When businesses get it right

2011 was a year filled with businesses that got it wrong. AirBNB. Netflix. (Insert your own epic cluster here.) From turning on the evening news to the front page headlines of any major newspaper, we’re a culture (and a sad one) that focuses more on the foibles than those who are doing something right. This year marked the 4th year that The UPS Store sponsored Entrepreneur Magazine’s Growth Conference. Having been a customer on and off  - more out of convenience than brand loyalty – I was interested to see what the sponsorship looked like up close.

And it looked stellar. So let’s talk about how, first, the partnership makes sense, and secondly, how the UPS Store gained a new customer out of the experience.

The Partnership: Franchising is a significant part of the entrepreneurial culture. While some might scoff at what they perceive as the inherent laziness of taking someone else’s business concept and running with it, most franchisees will differ with you all the way to the bank. It takes just as much oomph to launch, build, and sustain a successful franchise as it does to launch, build, and sustain a one-off business. And that’s the main reason that having The UPS Store as the event’s title sponsor makes sense. I wish more businesses would look at this partnership and use it as a model for how to get involved with your customers – and peers – without coming across as a our-name-is-in-big-print-so-buy-our-stuff bunch of jackasses (which are the majority of convention sponsorships I see).

• Peer-to-Peer: The event tapped into the knowledge and experience of numerous SoCal area franchisees. They shared their successes and motivations with an audience of over 850 people who were hungry for that type of information. A perfect fit.
• Class: Everything about the conference was class. The main stage, the signage, the digital displays that announced each room’s session. Pure class. For an event that’s 100% free to attendees (including a catered lunch – no sammiches here), the UPS Store and Entrepreneur Magazine did one helluva job demonstrating that neither are fly-by-night operations or business-in-a-box solutions. Whatever you thought about franchise business models, The UPS Store blew conceptions out of the water.
• No Hard Sell: Everyone pretty much knows what The UPS Store does. We get it. Shipping. They began as Mailboxes Etc. back in the day, the place we all went to ship a box, buy a box to ship something in, and when it was relevant, make a few photocopies. Instead of beating everyone at the conference over the head with who they are and what they do, they reinforced the why. They did this brilliantly through their sponsorship of not only the conference, but Entrepreneur’s “Entrepreneur of the Year” awards, celebrating three incredible businesspeople carving their own way in their respective industries.

So how did they score a new customer through the event? I’m a single woman who owns a business, which means that I have a PO box and work out of my home 70% of the time. It also means that a simple records search can tell people where I live. Which is creeptastic. Weird things show up in my mail, any yahoo could land on my doorstep. And you can’t list a PO box as a valid business address with the Colorado Secretary of State – so what’s an entrepreneur to do? Well, that’s coming to an end this week, as I’m headed to The UPS Store to get a business address – and one that’s not my home. I only heard the service alluded to once, but it was enough for me to go: yeah, I need to get that shit taken care of. So I am. And unlike my PO box, I can CALL and see if there’s mail in my box before I go. Which would – and will – save me a crapload of blank trips every year.

It was a Wednesday well-spent, and a shout out to my Wednesday evening compadres who will invariably agree with me that sangria mixes with absolutely nothing.

Sidebar: I was asked – and kindly – by the Entrepreneur Magazine staff to clean-up my presentation for this conference. I don’t have a problem doing that, and I’d been great all day about avoiding the-fbomb. Well, in my second session of the day, I let one fly. And immediately, the fire alarm in the convention center sounded. I guess that will teach me.

Back to business…

Attending, much less speaking at, conferences is rough business. It’s physically and emotionally draining and it’s a huge rally to get yourself going when one (even a day-long conference) has come to a close. The rest of my week involved business as usual as well as taking care of some housekeeping and thank yous for book #2, all the while dealing with the impending launch of book #1 and SXSW Interactive looming in the not-so-distant-distance. I headed up to Studio City to stay with my friend an co-author on book #2 and even got to catch up with one of my graphic designers, Lindsay Goldner, over a meal featuring pasta made from little baby zebras in a cream sauce. Which leads me to the business of business.

There’s a question I ask in every session I’m invited to present: Why are you in business? The answers vary and sometimes there’s someone who gets it right. The answer isn’t to live, because it’s what we love or to make money. (“To make money” is the most common answer, by the way.) The answer is because our customers let us be in business. Never forget that your customers are the reason you get to do what you love – and that’s why speaking engagements and travel are my favorite part of this gig I’ve got going on. I get to meet the people who let me do what I love everyday, from those who work for me and with me to those who just stop by this site and consider my posts to be time well-spent.

Never forget to thank your customers. And never forget that not all customers spend money. Many simply spend their time – and asset we’d all do better at appreciating as even more valuable than the almighty dollar. Which brings me to the part where my co-author on book #2 and I drive all over Los Angeles and Newport Beach to hand-deliver thank yous to the people who contributed to that book.

The part where my friend pees in the backseat on the 405 freeway

For any of you who have lived in the Los Angeles area (as I did from 2002-2005), you understand how the region redefines the epic fucktardery of traffic in general. We were blazing along the 405 — I might have been exceeding the speed limit — when my friend Wendie expresses that she has to pee. Given that we’re on the 405, exiting at 4pm on a Friday is simply nonsense. We’re 1 hour from her house – I ask if she can hold it. Fast forward to a situation where she climbs over the seat into the back and finds a Nalgene bottle holding my then-hot-now-cold tea from the morning. The car gets silent. I’m terrified of potholes (I’m sure she is as well). Within minutes, she’s back in the front seat and we’re serenaded with the gentle sloshing coming from a bottle on the floor board of the backseat all the way back to Studio City.

The lesson here? There’s a lot of shit that happens along the way from where we are to where we need to go. No one started the day planning to pee in a Nalgene bottle in the backseat of a Lexus. Shit – and in this case, pee – happens. Deal with it as best you can and get on with your business. Move forward. Because moving on is bullshit. Moving on implies that we have to forget in order to progress, when in fact, we’re probably better served by bringing our experiences with us to help shape the next ones.

And finally, coming home

Saturday evening, I landed at DIA just in time for the Broncos to blow the playoffs. Truth be told, I missed my puppycats (which is what I call my collective of 2 dogs and 2 cats). I’ve lived in Alabama, Missouri, Illinois, Texas, Tennessee, Virginia, Japan, California, Nevada, and now Colorado. No matter how long I’m gone or where I travel, I get excited about coming home to my little nondescript house in East Denver. So I was excited. I spent the evening on the sofa. I made some puree for a homemade tomato curry bisque (which turned out FUCKING AWESOME – sorry to shout). And after a whirlwind week, I slept for 10 hours.

In my bed.

In my house.

In Colorado.

