How to Make Love Last: The Best Relationship Advice from 45 Years of Marriage
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Practical Tips for Productive Living
by Marc Chernoff // 34 Comments
by Marc Chernoff // 27 Comments
This guest post was written by Alex Fayle, author of Someday Syndrome.
When I was seven years old, I won a foot race in last place.
Due to foul play at other schools, the local school district enacts a mandatory policy during recess hours that segregates the schoolyard based on gender. Boys and girls are no longer allowed to partake in activities together. Given that my friends are almost all girls, I feel lost. I’m not rough and tough enough to feel comfortable with the boys, and yet my gender excludes me from hanging with my friends, the girls.
So I learn to be an outsider. I have a couple acquaintances in both camps, but I’m not actively a part of either, at least not anymore. And because I’m an outsider, I quickly become the object of teasing. Every tribe picks a walking, talking target of ridicule and I fall easily into this role.
Although the words hurt, I find strength from within to push forward, to stay who I am. Because my parents instilled love and patience in my mind from the time I was born. They taught me that the only valid competition is with oneself. So I don’t mind being me. I just wish everyone else would learn to accept me as I am.
To add to my exclusion, I’m fairly clumsy and athletically awkward. I can’t pull my limbs together in a coordinated manner to lift myself over the high-jump bar, to propel my body through the air for the triple-jump, or to pump my legs fast enough along the race track.
I’m never in last place, but because of my outsider status, the majority of the students spew words of ridicule at me anyways. The other outsiders – the poor, malnourished students who wear tattered clothes to school, or the ones with physical disabilities – they get verbally harassed too. And although they never say a word about it, I can see the pain and frustration in their eyes. It hurts them just as much, if not more, than it hurts me.
As the teachers group the boys together for the weekly 100 yard dash, I decide it’s time for an outsider to win for once.
In the eyes of my classmates, I’m already the loser. Regardless of whether I come in first place or last, they will mock me. I realize I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. So I purposely run slow and let everyone pass me, even the poor boy whose ribs show through his skin, whose track and field clothes are the same as his day-to-day clothes… the one whose always in last place.
From my position just behind him, I see the teachers cheering him on. Then suddenly, and surprisingly, some of the students join in. I make an effort to seem like I’m pushing myself while actually falling back more and more. And before long, all the students are cheering him on. “You got it!” they chant. “You’re almost there!”
The boy crosses the finish line and looks back at me. He has a smile on his face stretching from one end of the schoolyard to the other. It’s the first time he’s not in last place.
I pant across the finish line and receive the usual jeers, but I smile too. Because today I learned how to win in a way many of my classmates will never understand.
I may have finished in last place.
But I won the race.
Alex Fayle, of Someday Syndrome, is a former procrastinator who uses his visionary ability to uncover hidden patterns and help you break the procrastination obstacle so that you can finally find freedom and start living the life you desire.
Photo by: Lekke
by Marc Chernoff // 64 Comments
With an impending 28th birthday on my mind, I spent some quiet time this evening reflecting on my recent past. And I’ve come to realize that my 20’s taught me a lot about life. So, I figured I’d share a few lessons I’ve learned along the way.
And I leave you with this question:
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
Photo by: Nattu
by Marc Chernoff // 29 Comments
She has dirty blond hair, a seductive smile, and the most engaging set of hazel green eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s the kind of engaging I can’t ignore… the kind that makes me want to engage too. Because she’s mysterious. And I’m curious. And I need to know more.
Yet, I do my best to avoid making eye contact. So I stare down at the pool table and pretend to study my opponent’s next move. But only long enough for her to look the other way, so I can once again catch a glimpse of magnificence.
I do this, not because she intimidates me, but because I think she may be the girl Chad met last night. A wild night that, he said, “involved two bottles of port wine, chocolate cake, and sweaty bed sheets.”
Then, just as her eyes unexpectedly meet mine, my opponent groans, “It’s been your turn for like five minutes. Ya planning on going sometime today?” And she walks gracefully away.
So I continue to wonder… “Is she the port wine and chocolate cake girl? Gosh, she doesn’t look like that kind of girl.” But I don’t wonder too long because Chad enters the room and says, “Marc, there’s someone I want you to meet.” So I follow him into the kitchen and we bump right into her. “Oh, Angel,” Chad says. “This is my buddy, Marc.”
And I smile ear to ear and chuckle…
Because she’s not the port wine and chocolate cake girl. But also because I spent the last twenty minutes thinking about the port wine, and the chocolate cake, and the sweaty bed sheets.
Hours later, the party begins winding down. But the band is still playing, the two painters who have been painting a wall mural all evening are still painting, and Angel and I are still dancing.
“Are you tired?” I ask.
“No,” Angel says. “Dancing is my outlet. When I dance, I transcend myself and the doubts that sometimes prevent me from being me. This evening has been enchanting, just dancing with you and being me.”
So I twirl her around. And the drummer keeps drumming. The guitarist keeps strumming. The singer keeps singing. The painters keep painting. And now we’re the only ones dancing.
As we continue to dance, she says, “I feel as if we’re naked. And not just you and me, but the drummer, the guitarist, the singer, and the painters too. Everyone left in this room is naked… naked and free.”
I smile and tell her that I agree. “We are naked. We are free.”
As I know we don’t have to take our clothes off to be naked. Because moments of passion flow into each other like port wine flows into chocolate cake. And if we let them, these moments can expose us completely, and continuously. And create climaxes that don’t even require sex.
