You would think that if there was anyone in the world who would truly have my best interests in mind, it would be me. I’ve lived with me for 26 years. I’ve put up with my whining, my crying, my cheering, my boasting and my self-loathing. I’ve seen what I am capable of firsthand.

I know what I like.

I like to move — to run, to jump, to throw a disc, to climb, to swim, to bike, to hike.

I like to cook — to feed myself and others, to provide, to create, to savor, to indulge.

I like to read and think and write.

I like routine, knowing when I am going and where I am going.

But I also like an immense amount of flexibility; I’ll get where I am going when I am going to get there.

What is interesting, though, is that, despite all of my time spent with myself, I so frequently do things that are not in my best interest.

I scheduled a physical for Tuesday. I took a personal day off from work. At the doctor’s office, which was slightly too cold and made my hands clammy, I ran through the normal gamut of questions and breathing/coughing exercises. I moved into the blood-sample room.

I remember getting shots as a child. The doctor always said “Look away. I’ll tell you when I am done.” For 26 years I have devoutly followed those instructions. On Tuesday, I decided that “Dangit all, I am a grown man! 26 years old! It’s time!” So I watched. And I passed out.

Not only did I pass out, I passed out in spectacular, “I have never seen anyone sweat so much” fashion.

I made it through the needle process. I made it through vial one, vial two and vial three. The technician took off the rubber band on my arm. He took out the needle. He walked across the room to label my samples.

Then my vision returned and I was looking at my knees from a distance of 4 inches. The technician was saying some sort of soothing words I cannot recall. He was holding my shoulders. He lifted me up. I faded to black again.

Then my vision returned on his face. “You are burning up,” he said. Somehow he made that soothing too. He transferred me to a rolling chair. He wheeled me across the hall to a normal appointment room and put me up on the table. I started breathing in a slow forced manner as he put ice bags on my chest and head.

My fingers began to tense up. They began to tingle. I began to lose the ability to move them. The tense tingle sensation spread. To my arms. My legs. My entire lower-half. My abdomen. My tongue.

A doctor came in. She told me “You are going to have to calm down.” That was soothing too. I started breathing normally, and explained through slurred words that “my body is all tight.”

Twenty minutes passed. My body was back to normal, except for dizziness and a general clammy feeling. The doctor said my blood-sugar level was 20. Apparently that is low. She made me drink a super-sugar orange juice thing. She gave me some crackers. They had peanut butter and honey on them.

Eventually my buddy Adam picked me up. We ate a burrito at Freebirds and then saw X-Men: Origins. I felt fine.

Because I felt fine, I wanted to go climb. My roommate looked at me like I was crazy. My friend looked at me like I was crazy. My girlfriend got angry. I didn’t climb.

The point might be that I am an idiot, and I don’t actually know what is best for me. The point might be that soothing words can be pretty helpful. The point might be that I should never watch blood being drawn again.

Or, the point might be that I am lucky that I have friends who can and will tell me when I am being unreasonable. Even more than that, they will give me time and put up with me while I am being unreasonable, sticking with me until I realize it.

I’ve lived in the same house for nearly two years now. In transient twenty-something time, measured by academic years and internships and subleases, that’s an eternity. It’s the longest I’ve lived in any one place since high school.

But I don’t live there any more. I moved, about two weeks ago, out of the house I’ve called home — and work — for the past two years as coordinator of an intentional community of college students. I am no longer a house mom. The communities of students who have lived together intentionally, striving for simplicity, serving the poor, will continue to do all that, but I won’t be there coordinating their experience. And despite the fact that I know that I am far from central to the experience of that house — the Romero House — the ache is still there. I’ve left home.

I moved my stuff out quickly on a Wednesday, and with the help of my friend’s minivan, moved into an old, simple apartment that’s part of a complex of graduate housing that the university I work for owns. It’s the first place I’ve lived where the directions to get there could include, “Keep going straight past the strip club, then take your next right at the intersection with the Auto Zone and the Arby’s.”