And on Sunday, I woke up excited. Because I’d built a life that gives me the gift of doing it all again very soon. See image at top of post. Remember. Apply love liberally, in all that you do. We only have one chance to own this motherfucker of a ride called life, and well, yeah. Own it.

image via Creative Commons

Having read more rah-rah posts at both the close and beginning of the year than my red head can handle, today’s missive will be devoid of a few things. Here’s what you won’t find in today’s post (with a h/t to Amber Naslund for her thoughts on “shipping”):

• Requests to get on board
• Directions leading to the outside of the box
• Instructions or demands to ship anything (especially “it”)
• Buzzwords used in context
• Links to a Huffington Post article
• Pictures of penguins
• Lies other than the one included in the above bulletpoint
• The use of the word “passion.”

What you might find, however, is that it’s filled with bullshit. Which is surprising, considering how much I loathe it.

I’m not good at bullshit. I suck at small talk. I’d rather sit in the passenger seat of a car and stare with wonder at the world around me than ask how my date feels about his mother. And while every conversation does not need to be of earth-shattering import, I believe that there’s entirely too much bullshit floating around in the ether.

The Taste and Smell

Yeah. You know it. Stringing people along. Avoiding difficult but definitive conversations. Things that should end, others that should begin. The time wasters. The jackwads. The shit you put up with, refuse to address, and then bitch about to your friends. Your money woes, your relationship turmoils, the dog crap you haven’t cleaned up in the backyard.

You can smell it from sixty-three paces. Sometimes we wake up with the taste of it in our mouths. We have sandwiches made of it for lunch.

You know what it smells and tastes like.

So you have a few choices.

Step Over It OR Step In It

I love shoes. Consequently, there is nothing more demoralizing than finding that I have inadvertently placed one in a position where it is adorned with a turd. And even though it’s recently come to light that I have a habit of leaving shoes neatly arranged next to the toilet, your shoes really don’t belong anywhere close to bullshit. Or the toilet. But at least mine are neatly arranged. I digress. We come to our choices:

Stepping in it: Is there a single one of you who can tell me that, faced with a steaming pile of bullshit that you’re going to deliberately make the move to submerse your shoes in it? Doubtful. Yet it’s something you do all the time. You piss and moan and then walk foot-first right into the motherfucker and then have the audacity to piss and moan about having stepped in it. THIS IS BULLSHIT. It is also bullshit on top of bullshit. Entirely too much bullshit.

Stepping over it: Ah, the logical choice, right? Yet one we seem to refuse to make more times than not. Stepping over the bullshit involves a few things. First, acknowledgement. This involves us being honest with ourselves, and frequently, with others. It’s not about hurting other people’s feelings or being an asshole. It’s about refusing to submerse one’s self in a pile that sits before us. But first, we have to acknowledge the pile instead of bitching about it and then acting all surprised when someone points it out to us (and most of the time, after it’s already all over our shoes). Secondly, it involves growing a pair. Stepping over the bullshit involves refusing to engage in situations that don’t serve us and waste our time. Your relationship, business, financial, and other woes? Bullshit. Stepping over it involves addressing the situation’s existence and then resolving it or refusing to engage, period.

Bullshit Controls Power

Bullshit is a quirky yet powerful little sonofabitch. It has the ability to rob you of power if you allow it, making you (or making yourself) feel helpless and fall victim to less-than-OMFGCrackalacka life experiences (thanks to @Merredith for the gift of the phrase “crackalacka”). On the other hand, bullshit has a sneaky little ability to empower you. There’s a metric ass ton of power derived from acknowledging, processing, and then dealing with the bullshit in your life. When you’re the one in control of your feet and stepping over and around the steaming piles the universe places in front of us during our time on this big blue bouncy ball, just think of what you can accomplish. And with that power comes a greater level of honesty.

Honesty with yourself. Your colleagues. Friends. Lovers. Partners. Hot baristas.

All those things we’re not supposed to say – we usually never do. And they’re the things that need to be said most. Why? Because they dispense with the bullshit. Not saying them? Well, that’s bullshit, too. The greatest gift I’ve given myself over the past 13 months is saying what I feel. Acknowledging and then stepping over the bullshit. And being even more honest with myself and using the presence of bullshit in my life for good instead of allowing it to capitalize on its inherently evil nature like that “friend” who always has a left-handed compliment that you seem to keep around for…no reason whatsoever.

So today, give it up for bullshit. A round of applause, if you will, to begin the New Year. We’ve shipped nothing, and that box? Fuck the box. I’ve never seen the box and really have no use for one that doesn’t contain a new pair of ski boots or faboo pair of pumps. And if you’ve gotten this far in the post, you’ve done something appreciable:

You’ve acknowledged the bullshit that fills this post. And you’re probably ready to do something about it.

<Wednesday evening, December 28>

Somewhere between 9AM and 12 noon today, I went from zero to see-you-next-Tuesday in about six seconds flat. I don’t know if this happens to anyone else, but I know one thing to be true above all others when I’m facing Crimson – the name I’ve taken to calling my less-than-famous, cut-a-bitch moments: The last thing I need to do is speak.

Not a single word.

And on top of it all, there seemed to a completely unauthorized Occupy Sinuses movement going on by a baby elephant in my head. Definitely a fucked-up way to be going about one’s day.

So I headed home, threw on my cold weather running gear and bolted out the front door. A few things happened.

First, I queued up a playlist fueled by the likes of Ratt, Metallica, and White Zombie. Seemed fitting.

Then, about 300 yards down the road, I busted my ass something fierce on the ice. Fuck it – got back up. Ow, ow, ow.

And then…it all just fell away. Seems that I ran just about 4 miles in about 35 minutes – pretty much a land speed record for me, ass-busting and all.

Given that the baby elephant was still taking up unauthorized residence in my sinuses, I headed to the grocery store to grab something with a ‘D’ in the product name. An eviction attempt. Putting the elephant on notice.

Sidebar: To all of the fuckups who have snorted or utilized over-the-counter medications designated as “decongestants” in an off-label, non-prescribed manner, I’d like to thank you. It’s rare that I’m given the opportunity to see what my life would have been like if I’d opted for a career on the pole snorting blow off a coworker’s ass and getting umpteen free rides in a black and white cab. It’s because of you that I’m made to feel like a criminal every time I need to evict a small baby elephant from my sinuses, as the pharmacies now keep these (fictional) elephant-killing medicinals under lock-and-key behind The Counter. I have to stand in line, show identification, sign a form with my name, date, and for some fucking reason – the time – in order to pay my $7.29 and get my damned decongestants. So, I have a request that you start huffing the fumes from smoldering Glenn Beck books and Justin Bieber CDs, as if it’s this hard for me to get decongestants, shitty literature and music should have the same controls placed upon them for the good of the American public.

But I digress.