Because a true climax has little to do with orgasm, and everything to do with passion, love, and devotion. In the same way, nakedness has little to do with how much clothing one wears, and everything to do with one’s awareness in a given moment of time… An unfettered awareness that frees their mind and allows them to truly live the moment for all it’s worth.
After a few more songs, Angel asks if I’d like to join her out on the front porch where it’s quieter. “Just so we can talk about life,” she says.
I give her a little wink. “I love life in this crazy world! It is crazy, isn’t it?”
She smiles. “Yeah, a world in which we can be naked with our clothes on and experience continuous climax without intercourse.”
“Because instead we can achieve both with music, or paint, or dance, or any form of avid self-expression,” I add.
“You got it. Even the sincerity in this conversation is beginning to work for me,” she says as we step out the front door and into the moonlight.
Photo by: Grazie
by Marc Chernoff // 45 Comments
In the summer of 1997, at the age of fifteen, I learned a valuable life lesson.
And I learned it the hard way.
“Go deep!” Roger shouts. I sprint as fast as I can, but not fast enough. The football flies over my head, bounces off the ground, and takes a massive leap over the schoolyard’s fence. It lands in private property on the opposite side.
“Ahh… jeez!” I yelp. “That’s the witch lady’s yard! You’re going to go get that!”
“No I’m not!” Roger insists. “I had to deal with that freak last week. So this time it’s your turn.”
“Man, she creeps me out! The way she speaks… and that hairy mole on her nose… yuck. I don’t feel like dealing with her. It’s my football, and I’d rather just leave it there for now and get it later.”
“Fair enough, I’m ready to do something else anyway,” Roger replies. “Let’s head over to the arcade. I wouldn’t mind whooping your butt in a few rounds of Street Fighter.”
“Hah, you wish! I’ll destroy you, but not today. I promised my mom I wouldn’t leave the schoolyard.”
Roger rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re such a goody-goody. The arcade is practically across the street. We’ll be back here long before your mom comes looking for us.”
I think for a second. “Well… alright, screw it. Let’s go.”
We jump on our bikes and peddle off to the arcade.
Thirty minutes later, Roger is begging for mercy. “Ah, today is just your lucky day,” he gripes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah… I didn’t say a word. But we do need to get back to the schoolyard so I can get my football.”
We jump back on our bikes, peddle to the crosswalk, and wait for the ‘walk’ signal. “Okay, ‘walk,’ we’re good! Last one to the witch’s house is a rotten egg!” Roger shouts. I have about a six foot head start on him, so I begin peddling as fast as I can.
“No Marc! Watch out!” Roger squeals in a panic. I look up just in time to see a black car speeding directly at me through the red light. I leap from my bike. But it’s too late.
My lanky fifteen year old body smashes into the windshield, flips lifelessly over the roof of the car, and strikes the concrete with a sickening thud.
Barely conscious, bloody, and broken.
I vaguely hear Roger’s voice crying for help over the sound of screeching tires… as the black car speeds away from the scene of the accident.
I open my eyes slowly and my vision gradually comes into focus. “Hey honey,” my mom says.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in the hospital, dear. But the surgeon said you’re going to be just fine.”
“Surgery?”
“It’s okay, you’ve already been through surgery in the ER,” my mom replies as she grasps my hand. “You cracked four of your ribs, which punctured your lungs. But they went in and stitched you back together.”
“That… That…” My mom interrupts me as tears begin rolling down her cheeks.
“We just need to be grateful… because you were barely breathing, honey. The surgeon said your lungs were filled with blood. He said it could have been a lot worse had the ambulance not gotten to you in time.”
“That car… that black car… it ran the red light,” I whisper restlessly.
“Shhh… It’s okay,” my mom reassures me. “The same wonderful man that called the ambulance also called the police with the license plate number of the black car. The driver was drunk. It was a hit and run. But the police already have him in custody.”
“Do you know who made the calls?”
My mom reaches into her jeans pocket, pulls out a post-it note, and holds it up so I can read it. “Chris Evans – 305-555-8362” is written in red ink. “Chris Evans,” my mom says as she takes a deep breath. “Whoever he is, he’s our guardian angel.”
“How’d you get his name and number?”
“I asked the paramedics for it. They told me they weren’t supposed to give out this kind of information, but I begged,” my mom says. “I told them I needed to know who saved my baby’s life.”
“Have you called him?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t answer my calls. It rings four times and goes straight to a voicemail beep. There’s not even a voice greeting. I’ve already left three messages over the last forty-eight hours. But he hasn’t called me back, and I suspect he may never.”
Six months later, after a grueling recovery process, my doctor finally gives me the nod to partake in regular physical activity again. Roger and I jump at the chance to toss his new Nerf football around at the schoolyard.
“Go deep!” Roger shouts.
“Not yet, dude. I’m still not 100%. My doctor says I need to ease into it slowly. Cool?”
Roger smiles. “Yeah, of course, bro. My bad, I didn’t mean to…” He is suddenly interrupted.
“Marc! Marc Andrew something!” a raspy female voice hollers from behind us. Roger and I turn around and are shocked to see the witch lady peeking her head over the schoolyard’s fence. “I believe this belongs to you.” She holds up an old football and tosses it towards me. The ball bounces across the ground and rolls up to my feet. Sure enough, it’s the ball I left on her property the day of the accident.
“Thanks, but… how… how do you know my name? And my middle name?” I ask.
“About six months ago, your mom left me a few voicemail messages. My name is Chris Evans,” she says.
Photo by: Yuga
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