For the first few days, I was back at my house often, watering our garden while the house was empty between our academic year and summer programs. Because it’s a volunteer house, it never really feels empty. All of the pictures and photographs are still on the walls, all the furniture is there, all the knickknacks that have accumulated are still accumulating dust. I half felt like I was taking a week’s vacation and about to come back. But my basement bedroom was clean and empty, and after each 15-minute visit, I left. I made meals for myself in my new, narrow kitchen and stared out the windows of my apartment at a view of the mountains, the new perk of my living arrangement.

Finally, last Friday, I sat around the house, waiting for the first students in the summer program to show up. At 4 p.m., Joe pulled up outside and walked into the house, laden down with backpacks and duffel bags. I gave a tour like a nervous mom leaving her kids with a babysitter for the first time, gave him a hug goodbye, and…left.

And now I’m alone with myself, wondering what that means. I’ve discovered that I’m neater than I realized, that cooking for one person is HARD, and that I secretly love shows like Dancing With the Stars, if given the opportunity to watch them.

I miss the house. It’s cluttered and messy and crowded, but it’s filled with the presence of all the people who lived there together and shared the intensity of the experience. It’s truly holy ground in my life. But at the same time, I’ve spent the past two years giving of myself to those people and that experience. Suddenly, I’m in a space that’s spare and uncrowded. The sun floods my apartment with light on clear days. And I can sit, and take a deep breath, and enjoy my own company.

I was nearly killed by a toilet today.

I was minding my own business, sipping my coffee and willing my brain to ignore that it was headed back into the minefield that is the last week of teaching children before summer vacation. I didn’t see the toilet — or toilets, I suppose, since there were about 10 strapped to a truck in front of me. I saw the bright yellow strap holding down the back of the load snap up as if it has been cut from the bottom of the truck.

Before I knew it, a large port-a-potty was careening toward my car at startling speed. This wasn’t your typical “squat and you end up touching all the walls at once” port-a-potty either. This was one you could get in and really make yourself feel at home. Port-a-potties of this size are a lot scarier when they are flying through the air toward your car at 6 a.m.

I didn’t realize what was happening until the whole ordeal was basically over and the port-a-potty that had tried to get up close and personal with my windshield was busy being ripped to shreds by a semi-truck who had not been able to swerve out of the way as I had.

I spent a few minutes allowing my hands to stop shaking and trying to get my now coffee soaked shoe off my foot while still driving before I started laughing. I don’t typically laugh at the prospect of death or severe injury to my car, but come on. A toilet? Does it really get better — or worse — than that?

Metaphorically speaking, with the week I’ve had, this is the only thing I should have been expecting. I’ve spent the last few weeks letting things at work turn me into one big knot of emotion and frustration. Couple that with the special brand of hell that is known as children after standardized testing, add school trips and that grades are turned in and you have an understanding of why I get a stress headache every day by 1:30.

After all this internal whining and complaining about what a crap couple of weeks I’ve been having, I was nearly taken out by a toilet.

I’m pretty sure if you can’t laugh, then all that’s left to do is cry. I’ve done enough of that the past few weeks, so I finished my drive to school giggling about my near death escapade on I-10. The last few weeks have been rough, but I have exactly 21 more hours of school time before a week’s vacation, a visit from my mom, a friend’s wedding and the start of a fresh class of fifth graders. I’d rather not spend it wallowing in any more headaches or frustrations. And hey, I survived a toilet attack on the highway. Things are looking up.

Anyone involved in education has a countdown going on right now. Whether it’s actually written down somewhere, expressed verbally or just in their head, it looks or sounds something like this: ____ days left until summer.

As I write this post, my magic number is eight. Eight days to freedom.

The last few weeks always seem to drag on. Standardized tests are taken, the curriculum for the year is winding down, and the natives are restless. It’s especially noticeable to me as a director of an after-school program. My kids are fairly rowdy anyway, due to the fact that they have been in a very structured environment in their classroom all day long. But the last few weeks of school it is noticeably worse. They are getting excited about afternoons spent at the pool and staying up late. So excited, in fact, that they tend to get into more trouble.