I procured my D-drug redemption card because we can’t trust you with the box of choice and took my place in the six-deep line at the pharmacy. I was freezing, truth be told. Funny what happens to your body temperature when you go from an 8-mile-per-hour pace to dead still with a breeze kicking off the linoleum.

And then I saw him.

I thought that perhaps I’d cut him off, the old man who towered at least a foot above me who stood to my left. But another glance told me no, he was standing over to the side of the aisle with his cart. Waiting. For her. The lines that time had carved on his face scrunched up when she approached. A smile unhindered by the constraints of teeth – defined by gums alone.

She stood there.

Didntcha need makeup? Powder? Sumthin’? he said

Oh, yes! (she shuffled off, shuffles back)

She dropped something in the cart with a thuck

Thank you dear said this Weeble of a woman who stood next to the towering man with the toothless smile.

Yup. Yup. Need soap? he asks

No… she sings

Toothpaste? Shampoo? he queries

No… she sings

Vitamins? Lotion?

No, that’s all taken care of. That cabinet in the hall – open it up and it’s all right there. But thank you she gleams.

She gleamed. Just stood there and beamed up at him – her big, toothless, gummy-smiling man who must have been more than two feet her senior.

And he smiled – still – down at her Weebles-wobble-but-they-don’t-fall-down self.

For the second time in the day, it all fell away.

I almost expected him to scoop her up and put her in the kid part of the shopping cart. Instead, he put both hands on the handle of the cart and said grab on. She adjusted her purse and set her right hand on top of his left on the handle and they rolled off towards the checkout at the front of the store.

My turn at the counter finally came and with much fanfare and great ordeal, I procured my D-drugs with no fewer than three cards, two signatures, and just over seven dollars. Bag in hand, I floated to the parking lot and headed towards my car.

Sploosh

Snapped me out of my reverie. A boy of about ten or eleven was bounding through the parking lot into every pool of melted snow, and I’d caught some of the backsplash. He looked at me with a wide-eyed stare and I stood there.

Staring back at him.

My run was soggy, sloshing through sidewalks filled with melted snow and runoff. I was sweaty from my run. And now, I was pretty much drenched with freezing, filthy, grocery store parking lot water on the left side of my body. Fucking hell.

So I laughed. When I opened my eyes, he was smiling and I guess his mother was yelling at him (something about getting his ass *up here*) so he ran towards the front of the store and I walked to Beatrice Olivia the Mini Cooper. Opened the door, sat down, shut the door…and laughed some more. And somewhere between starting the car and pulling up in front of my house, I turned on the seat heaters (praying I wouldn’t be electrocuted).

Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you that I had a shit day today, but maybe the next time you have a shit day, you’ll remember mine. You’ll thank the fuckups who made buying decongestants a criminal act so you have to stand in line and see people like Towering Gummy Smile Guy and Weeble-Gal. We miss them when we’re too bloody busy in our own shit to stop, look, listen. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have some fearless kid drench you with a heaping splash of parking lot puddle just top top it all off. Remind you that you’re human. And that while you might have been ready to cut a bitch a few hours prior and busted your ass on ice not even an hour ago…

That there’s really nothing than can’t be fixed by seeing someone else — even complete strangers — smile.

Well, as people who have been with me on the wild ride that’s been the last couple of years – makeups, breakups, deaths, and other roads I never thought I’d take – it’s only right to let you know about why I really took the trip to Atlanta last week.

I’m a traveler and have never lived in one place for any great length of time since I left Houston back in 1996. I spent 16 years there, which was more a factor of not having a fucking car and having to do that whole “education” thing than actually wanting to be there. (Damn adolescence and the associated driving laws, right?) This year marks my third year in Denver, Colorado which is pretty weird in and of itself, as I’m well on my way to passing up Las Vegas on the list of Places I’ve Lived the Longest (3.5 years). The moral being, when I have the chance to get the hell out of dodge, I do. And last week had a bit of an ulterior motive. I hopped a plane to go see Ted.

I’ve spent the last year or so getting to know Ted and the process has been one that’s encompassed everything from unbridled hilarity to heartbreaking moments that have left me weeping. But none of it has been bad. Rather, it’s been a journey that left me with a better sense of who I am, what I want and more importantly, what kind of crumbs I’m willing to clean-up on the other side of the bed. Since losing Jason around this time last year, it’s been an ever-present question: what do I want in the person who will help me rise above myself? Who will challenge me and refuse to let me sink into that hole of complacency? Who will call me on my bullshit and make me own everything about myself instead of letting me make excuses?

The answer is, it’s Ted.

Ted – My New (Giggle) Boyfriend

Ted won’t mind if I tell you that we’ve never been intimate for more than 18 minutes. Ted also won’t mind if I tell you that he’s a fucking genius in every sense of the term and looks great naked. You can strip him down to the bare minimum or dress him up and he simply looks incredible.

And most importantly, he’s compassionate, caring, and doesn’t get embarrassed by the fact that I want to tell everyone I know about him (which is a fair departure from those in my life who felt that I was useful for “fun” and not meant for “sharing” or other modes of public consumption).

I went to Atlanta to spend the weekend with Ted.

I Can’t Believe You Haven’t Already Met Ted!

Yeah, I’m pulling your leg. I don’t have a new boyfriend, but I have built an incredibly meaningful relationship with TED. It boggles my mind when people tell me they haven’t heard of TED, which is why I’m writing this post today to get you introduced to one of the most meaningful relationships in my life.

What is TED? Launched in 1984, TED is a nonprofit organization dedicated to ideas worth spreading. No, it’s not a relationship that will give you the clap or anything that requires an ointment or single-dose antibiotic to fix. The organization brings together people at its various conferences on local, national, and global levels and challenges people the world over to deliver the talk of their lives – and do it in 18 minutes or less.

WTF – only 18 minutes? Yeah, but I’ll tell you…unlike anything in the back seat of any car, this is 18 minutes you’ll remember. And if you’re really riled-up and ready for seconds (or even thirds – you saucy minx, you…) TED will be waiting. All you have to do is press play.

What can I expect to find at TED? Well, everything. TED talks are available translated into 82 different languages and span topics ranging from science, culture, design, sustainability and everything you can think of in between. You can expect to be moved. To laugh. To commiserate and cry. And you can expect to leave each TED talk with a perspective you never thought you would have on the world that surrounds you.

Explore a pianist who will take you on a journey through the creative process. HERE.

Gain new insight on how schools just might be killing (instead of fostering) creativity. HERE.

Understand why leaders become great – even when surrounded by those of exceeding talent and greater resources. HERE.

What I Was Really Doing in Atlanta

I was invited out by the organizers of TEDx Peachtree, an independently organized TED event, to cover the event and participate from a media standpoint. This meant that I got to meet many of the speakers and more importantly, spend an entire day in the midst of brilliance. TED was my guide for the entire trip and I left Atlanta with so much more than I had.

