on, who knows. It will be incredibly difficult, yet also rewarding and fun. Terrified, yet thrilled. Scary excitement. Conflicting emotions.

But if you want to keep doing you, you're going to have to make time to keep doing you. Whether that means writing during lunch or waking up at 4AM to edit a video you've been working on, you're going to have make sacrifices to do what you really want to do (in addition to making sure your child grows up in a loving environment and never neglecting him in order to do what you want to do and always teaching him right from wrong, of course).

You can do this, man.

And if you can't?

Well, then just wait eighteen years. You and Delma can hit up Patagonia then, albeit with those walking canes that older people use because you're going to be close to fifty and your bones will creak and your muscles will ache and your life will have passed you by.

And if you don't want to wait?

Then just make it work. Work work work work.

Forrealtho, I think the best thing about being a dad is probably going to be singing this song whenever I get home.

Terrified, yet thrilled, man.

Hiking

I found my first cana last month. One long, thin strand, buried in my beard, just a little to the left of my chin. A grey hair in a forest of brown.

I'm not upset. This was expected. My dad's been dyeing his mustache since he was 33. My uncles all went grey in their late 20s. Growing up, I constantly found boxes of Rogaine and hair-dye on the bathroom counter. In six months, I turn 30. Honestly, I'm more surprised that I didn't find one sooner.

People get old. It happens. Time and Tide detergent wait for no man. Hair goes grey, skin wrinkles, boobs sag. The aesthetic components of aging don't bother me so much.

It's the other stuff I'm worried about.

Delma and I were in the Bay Area recently. My best friend from high school was getting married in Sonoma so we flew out to celebrate the beauty of love and also to find out just how much free cabernet sauvignon I could drink in one sitting (the waiter kept refilling my glass which means technically I don't actually know how much I drank, but I dropped a flaming marshmallow on the terrace, so suffice to say, it was a fair amount).

The day before the wedding, we drove to Big Basin State Park for some good old-fashioned hiking. Big Basin is California's oldest state park, containing over 18,000 acres of nature-y stuff. Towering redwoods hundreds of years old, bright-yellow banana slugs that look like poop, waterfalls that fill you with sadness because they're actually more like watertrickles cus, you know, drought.

The various trails cover 81 miles. Delma chose a series of routes that would hit most of the interesting sights in just under 12. If we maintained a moderate pace of 3 mph and kept our stops to a minimum, we figured we'd be done in about 4.5 hours.

It took us nearly seven.

The hike started off great. It was early enough that the weather was cool and the trees provided us with plenty of shade.

At the two-mile mark, we were still fresh and full of energy. The redwoods were so tall, in order to see the tops of the trees, you had to crane your head so far back that your neck would start to hurt ("Whooooooa-ouch").

At the four-mile mark, we were far enough from other people that, if we stopped to listen, we could appreciate the sounds of the forest. The chirp of a jay. The babbling of a brook. The creaking of a redwood swaying with the wind. We actually came across several fallen redwoods and it creeped me out to think that, with a strong enough gust, a tree could come crashing down and crush us at any moment. Ka-splat.

After three and a half hours, we hit mile six and reached Berry Creek Falls. There was a conveniently situated bench on a ledge overlooking the waterfall/trickle. Delma and I plopped down and ate Clif bars in silence, relishing the fact that we were halfway done. Tired, we were still confident we could complete the hike in another two hours.

From the bench, you could see people passing by the base of the waterfall. Several hikers came and went, stopping to admire the falls. Most stayed for a minute or two, but there was one older guy who was sitting on a rock for quite a while, studying his map splayed out on the ground, a worried look on his face. He was probably in his 60s. A protruding belly, bald spot on the top of his head, white beard full of canas. The dude was very obviously wiped out from the hike and it seemed like he was wondering whether to keep going or turn back. Either way, it'd be another six miles. He simply sat there, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, exasperated at the situation.

"Man, I feel so bad for him," I said to Delma.

At that age, there are some activities that just have to come off the table. Free solo rock climbing, cross-country skiing, vigorous sexual escapades. I guess a moderate twelve-mile hike is another one.

After a few more minutes of watching the poor guy try to figure out his next move, Delma and I got up and left.