I find that I’m having more conversations of the disciplinary nature these days than anything else, and for a variety of reasons. We have had almost every situation imaginable, from an accusation of cutting in line to an all out melt-down complete with cursing, screaming and plenty of tears.

While it is definitely more time-consuming to deal with discipline issues, it is a necessary part of my job. It is actually one of the more rewarding aspects of my job. There is nothing more fulfilling than seeing a kid understand a poor decision, and make a better decision later on. Growing up is hard, but I love being able to participate in the maturing process of the kids in my program.

Then there are the times that the kids remind me that I still have a lot to learn.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a talk with one of my little kindergarten friends. We will call him Jeremy. Jeremy is usually a very good kid. He is very polite and is extremely smart; he probably reads better than 95% of the kids in my program, regardless of age. However, sometimes he decides that he knows what is best, and that is exactly what happened here.

Jeremy had been playing with a few other children when they all decided that they were going to go outside. The expectation is that everything you are playing with must be put away before you can go or do anything else. Well, Jeremy decided that he didn’t need to help clean up because there are plenty of people to take care of it.

Of course, the other kids disagree, and that’s where I come in.

As we sit down for our discussion, I ask Jeremy to tell me his side of the story. He very plainly explains to me why he didn’t feel his help was necessary in the clean up process, and how he just really didn’t want to help because he wanted to go outside. So we talked about how the other kids wanted to go outside as well and the expectations of cleaning up after yourself. Then we talked about why we have expectations, and why it is important that all of the kids meet those expectations. We talked about what would be a better decision for him to make next time.

The conversation ended on a positive note. Jeremy agreed to help pick up next time, but it seemed like he still wasn’t very happy with the situation. Then he said something that confirmed my suspicion, but also made me realize that Jeremy and I have a lot in common.

He said, “Sometimes I just wish that I was in charge so I could make the rules.”

Funny you should say that, Jeremy, because earlier that week I had been grumbling about a project that I was given. I had only grumbled in my head, but I was still frustrated with something that I didn’t see as my job but I got stuck with because someone else didn’t do theirs. I wanted to remind them that it wasn’t my job, but that was not an option, nor was it appropriate. And I didn’t even realize how much it had affected me until my conversation with little Jeremy.

So perhaps I should correct myself: life is hard, not just growing up. I am constantly learning how to become a better person, a more Godly man, and a more caring friend. So thank you, Jeremy, for sharing that moment with me. I hope you got as much out of it as I did.

I hate going to the grocery store. It only takes about 10 minutes for me to be overwhelmed by my options, prices and the overabundance of aisles.

But last week, I found a simple treasure that has brightened my days.

I was checking out and needed a pack of gum. Normally, I got for the Spearmint kind. You know, for fresh breath. But I decided to buy a second pack of Stride because it was a new flavor, “Berry.” I threw it on the conveyor belt without a second thought.

Once I paid the cashier and loaded my groceries in the car, I decided to try a stick of my new gum before I headed home.

I paid, loaded the groceries in my car and decided to try the Berry gum.

As soon as I opened the clear plastic, I smelled it. It smelled exactly of the Extra gum I used to chew as a kid, the kind in the dark pink package. I never knew what flavor it was but it was the only thing my mom bought. As soon as the smell hit my nose, I felt nostalgic and smiled. I almost started salivating — I had loved the gum so much.

I popped it in my mouth. The tangy flavor stung behind my molars, where I usually react pretty severely to sour food or candy. But this didn’t bother me. The flavor made me so happy because I felt I had —

Chew. The first taste took me back to baseball. Going to see the minor league Indians play in Indianapolis was always a summer favorite of ours; Dad even surprised us one weekend with tickets to a Cubs game, my brother Corey’s favorite team. We would be so excited, knowing Dad would buy us treats and pop once we were there. My all-time favorite snack was the ice cream sundaes with chocolate sauce and sprinkles, which were served in a small plastic hitters’ helmet. After we snacked, we always had gum. Even at little league games, Mom would always send me to the concession stand for popcorn and I’d always grab an extra pack of gum.