Here’s a sampling of what my 8.5 hours spent with TED yielded:

• A primate researcher demonstrating how beings truly do want to collaborate and share – animals are amazing and the talk inspired me to seek more ways to collaborate and leave “selfish” behind.
• A life long autism researcher who took the audience on a journey through autism in terms that everyone can understand, dispelling the myth that it’s a psychological disorder. I met him after his talk and thanked him with tears in my eyes, as my nephew is autistic and I felt that he was the first person who had ever explained my nephew’s struggle in an accessible way. It also reinforced what an incredible person I see my sister to be, having guided my nephew on his journey so far.
• An immigrant who gave a startling speech on her perspective of the American Dream, smashing myths of entitlement and replacing them with perspectives on gratitude that are clearly missing from much of today’s American culture.
• A PhD who shared insights on how our minds truly can control things outside of our bodies. If you know of Randy Pausch, she’s one of the many who was fortunate enough to be one of his students. I spoke with her after the event and can I just say day-yum? What a smart cookie – and on top of that, she’s vibrant, human, and passionate about what she does. And it shows.
• An education researcher out of Northern California who discussed how education needs to change and that more technology in our classrooms isn’t the answer. As a girl who was always bored in school because I was a nontraditional learner, this really hit home and I look forward to seeing what inroads they can make in changing the way our classrooms welcome children of all learning types. As today, we mostly only accommodate one type, which leaves entirely too many lost in the din of “traditional” education.
• A former FEMA leader who demonstrated how hyperlocal focus will be the most powerful tool for future disaster-stricken communities to recover. FEMA’s resources are limited – the onus is on us to help our communities instead of asking how the government can help.

So, yeah – these were all ideas worth spreading and I wish I had the bandwidth to share everything I heard last Friday. But every talk at TEDx Peachtree reminded me why I’d made the trip to go hand out with TED, even if we only got to spend 18 minutes a pop with one another until the next talk came along.

So Now, You’ve Met TED…

Maybe you’re a little pissed that I linkbaited you into today’s post by saying I had a new boyfriend. If you are, you really should know better, as I’ll write anything in that damn subject line to get you into my world (and you know this). But what I’ve hopefully done is introduce some new people to TED, a very meaningful relationship in my life, and give you a new source for inspiration.

I’ve committed to myself to watch no fewer than two new TED talks each week. This week so far, it’s been a neuroscientist’s journey through her own stroke (made me cry) which I mentioned above and a Portuguese woman’s talk on how legal documents should be written in “plain English.” Next week? I can’t wait to see what I discover from TED.

Sure, TED isn’t just mine, but he has helped me in incredible ways through my journey over the past year. TED helps me better understand what kind of crumbs I’m willing to clean up on the other side of the bed someday and what I want in that magical person who will share my life’s journey with me. So, yeah – TED’s my boyfriend. For now. Inspiration, compassion, laughter, and challenge – TED gives me everything. And I can’t thank the TEDx Peachtree team enough for making me a part of their event and for every one of the speakers and participants – including the Atlanta Music Project and CORE Performance Company – for giving their time and sharing ideas that were definitely worth spreading.

PS: If you’re bummed about not having made it to a TED event yet, why not bring one to your community? Check out TEDx – your chance to bring ideas worth spreading to your community.

But I digress.

Locked up in an emotional shitstorm since Monday (which demarcated one year since Jason died), fueled by the joys of not sleeping and some pervasive stomach virus that’s made solid food an elusive pursuit, I really needed to see those words this morning. You – the lady who sent ‘em to me – you know who you are. So thank you.

I’m slapping myself.

I’m a huge fan of lists (which is causing my literary agent an undue amount of consternation), so there are two lists I’m going to make today. It’ll make the slapping easier to administer. THINGS THAT ARE EASY and THINGS THAT ARE HARD. Let’s go.

THINGS THAT ARE EASY

• Wallowing
• Whining
• Pissing
• Moaning
• Complaining
• Blaming
• Hiding
• Sulking
• Avoiding
• Following
• Denial
• Shame
• Liking
• Missing

THINGS THAT ARE HARD

• Changing
• Smiling (especially when there’s no reason)
• Fixing
• Owning
• Facing Truths
• Leading
• Acceptance
• Crying (you would think this would be in the EASY column, but it ain’t)
• Burning Things to the Ground
• Loving
• Forgiving (especially ourselves)
• Celebrating
• Honoring

Go ahead and put the word “ourselves” after most of those phrases.

And the different between the EASY stuff and the HARD stuff? Everything on the HARD list requires that you give yourself permission to do it.

So what’s the deal with permission? Seems to me that everything on the HARD list is pretty awesome. And yeah, I even like crying. I’m a sap. I will cry at sappy movies, viral videos, and kitten pictures on the internet. Go figure.

Anywhoo – permission. Why the fuck aren’t we giving ourselves permission to do the things we need to do? Why are we wallowing in places filled with Cheetos and bad porn when we could be out in the real world where brie and sex live?

Grant. Yourself. Some fucking. Permission.

That’s all I’ve got. I know what I’m doing today – and it involves moving a metric ton of things out from where they don’t belong so I have room for the things that really matter.

Me? I’ve been slapped. Maybe you have, too.

PS: Enjoy the koala bear having a bath. Can I get a non sequitur up in this joint? Holla…

I wouldn’t change my life for the world.

I’d never have it any other way.

I couldn’t love him/her more.

Yup. Complete and total bullshit.

I’m winding-up one of the craziest weeks of my life today, having just turned in the book manuscript for Book #1 with my writing partner at 9pm last night. Hold the applause, as that just means that today, I’m back to work on Book #2, which is due on October 15. It was a brief moment last night where, following the “send” button, I took a deep breath and felt as if I’d just abandoned a puppy. Never fear – the puppy came back this morning and started yapping about Book #2. But I digress. Back to bullshit and the shape of things.

There are only 3 things I’ve ever wanted to be (professionally) in life: an attorney, an actor and a writer. As I enter the final quarter of my 38th year, I’ve kicked two of those straight in the ass (actor, writer) and realize that my desire for the third (attorney) was fulfilled with a theatre degree (which is the same thing as a law degree, just without the nice suits and social prestige). If you asked me ten years ago if I ever thought it possible to even have TWO of these things ticked off The Bucket List, I’d probably have been too busy to respond as I’d have been bored with the Job I was in and trolling Monster.com for my next conquest.

Today, I get to say that two of those things are a certainty.

So let’s talk about The Shape of Things.

Somewhere along life’s road, I was deluded into thinking I had control. I had great jobs that paid great salaries with great benefits, working for multinational corporations with well-recognized names. I had rent and mortgage payments covered, expendable income, husbands (not simultaneously), boyfriends (also: not simultaneously), friends and family.