I can't imagine waking up one day and realizing that your physical capabilities are no longer what they used to be. That day has not yet come for me, but I know it's approaching. The thought of it makes me anxious. I already wake up with aches and pains in my lower back, random muscles hurting more than they used to. Here is a short list of parts of my body that are tight: hamstrings, pec minor, hip flexors, ankles (did you know you tight ankles was a thing? Cus it is most definitely a thing).

Two years ago, none of those were issues. The only tightness I experienced was in my pants. In my crotch (haha, nah, I'm just playin'). Now I have to foam roll for at least half an hour every day or the tightness becomes uncomfortable.

And it's only going to get worse.

A creative director once told me that, at 40, everything turns to shit. Your body starts breaking down, your digestive system goes to hell. You start forgetting things.

At 40, you begin to understand that you're not immortal, that your days are numbered.

We kept hiking. Watch out for rocks, avoid the roots. Admire the trees, check out the slug. Yes, it was all beautiful, but at that point, Delma and I had run out of conversation topics and mainly kept to our ourselves.

I kept thinking about the old dude back at the falls.

When did that happen? Was it a gradual change? Was he unable to do a fifteen-mile hike, then twelve, then ten? Or did it happen overnight? What else is he unable to complete?

And how much longer until I become like him?

Mile eight came and went without much fanfare. We were definitely tired. Twelve miles of hiking doesn't sound so difficult until you realize that it's not a straight shot. It's twelve miles of up and down and up and down and whoa, we're above the trees and then whoa, look at all the tree trunks and then damn, we've only gone half a mile?

At one point, the grass and trees turned into rocks and boulders. We could see the tops of the redwoods below us, sharp-skinned hawks flying overhead.

In what should have been a moment of tranquility, I was instead filled with panic.

"We need to travel more," I said to Delma.

"I agree," she said as she continued down the trail.

"No, but like, soon. Like... now."

She stopped.

"Sure. Ok. Why?"

Delma knows that when I get in these panicked moods, she needs to talk to me in a slow, reassuring tone. Maintain eye contact, make no sudden movements. Basically, she needs to treat me like I'm seven.

"How long will we be able to do this kind of stuff? Like, if we go to Patagonia when we're sixty, are we going to be able to climb mountains? Will we have to take naps?"

Delma nodded.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But we'll still be able to do plenty of traveling," she said.

We kept hiking.

"Besides, if you take care of yourself, you can still do plenty of things when you're old."

She was right. Of course.

A few months back, hiking up the side of a hill in the Faroe Islands, we had to take a ten-minute breather on a pile of rocks. A dude who looked like he was in his 60s (although he wasn't fat or bald or bearded) hiked right past us, at a moderate pace, sticking his trekking poles into the ground after each step. He saw us, waved, then disappeared into the fog above.

You hear stories of old people performing crazy feats of athleticism all the time. Competing in triathlons, deadlifting 400 pounds. This isn't super impressive, but my dad still jogs 3-4 miles a day at the ripe, old age of 69 (haha, yeahhh).

We kept walking, but I couldn't shake that feeling of unease, that sense of urgency. And it wasn't so much about traveling or my deteriorating physicality.

It was about recognizing my limits. Physical and otherwise.

By mile ten, we were completely silent, trying to focus on sucking in air for the next step. Breathe, step, breathe, step. Lactic acid was building up in our muscles, our thighs burning with every movement.

We would stop for a few minutes, then push on, then stop again, the keep going. Each pause brought more relief, each start brought more pain. Getting up became difficult, our legs wobbling as we braced ourselves for a few more minutes of hiking.

At this age, six months from 30, I have to recognize what I can and cannot do. Cardio kickboxing? Sure. Run a half-marathon? Probably. Dunk a basketball? No way.

Honestly though, up until I saw that old dude struggling, I didn't care about those. The fact that I might not be able to do them soon made me want to do them, if that makes sense. You always want what you can't have.

But recognizing my physical limits forced me to recognize others. Or at least consider the possibility that some of my goals may be unrealistic.

It's a scary thought.

Our generation was raised with the belief that, if you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything. Through sheer will, any goal you have, any passion, any dream is attainable. And that's just not true. No matter how much I believe I can be president of the United States, it's highly improbable. It's nearly impossible that I will be in a boy band at this age (nearly impossible. Not totally impossible. I'm still holding onto a sliver of hope that I can replace Zayn, but that's my last shot).