Chew. Another chomp and I flew back to when I got my driver’s license. I would find reasons to go to the store, drop off a rented movie or pick up milk, all for the chance to drive. Part of that freedom was going places and being able to buy wht I wanted without Mom having to approve it first. I remember specifically buying this gum at the store, savoring the fact that I wasn’t behind my mom and just grabbing candy to add to her bill. I was buying my own stuff. Granted, it was only a pack of gum but any freedom at 16 is intoxicating.

Chew. Though the flavor is fading, I can still remember sticking the gum to the roof of my mouth in class. Gum was an absolute no-no in high school, and this gum held its flavor the BEST as you tucked it away to save for when the teacher wasn’t looking. That berry flavor would flood my mouth once again, even after 20 minutes of staying stationary above my tastebuds.

Chew. And as I chewed this time, for the first time in years, the comfort and craziness of my younger years came flooding back. Not just the big memories but the small in-between ones … the moments when I twirled my hair and wondered about that boy in class. The moments I hated sharing Dad with my brothers even though I didn’t realize I’d miss it in the future. The moments I thought a night at a baseball game was just another night instead of a precious memory with my family. The moments where I wasn’t so wrapped up in pondering the future and planning my future but was just myself, enjoying life chewing my gum.

I went to a foreign country. Actually, make that several. All in southeastern Europe. When I travel, I try to be discrete and to avoid drawing attention to myself as an American. However, this becomes difficult when my curiosity is aroused by cultural differences. These discrepancies are everywhere and run the gamut from subtle differences to full-blown, whacked-out shit.

The languages, the cars, the pestilence and the landscapes are all exotic aberrations of a foreign land. But my overwhelming favorite was ice cream. The locals seemed to be eating it by the gallon. Everywhere I looked, young, old, hip, square, men and women, teens, babies and geezers were holding cones or eating from sundae cups. It was sold in shops every few feet and sumptuously displayed in storefronts at all-too cheap prices.

In the U.S., it’s not often I eat ice cream outside my home. There’s an old guy code of masculinity (No. 231, I think) that it’s not manly to eat ice cream cones or snow cones or fudgesicles or frogurt in public. There are other rules, mostly about proper bragging etiquette and scratching techniques, but most are tips, not prohibitions. Of all the guy public taboos, No. 231 is my least favorite.

But overseas that code is non-existent. I watched with glee as men openly showed their affection without persecution. I finally felt the weight of ego and my invisible sugar muzzle lifted. I speed-walked to the nearest glass counter and fogged its clear facade with my breath.

I plopped down a few coins for a scoop and was amazed at the taste. The fruit flavors were perfect, a palate of juicy piquancy. The chocolate was even better: high-speed frozen bliss accented by the occasional almond speed bump. Damn, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it now.

From then on, every country, every city on the tour was judged by it’s ice cream. This new form of frozen delicacy had taken my stomach by force, and I had become a sucrose slave to a sugar-laden appetite. Café after café, my mouth watered as I passed heaping mounds of cold sweetness… God, even the way they displayed it was great.

By the end of the trip, I knew I could never return to American ice cream. I tried to smuggle some but learned the penalty for black market dairy products was brutally severe. My only hope was to gorge myself before leaving and try to get the word out in America. I had to tell my friends and neighbors what their lives were missing. I had to convince the major grocers and the tariff lobbyists to relax their claws and allow these noble artisans to invade our country with the full force of their frigid delicacies.

I go spouting my mouth off, and others begin to actually listen. They get interested and check out pictures of the mythical ice cream from another continent. I’m convinced this will be the start of a revolution.

Then my friend looks at a picture. “That’s not ice cream,” he remarks. “It’s just gelato.”

“Oh,” I say.