Everything I ever wanted.

But then the day came where the universe does what it does – it knocks your big ass Jenga game down and you’re left to pick up the pieces.

And that was the day I realized that I had finally gained control. Fine – it was a few days later and something I realized after the kicked-in-the-balls sensation had subsided even though I don’t have balls and realize I would have made you uncomfortable if I’d said “clam” so I skipped it. But I really didn’t, so now I’ve gone on and said “clam.” But the net-net?

I’d spent 35 years of my life giving everyone else control, thinking I was the one who had it. That’s some kind of bullshit, isn’t it?

So now that we’ve covered puppies, Jenga and clams, I’ll share my thoughts on The Shape of Things and how many of them are just illusions.

The Farm

If you stop by this digital dungeon often enough, you’re well aware that finger pointing generally begins with my finger pointing at me. What have I made the mistake of giving away? The farm, my friends.

• When I started a business, I never realized that I was the first client I had to service every day.
• In relationships, I put everything I had into everyone else.
• I put things before my heart.
• I put money before my soul.
• I placed bullshit excuses before my friendships.
• Pride came before words that needed saying.

My 38th year is a much simpler one than my 37th or even my 27th. I bought my farm back.

See, your farm is something you can give away, but you really do have to buy it back. All of those people you ignored or hurt along the way (including yourself), those are relationships that have to be rebuilt. And sometimes that’s not an option, so you have to start over with new people. And the things – those can all go away in the blink of a Craigslist ad. An egocentric world is one ripe with illusions because you generally surround yourself with (1) people who will never tell you you’re being an epic fuckwit and (2) things, because you can’t find people who will challenge you and actually ADD to your life and things don’t argue and fit nicely into the trunk of your car.

Dispense with the things. Embrace the people. Because I guarantee you that the day you find yourself wishing you’d said something that you’ll now never have the chance to…that’s a shitty day. And who wants to feel like shit?

The Sheep

There’s such a negative connotation to being referred to as a sheep. A mindless follower of the herd. But in certain aspects of our lives, we’re all sheep. The Wall Street Journal had an article this week about the health of alpha males. Being an alpha female (shocker), I was intrigued. And it discussed how, in many regards, beta males found a greater level of happiness than their alpha counterparts, yet extreme beta males were just as stressed an unhealthy as their alpha counterparts.

That means there’s a certain peace in conceding control on occasion. Can you WIN a conversation? Can you REASON with someone who equates the volume of their voice with the validity of their argument? When it’s lights-out time, I don’t think there’s a process we have to go through where we show all of our blue ribbons and its a determining factor on where we get to hang for eternity and ever after.

What I do know is that there’s a beauty in letting someone else take the reigns on occasion, and it actually an incredible gesture to make for someone else (and yourself). It’s how we learn something new: how to play the guitar, rock climb, race bikes, use a new computer program. Conceding control opens us up to make our lives richer. Being the guy or girl who always has to alpha-out makes life for those around you a real bummer. Embrace your inner sheep (every now and then, give it a try), just not in a backwoods/make the sheep nervous kinda way.

The Barn

Not so long ago, a friend introduced me to Live From Daryl’s House. After my inner audiophile stopped squealing with glee and I’d spent days going through all of the show archives, I got to the barn. The shows are shot in a barn that’s converted into a studio and it got me thinking about My Barn – or what I’ll call my happy place.

We keep our lives so cluttered with bullshit. Old things, new things, mental things. For an audiophile like me, seeing a barn setup like Daryl Hall’s got goin’ on is like seeing a really well-made foreign film. The intersection of simplicity and style at times can be breathtaking, like a well-appointed house. But there are extremes. An empty barn is eerie. One jammed full of shit in hoarder-like fashion is just vomitlicious. Would Daryl Hall be able to produce the sound he does in his barn-turned-studio if it were filled with shit everywhere that ruined the acoustics? And how can I function if my barn – my happy place – has nothing in it?

Build The Barn so it serves you. Be able to move. Your happy place should be a refuge – shelter from life’s storms and solace even when we don’t need it. Have yourself an emotional and physical yard sale and make some room for the things in life you want most. I’m a big believer in the concept that they won’t come along until you tell them they’re welcome. I also believe they don’t want to arrive home to a dump or an empty house, but rather, the in between: a soft place to land.

So what’s the shape of things in your world?

I wouldn’t change my life for the world - But maybe you could change it for the better.

I’d never have it any other way - But maybe learning a new way could be fun.

I couldn’t love him/her more - And maybe you’ll surprise yourself one day and realize that you do.

We’re the ones who decide the shape of things, not anyone else. Go after what you want and make room for the things that matter most to have on that journey. While a nice set of Tumi luggage is grand, bring your friends, your heart and your soul. Everything else? They’ll find their way back to you because you’ve earned them. No one can take those things and milestones away from you.

Git yer farm back.

Be the sheep every once in awhile.

Build your barn.

I think it really is that simple.

So that’s what I did for my Labor Day weekend.

Beatrice Olivia the Mini Cooper and I beat it like a pre-freak-stage Michael Jackson on Friday morning. Destination? Aspen. Having lived in Colorado for nearly three years, I’m ashamed of all the places in this state that I have yet to visit. Aspen was on the list and there was a beautiful fringe benefit for the weekend: Jazz Aspen Snowmass, a three-day fest of musical delights, questionable food, overpriced beer (Blue Moon? Six bucks. Thank you, Coors.) and interminable people watching. I’ll spare you the play-by-play, but let’s go back to talking about running for a moment.

Doing what I do, there’s a blurred line that separates my Public and my Private. Some days, I don’t know which is which, but there are few things I keep in cherished reserve. Relationships, family, the nuances that bring me to tears or explode with laughter – they’re the things that people closest to me know. And sometimes it’s fucking necessary to strip down from the persona back into the person. The difference?

Personas don’t have problems. People do.

And while I don’t consider myself an illustrated guide to the DSM IV, we all come with baggage and I’m no different. The crazy thing? It’s ours and no matter how fast we run, we can’t leave it behind. If we think about it, our baggage is beautiful. While some of it feels pretty shitastic (new word, check it out) when we acquire it, we’re the only ones who can control what it morphs into over time. Which brings us to the Aspens.

On Getting Schooled on Life by Aspens

Before I landed in Denver back in the winter of 2008, I was a raging outdoor fanatic. And please -  let’s just skip the whole you moved to an outdoor playground like Denver and you say you USED to be a raging outdoor fanatic? Life got busy. It’s not an excuse. Maybe it is. But I used to spend every weekend rock climbing, trail running, kayaking, hiking, backpacking and the like and since I moved to Colorado – home of the Fourteeners…yeah. Not really a goddamn thing except riding my bikes (which became obsessive and I’m recovering) and some Nordic skiing in the winters. Not a single snowshoe trip, only one trip to ice climb. Not an expedition trip since Kilimanjaro in 2008.