Some people will say "Not with that attitude!" Is it defeatist? Sure. Maybe. But also maybe it's me being a realist. Maybe I need to lower my expectations and redefine my goals. I need to realize what is possible with my talent and skill set. And what isn't.

Or maybe I'm just making excuses for my future failures.

Who knows.

After another hour of literally focusing on taking it one step at a time, we reached the end of the trail. Mile 12. Well, mile 11.7 if you want to be specific. Right back where we started (kinda. We popped out slightly left of where we entered so we couldn't find the right parking lot and had to hike for an extra twenty minutes. I blame Delma). We sat in our rental Fiat and massaged our thighs for half an hour, trying to regain the feeling in our legs.

Like I said before, I'm not concerned with the aesthetics of aging. Looks have never been my strongest feature (that honor goes to my impeccable punctuality. Or my tiny heinie). And, I'm ok with not being able to dunk or bench 320 or climb Everest. Like I said, the only reason I spazzed out was because, pretty soon, those activities will be out of reach.

I am worried that what I want to accomplish now won't be feasible when I'm older. Or at least become exponentially more difficult. I have to step back, reevaluate my goals and prioritize. Figure out what I really want out of life.

And if it's achievable? Then I go for it.

And if not?

I don't know, man.

Just keep hiking, I guess. Until I can't.

Then just figure out where to go from there.

The Rocket Emoji

We left the house in red. My mom, wife, cousin, three sisters and our close friend Gabriel. All of us, red. Red hats, red shirts, red shoes. We looked like a color-blind family dressed up for St. Patrick's Day.

But it wasn't St. Patrick's Day and we're (mostly) not color blind. It was Game 3 of the 2015 Western Conference Finals and the Houston Rockets were down 2-0 to the Golden State Warriors. The Rockets lost the first two games by a combined total of five points. Expectations were high for Game 3. My sisters had snagged playoff tickets for all of us at the last minute, so we crammed into my mom's '98 Suburban and drove towards the Toyota Center. As we cruised down I-10, we blasted Fat Pat and Paul Wall and Mike Jones to get us turnt.

The 2014-2015 Houston Rockets are (were?) a special team. James Harden averaged 28 points and 8 assists, Dwight Howard pulled down nearly 14 rebounds per game and the Rockets won a competitive Southwest division that sent all five of its teams to the playoffs. This was their first trip to the Western Conference Finals since 1997.

These are facts I have memorized through sheer repetition from watching the playoffs (another oft-repeated fact: Did you know that Dwight Howard and Josh Smith were former AAU teammates?), but I don't truly understand their significance. 28 points a game seems like a big deal, but you might as well tell me Harden averaged "a bazillion jillion points" and I'd be equally impressed.

I love watching basketball, I just don't understand the underlying mechanics or complexities (this is indicative of a larger problem of mine. I can tell you that I enjoyed the new Mad Max film, but I can't tell you why). The subtleties elude me. Pick-and-roll and zone defense and flagrant 2 are all terms that I have heard during games, terms that sound familiar, but if asked to explain them I would not be able to. Which is what happened a few weeks ago when my wife, Delma, started watching games with me.

"What's an illegal screen?"

"It's like... When a player stands there, but also he like... moves."

"Oh. Ok."

Pause.

"Why is he shooting two free throws instead of one?"

"Because... He... Got fouled harder?"

"Oh. Ok."

I enjoy basketball on the surface level. The athletic theatrics: fluid passes, acrobatic dunks, half-court buzzer beaters. It's a spectacle. But it's the emotional aspect of the game that gets me riled up, the drama both on and off the court. All of the trash talking and front-office discord and juicy Twitter beef (it's worth pointing out that I was a huge fan of professional wrestling growing up).

As I explained to Delma, it's the storyline of the games that I enjoy, the character development and plot twists. Like watching a soap opera with dudes who are 6'6" and have 40 inch verticals. It's gratifying seeing players like Kevin Durant and Steph Curry achieving their potential, breaking through barriers and winning MVP awards. And it's shocking seeing once-vaunted players (Harden, Deron Williams, Shaq) get traded to another team. It's the narrative behind the sport that's so intriguing. I can't tell you what Jason Terry excels at on the court, but I CAN tell you that he once tattooed the Larry O'Brien trophy on his right bicep and the Mavericks then went on to win the NBA Finals later that season.

It's especially entertaining when your team starts winning because then that emotion spills off the court, out of your TV set and into the city. People start sporting jerseys, cars wave flags, buildings light up with team colors. Suddenly, everyone's a fan, which annoys longtime supporters, but I would argue that it's not so bad. If anything, it's awesome because the city is united, filled with civic pride. I can go out to buy a gallon of 2% milk wearing my Rockets hat and someone will honk at me and shout "GO ROCKETS WOO" as they drive by. Winning pulls a city together, brings its citizens closer.

It's done the same with my family.

My sisters and I are fairly close, but throughout these playoffs, we've been texting each other nonstop.

"Dude, did you see that pass??"
"Are these refs blind!"
"Dwight actually made a free throw."
"I hate Matt Barnes."
"Man Klay ugly!"
"Go Rox!!!"
""

(We've also taken to ending all of our conversations with three rocket emojis because, you know, Rockets.)

When I come home on the weekends, my sisters and I gather around the kitchen table with some pan dulce and talk about the players as if we actually know them. We recite stats and spout cliches about why we lost or how we can win the next one ("We just need to play with heart!" and "These dudes need to hustle!" or "It is what it is"). My family has always had this "us against the world" mentality and the Rockets are another shared interest for us to bond over, to grow closer.

Even my moms has been getting in on it this series, shouting "Ese pinche puto!" at the TV every time Steph Curry hits a three.

So it was nice to actually go experience a game together as a family, especially a game that we were expected to win.

Our seats were in section 102, row 26. We were given free foam fingers as we entered the stadium. The crowd was hyped, cheering half an hour before tip-off, everyone using the foam fingers to give strangers high-fives. Whenever a Warriors fan passed by, they were booed loudly and mercilessly. My sisters and I could not stop smiling, feeling a buzz from just being there.

The beginning of the game couldn't have gone better for the Rockets. They won the opening tip, scored a bucket, got a stop, then scored again.

We were on our feet. Shouting, stomping, clapping, cheering.

"LET'S GO ROCKETS."
CLAP CLAP CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.

That was the peak of our happiness that night.

At the end of the first quarter, the Warriors were up by 12.

"It's ok," Kimberly told Delma. "We came back from being down 19 against the Clippers."

At the end of the half, we were down even more.

"We'll bounce back," said Michelle. "We just got off to a sluggish start.

Midway through the third quarter, we were down thirty points.

"There's still time," I said quietly. "Plenty of time."

The crowd was stunned, our optimism fading. The loudest sounds were the grunts of the players on the court and the squeaking of their shoes. The dude next to Delma was sleeping.

The Rockets ended up losing the game by 35 points. We left the Toyota Center dejected and hopeless. No one said a word as we walked back to the parking garage.

We piled back into my mom's Suburban. My mom, wife, cousin, three sisters and our close friend Gabriel. All of us wearing red. All of us sighing.

I turned to them and said two words.

"Ice cream?"

As we sat outside Amy's Ice Cream, eating our sorrows, a fellow Rockets fan offered us his condolences. Delma and I shared a large cup of vanilla with pecans and cookie dough. No one spoke.

We were sad. Obviously. We had high hopes for the night and they didn't pan out. Realistically, the Rockets weren't going to advance to the NBA Finals. It was a four-game series, but no team has ever come back from being down 3-0. Based on our performance that evening, it would be a miracle if we even won one.

But in spite our sadness, there was a feeling of contentment. It was a nice, quiet evening. We had ice cream. We were together.

My sisters and I are all growing up, growing apart. Kimberly had just graduated college and is considering grad school. Michelle is thinking of joining the Peace Corps. Kayla is slowly turning into a contemptuous teenager. Who knows how many of these moments we have left together, moments where we're close enough and have enough free time to enjoy each other's company.

Despite the result of the game, I'm glad we went. I'm glad we were there. Because those moments are fleeting. And thanks to the 2015 Rockets, we had a chance to savor at least one more of them, if only for a little while.

Go Rox.