And that, my friends, is some bullshit.

So this weekend, I fixed it. I was up at 6AM on Saturday morning and headed out to do a few hours on a trail just outside of Aspen. I had my gear, my super-shitty Droid X camera/phone/soon-to-be iPhone and as the thermometer on the car cried in the low 40s, I set out on what the guides said was an 8.2 mile out-and-back along Difficult Creek. Leave it to me to pick something with “difficult” right in the name.

Now, here’s the thing about hiking: when you’re nose-on-your-toes, you don’t really have the opportunity to do a whole lot of technical mind-fuck-style thinking. Your main concerns are:

• Not busting your ass in a place where you have no cell phone reception
• Avoiding critters
• Walking around piles of critter poo in the middle of the trail
• Finding a place to pee where you’re not going to drop your ass onto something that could potentially cause “itchy” to happen.

Which brings us to blueberry hand sanitizer.

When you’re hiking or out playing in the wild, I will stand by my assertion that there are three things to never be without in your pack at all times (aside from water):

• Organic fruit strips
• A Ziploc baggie
• Hand sanitizer

You gotta eat and for the size and weight, fruit strips (organic, because Fruit Rollups aren’t food) are nutrient/calorically-dense and delicious and you can mercilessly overpack in case you careen into a chasm of sorts and are stuck for hours/days until a shredded Brazilian mountain guide rescues you (this is my blog – let me have that). The Ziploc baggie is a no-brainer – it holds trash and for the ladies, our used TP. And the hand sanitizer? Great for bangs, scrapes, lacerations, contusions and gaping wounds as well as wiping-down hands post-pee. I prefer blueberry-scented, as it makes for a delightful whiffing experience when you rub your nose or next sneeze. Which will happen.

Back to the Aspens

When I’m out hiking, I’m interested most in the things I don’t get to see every day. I take pictures of what some people might consider to be odd things (and when I have a camera that doesn’t suck, I love macro lens photography). And so I’m strolling along the trail and suddenly I’m faced with this white wall of trees.

Aspens.

Smooth bark with occasional knots – if thinner and green, they’d easily be mistaken for bamboo. I’d never stood among them so I had to stand for a minute and acknowledge one simple thing: each of them had been where they stood longer than I’d been alive.

Which Leads Me to Being Schooled

So, nothing pisses me off more than people acting like assholes in nature. Leaving trash behind, going off-trail into vegetation (except to pee – this is a semi-free pass) or just fucking with what Mother Nature has been so kind to provide. I came upon a bend in the trail and realized that I was surrounded by trees where a legion of jackwagons had carved their initials into them. Professions of love, gang signs, declarations that so-and-so had “been there.”

I realized that the trees didn’t care.

While it pissed me off that these people thought that scarring a tree for life was an action worthy to immortalize their relationship that had already likely ended in a heated text message exchange, rude Facebook wall posts and un-Top 8’ings on MySpace, the trees just went on being trees.

Yeah, We’ll Talk About the Schooling Now

We all seem to go through life thinking that we’re the only ones to have loved and lost, hurt, failed or wounded in some form or fashion. Business deals gone bad, relationships gone south, people we love(d) turned shitty and the world we loved yesterday found the power to take it all straight down the tubes today. But our job – each of us – is to be a little more Aspen and a lot less woe-is-me.

When you look into the places where these jackwagons made their marks, you see a scarring process. A swelling. And a tree that’s gone on to rise above and around it that represents healing. That’s our job, right there. Because in spite of good intentions, deals well-made and hearts given in earnest

things go south.

And we can either crumble or grow a pair (along with some scar tissue) and reflect on the hurt and how we can use it to rise above.

Here I was, standing in the middle of a grove of vandalized Aspen trees, realizing that I’d been running and knowing full well that I can’t run from anything because that matched set of luggage is right there, packed and ready to take any trip I want to make.

And I found myself wanting to be more like these trees that left me breathless with their beauty – this random girl with a backpack full of organic fruit strips and blueberry hand sanitizer.

And to Digress Yet Again

It had been a long time since I’d traveled for myself and not for business or out of obligation to an event of some sort. It goes along with that bullshit about not having really gone hiking in over two years and blaming it all on life getting busy.

Life is as busy and as complicated as we make it – and that requires no explanation, as it is true. Timing is a lie. Busy is an excuse. And we make room for what and whom we want to make room for. And fuck off – I know I ended a sentence in a preposition.

On So I’m Back to Being a Person

Sunday brought another 6 hours and 10+ miles of wandering in the wilderness below Castle and Conundrum Peaks just outside of Aspen and some more great time to keep my nose on my toes and tell the shit that doesn’t matter to stay out of my head. But the Aspens, the wicked weekend of music and the act of giving myself a little credit instead of making excuses put me back where I need to be. Where I love being.

You stop by here to get Bitch Slapped by The Persona, and it seems you dig it when The Person makes an appearance from time to time. I’m grateful – there’s no other word for it. But this weekend, I figured out why I haven’t been able to write in ages.

Because The Persona doesn’t write, and that’s been a safer place/thing for me to be for quite some time. We all have our coping mechanisms and there’s nothing right or wrong about it. Until it starts to get in the way of actually living. Which for me, it had.

So today – 1,800 words and counting later – The Person is back. Yes, the slappings will continue (tune in Thursday…oh, hell yes) and the snark will be on in full force, but it was a lovely place to arrive at this weekend…the one where I told The Person it was okay to come back around.

I’m not my work.

I’m not my projects.

I’m not my schedule.

I’m a thirty-eight-year-old geek who loves great music, decent wine, better food and the occasional orange soda, hot dog and grilled bacon and cheese sandwich (not all at once – though I might have just planned the menu for my next backyard shindig). I think every house should have fresh flowers and there’s nothing in life so shitty that you choose to protect yourself at the expense of those willing and ready to offer you love. People are inherently good, you just have to look longer harder at times to find it than you’re willing. Everyone cries, and if you don’t, you should try it. And no matter how many things we have, if you don’t wake up each day feeling as if you could break or lose every single one of them and still walk out with love, strength and the balls to give it another go…

you’re doing it wrong.

Redux

Aspen was good. The music was brilliant. The nine hours of hiking I did over the weekend were a return to normal – as normal as I’ll ever be. And you know what? My normal is a fucking awesome place to be.

Find yours.

Friday morning, I blew town just as the hookers were rolling into their non-profitable beds and landed in Ontario, California. Destination? Lake Arrowhead for my friend Wendie’s wedding reception.

I’ve known Wendie since 2001 and she’s not only become one of my best friends, but she’s the co-author on one of my book projects. Since then, she’s seen me through a divorce, an engagement (and the end of said engagement) along with countless twists and turn that have brought me from San Diego to Los Angeles to Las Vegas to the place I now consider home: Denver, Colorado. And I her, yet the whole while, she’s had her adventures in Los Angeles. Regardless of geography, she’s always been there. I’ve always been there. And a year ago, she married Josh Miller. Six months ago, she gave birth to Finn. And this weekend, I got to see what I’m going to call a miracle. I mean, aside from the fact I didn’t drop the f-bomb when I stood up to toast her. I did say “ass,” however.

There are times in my life that I’ve had the rude awakening of realizing that it’s not all about me. Shocker, I know, but maybe some of you have experienced the same capsizing of your emotional boat.

The moment you realized that you had friends when you needed them – and it wasn’t to go grab a drink.

When you realized the time had come that your parents needed you (and not the other way around).

When the last bit of cash in your wallet that you were destined to use at the valet goes to a woman on the corner holding a cardboard sign in one hand and her daughter’s hand in the other.

The day you realized that someone you love could die.

This weekend, I saw one of my best friends ever dance around with her husband and their young son. More beautiful than any night we painted the town as single gals, laughing louder than during any dirty board game played in her living room and smiling so wide that I vowed to have my teeth whitened whether they needed it or not. It was a day that could care less what I wore, if my shoes matched or if I’d shown up with a date (which I didn’t). Because it wasn’t about me. And it was one of the loveliest reminders of that fact I’ve ever received.

(Beautiful story, Erika – but WTFBBQ is up with the “higher banana” thing?)

You are so fucking impatient.

During her own toast, Wendie offered up a phrase to describe how she felt about her husband, Josh. It was a phrase from her childhood, one her brother would use to explain something unbelievable or unattainable – the highest possible aspiration. He referred to it as the Higher Banana. And in Josh, Wendie said she found her Higher Banana. Among the smattering of laughter, I doubt there was a dry eye in the house (mine included) among Wendie’s friends, for those of us who know her – the consummate goofball – there was nothing more fitting than to hear her refer to her husband as a banana in some form or fashion. And it got me thinking about finding my Higher Banana.

So What’s YOUR Higher Banana?

Shit seems to roll downhill in life and when one thing hurts, another finds that’s the ideal time to kick you in the shins or otherwise beat you to a pulp when you’re down. But those moments that come along, when everything comes together and we’re pulled out of our crappy little reverie – those are the ones we live for. So what are you reaching for? For that matter, I spent a fair amount of time on Saturday night and Sunday contemplating the prospect of my Higher Banana.

You and I are the only ones who can know if we’re keeping company with mediocrity. And we’re also the only one who know the difference between trying in earnest and pulling a classic square-peg-round-hole maneuver. Finding it – it comes down to a matter of respect for yourself. Your never going to achieve what you visualize in the trees overhead if you beat yourself down and don’t give yourself room to breathe. We have to give ourselves credit. Care for ourselves and learn to care for others. Because there’s nothing in this world worth having that doesn’t take others to help achieve. Nothing.

This weekend reinforced that everything I’ve held out for in my personal life is possible and not the saturated technicolor fairy tales laid out by some Disney flick available on DVD and BluRay. It reminded me that everything I lose sleep for in my business life isn’t for naught and that it’s okay to demand more of others so long as I’m demanding just as much, if not more, from myself. It’s my job to help my clients find it, to help my friends and family understand that they’re worth it and to show people who might never contemplate it that there’s something that’s possible and it rests in the most unlikely places and people.

The Higher Banana isn’t a thing. You can’t buy it and roll around with your friends in it topless at Mardi Gras (wasn’t me). You can’t play a game of catch with it at the park with your buddies. But what we can do is reach for it. We can learn to recognize it in the people who surround us every day. We can also know when to call bullshit on ourselves when we’re doing absolutely nothing to work towards it. That’s the hardest, I think, as sitting still is a shitload easier than generating activity. And mindless activity is easier than putting the energy into getting something done. We seem to spend more time beating ourselves up about things that have passed us by our slipped through our fingers – the Shoulda, Coulda and Wouldas (and if you’ve been around here long enough, you know those are the Oulda Sisters and I hate the bitches). What if we reached higher with all the energy we spend lamenting? Who knows – your Higher Banana might be lurking, just waiting for you to grab hold.

Maybe it’s business partners or a mate. A friend or your mom. Maybe it’s a guy you don’t know too well who knocked up one of your best friends and in the process, fell head over heels in love with her and vice versa and you can’t think of any way to thank him for the happiness he’s brought into her life other than taking one extra stroll through their garden for stealth dog poo before you leave the next time. But I digress…

Whatever your Higher Banana is, it’ll make you cry a little. And that’s because it has the power to break your heart – business, love, life in general. It’s a silly shape for something we should have aspirations for and what do I care if you decide to call it your Higher Artichoke or Higher Hippogriff? It doesn’t matter a damn to me. What matters is that we bust our asses to reach it (because it’s higher than we might think), we open our hearts to everything that will bring it closer (because it’s never going to be a yellow brick road) and when we find it, we refuse to become complacent. We keep striving to fulfill our promise to the Higher Banana:

Raise a round of capital? Thank your employees and keep thanking them.

Score a new client? Thank the referral source personally – skip the email.

Meet the mate of your dreams? Allow yourself to be openly wrong, quietly right and make it not about YOU, but about an US … something I wish I’d known many years ago.

You can build any Part A/Part B sentence you like – but in the end, I guess the best we can each do is find the best way to complete the sentence. Remember that there are really so few things in life that are about a “me” rather than an “us” or “we.” And if we remember that little thing alone, we’re one rung higher on the ladder leading to the banana.

PS:

So, the wedding reception had THE best centerpieces, all hand crafted by Josh’s dad. I was lucky enough to win/bargain/cajole/guilt the actual winner into giving me this one. “Mythical Creatures Meets Country Living.” It just doesn’t get any better than this. The fact that Wendie married a man whose father came up with eight of these oddities is all the proof I need that she married the right guy. This t-shirt also reinforced my feelings. And yes, you’ll be seeing this at my wedding one day.

There are an inordinate number of conversations we have, in both business and life, that are designed to conjure-up ideas. We sit around and birth ideas like rodents, crapping out concept spawn like it’s a numbers game. If only half survive, HEYO! It’s a win.

But there’s value in destruction as well. Merciless killing. Murder.

In the process of putting together the first half of my book – yeah, that one I’m being paid to write – I sat and looked at over 10,000 words and…killed them. A big ass highlight-and-delete action. And nothing had ever felt so good. We focus so much on quantity, word count, deadlines – that we forget the inherent value in ruthlessly murdering something we’ve created (and on occasion, in cold blood).

There’s more than 10,000 words in my life that need some killing off, mostly to make room for things that are worthwhile. My business is the same way. Now, to figure out the means. Hachet, .45 caliber, Chinese throwing stars, quarterstaff or dagger – they need to go and it won’t be pretty. But here’s the deciding factor: I can see everything I want and need standing right there behind all of these things that need to go. The problem is that all these shitty, obstructive and demanding things are keeping me from getting a clear line of sight the the things I hold most dear. And that’s gotta stop.

I can see them through the sea of quantity (not quality), excuses, delays, Pick Mes, Hey Yous and I Hate These, so I think it’s best to mow them own like something out of a Michael Bay flick and get on with the business of life and business the way I’d rather have them…instead of the way I’ve let them become. And if I spent more time on killing things off actively then letting them die on the vine, well, that’s energy well-spent.

Kill, kill, kill.

(coffee’s ready)

Who told you business would be clean?

When you started your business (or in business), it’s quite possible that someone told you it would be a white glove affair. College degree in hand, perhaps. Job somewhere posh. If you started your own business, you were surrounded by singing meerkats and triple rainbows (because the double ones are LAME) because you would never, EVER report to The Man again. Let me share a little perspective I got this last weekend on business, down and dirty.

I shuffled off to Winter Park, Colorado for the July 4th holiday with friends and was introduced to downhill mountain biking. Now, it’s possible that your perspective of mountain biking was a lot like mine and it looked like this. Well, the reality of it is that downhilling looks more like this.

If you’ll notice the ever-so-attractive photo of me above, you might understand why I said something to the effect of, “I don’t know if I should be doing anything that requires full body armor.” And for the record, many of the runs in the video above are just where this redhead’s bike ended up on Sunday.

Now, down to the business of business being dirty. I can hold my own on a track bike (one gear, no brakes) and a road bike, but I hadn’t been on a mountain bike since 1999 in Japan. I’ll fess-up that I was scared shitless. Not only was this bike 30 pounds heavier than anything I’d EVER ridden, it shifted differently and…well…you don’t really sit down a whole lot. Oh – and then there are trees, roots, dropoffs and branches waiting to kill you at every turn. So at the top of our first run, I sat there with Tom, Doyle and Jeff and just said “fuck it,” rolling into what I was certain would be my death and a lesson in what this behemoth of a bike beneath me could do.

And ya know what? I did just fine. I kept the rubber side down and was cool as a cucumber until the bottom of that first run where it looked like the trail was designed by a drunk snake on blotter acid.

(insert Erika losing her cool *here* and yelling something to the effect of goddammit, expletive, fuck, another expletive)

Apparently I had been under the impression this would be easy. And yeah – when I collected my proverbial shit and apologized for being a gargantuan pussy and yelling at people who didn’t need to be yelled at, the humbling began. Business is dirty, and you can’t expect to come out of it with those prissy little white gloves you thought were proper attire for downhill mountain biking. And humility? Yeah, that’s a must-have. Humility hurts when you let it in, but the pain turns to a slow, satisfying burn when you decide to let it warm your soul and open some doors your shitty attitude has the potential to close.

And Then…You Crash

Now, not only is the business of being in business not a clean endeavor, you’re going to crash. I’m typing up this blog post with what I’m convinced are two broken fingers and some sprained whatevers in my left hand, the product of four awesome downhill runs followed by one that was not so awesome.

When I started my business, I was in triple rainbow land. Freedom, ownership and a huge middle finger pointed directly at corporate America. I hadn’t come across any of the 19 Things I Wish I’d Known When I’d Started My Business yet. Ignorance was bliss. Downhill mountain biking was much the same way – it’s super terrific until you go from 40MPH to zero in about 3 seconds flat.

Barging down one of my favorite parts of Long Trail or Green World, I came off a dropoff the fastest I’d ever gone that day and realized I’d overshot the immediate right hand banked turn following. Here’s what it sounded like:

This is fucking aweeeeeeeeeeeso -

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

There’s Tom, walking back up the trail towards me. “You okay?” (insert picture of redhead laid over on her right side, still griping her bike)

“Just…gimme a minute,” she whispers.

Let me tell you – thank Christ-shaped popsicles for full body armor. Within a minute, I was back on the bike and headed back downhill to end one of the most epic runs I’d ever had. Yeah, my hand was straight fucked and my elbow was brewing up something bruise-flavored even with the elbow pads, but I fell. And I got back up. And I bombed the rest of the way down the hill.

WE CRASH. You’re going to fail. If you go into business and life expecting to do anything but, you’re only going to end up disappointing yourself way more often than necessary. Fail big, fail fast and fail differently, I say. If I head back to Winter Park and eat it again on that turn, maybe it’s operator error (which it certainly was the first time). Operator Error is a bitch but it’s going to happen. You’re going to get back to your condo and realize that there’s dirt in your bike chamois (for the non-bike riders out there, that’s dirt all up in yer bidness) and you can either bitch about it or wash it off and get back on with business.

You Don’t Have to Bomb Downhill on a Full Suspension Mountain Bike

But you do have to start somewhere. You have to start. Last week, I was honored to be a part of a panel at University of Colorado, Denver that spoke to non-business major students about the business of owning a business. An interesting theme came up in discussions: where do I begin? With so many options facing you, how do you know which one is the right one? The bottom line is that you don’t. But if you pick something and go with it and own the decision (ownership is key), you can then make the next decision. And that next decision can be:

• Fuck this – I’m outa here.
• This ROCKS – more, please!
• I kinda like this, but I’d like it more if it were ______.

The world’s your oyster. But you can’t start making decisions until you decide to begin. If you’re a skier, you know what a black diamond stands for – an expert run. Well, this redhead took a left at Albuquerque on Sunday (on her FIRST DOWNHILL RUN EVER) and ended up on a black run. After a few murmurs of, “Ummm…I don’t think this is a green run. Are we in the right place?” it turned out I was right. But you know what? I survived. I did it. And I decided to get my ass back on the green run.

So where will you start? How will you embrace the filth that is business and will you piss and moan about the dirt in your shorts or will you wash yourself off and get back going again? There’s nothing clean about business, whether you are in it for someone else or yourself. The best business that gets done is the stuff accomplished from getting in it up to your knees and elbows.

You’ll find dirt in places you never knew could get dirty.

You’ll cry when you thought you should be laughing.

You’ll feel the surge of adrenaline when “normal” people are watching you do what you do, thinking you’re a flaming idiot.

And at the end of it all, you’ll be making decisions about what can happen next. What you can start. You’ll be making crazy KA-KAW! KAW! bird noises when you see a baby fur seal — because you CAN.

And in my case, you’ll be looking at your road bike with a bit of disdain because it doesn’t have a full suspension.

Now go. Start something. Get dirty.