The Book of Awesome

by Neil Pasricha

  AWESOME!

  When you know your TV remote so well you don't need to look at the buttons

  Ever tried to turn on someone else's TV?

  Brother, we both know that's a tough gig.

  First, there's the Brand-Name Matchup. You stare at three identical-looking black remotes on their coffee table and play Sherlock by matching brand names. You eye the Panasonic logo in the corner of the TV and search for the Panasonic remote on the table. Elementary, my dear Watson.

  If that doesn't work, you may have to go with The Walk-Up. When nothing turns on, you toss the remotes on the couch in a fit of rage and walk up to the front of the TV to search for the Power button. This works until you want to watch a movie and can't find fancier buttons like TV/Video.

  Sometimes you get an Out of Order Lecture. Your buddy walks in the room and sees you pushing buttons with Spanish subtitles scrolling across the screen. "What did you press first?" he asks, ripping the remotes out of your hand like puppies you happen to be strangling. "You're doing it out of order!" He might even throw in some sarcastic jabs at the end like "How could the TV work without the cable box?" or "No, no, no, you have to flip the Input switch on the Universal first!"

  If you've felt this pain, you know how rewarding it can be when you finally master your TV remote. You don't see yourself changing, but one day you look in the mirror and notice you've become a Channel Surfing All-Star.

  First you master the ups and the downs and then you ace the number pad, even after the little nipply thing wears off the 5. When you get that, there's no stopping you. Mute, sleep, it doesn't matter. You don't need to look and your TV watching efficiency zooms through the roof. Nobody flips channels like you. Nobody cranks the volume when Mom starts vacuuming like you. And nobody pushes Mute and answers the phone in one ring like you.

  Nobody can touch you, baby.

  You made it.

  AWESOME!

  When you hear someone's smile over the phone

  Living in a big city can be lonely.

  Friends scatter and splatter in all directions and people dear to your heart fling themselves across state lines, borders, and deep dark oceans.

  And while calling your friends has gotten a lot cheaper, let's be honest: It's still hard to line everything up perfectly for a long phone call. There are time zones, there are answering machines, and there's the general difficulty of jumping into someone's life for an hour when they're in the middle of living it.

  Despite these issues, once in a while you land one of those special one- or two-hour phone calls with a close friend far, far away. If you're lucky, after the first twenty minutes of what's new at work, with the kids, with the folks, and with people both of us know but one of us knows better, it might fall into that healthy back-and-forth banter where it seems like no time has passed.

  That's the best part of the phone call.

  Joking like you're back in the dining hall at college before a long Friday night, chatting like you're sharing a bunk bed and whispering on Christmas Eve, and laughing like you're still young and still married.

  Sometimes if you listen close enough you can hear those smiles shining through the phone like laser beams. And they tug on your heart as your brain lapses and enjoys some great times with a loving friend.

  AWESOME!

  Returning to your warm and comfy bed after getting up to pee in the middle of the night

  Blind and stumbling, you grunt and scratch your way back to your wrinkled sheet cave after an epic journey through the frozen bathroom wilderness.

  AWESOME!

  Moving up a shoe size when you're a kid

  Some everyday appliances look like they were recovered from a flying saucer at the bottom of the ocean.

  Complicated bunny-ear wine decorkers, handheld metal grabbers that lift out garden weeds, and of course that heavy metal device used to measure your foot at the shoe store.

  But I guess there's a reason for it.

  If a handful of rulers were just lying around, there would be much less suspense when you moved up a shoe size. Mom would grab a ruler, stick it on your foot, and snag you a new pair of loafers. But with the Foot-Measuring Machine 2000 from outer space there is drama. First the gal at the store has to find one under a chair somewhere, then she brings it over and squats in front of you, then she places your heel in it, twiddles some dials up, takes a breath, looks up, and announces your shoe size.

  "Seven."

  AWESOME!

  Perfectly popped microwave popcorn

  We've all been there.

  Staring nervously into the microglow at the fat, puffed-up bag of popcorn calmly spiraling in the center of the dish like no big deal. But it is a big deal, and you know it's a big deal, because despite the puffbag's straight face, there's a minute left, the bag looks full, the pops are slowing down, and you don't know when to pull the plug.

  It's tense.

  Stop too soon and you'll enjoy some well-popped corn but be left with handfuls of greasy, unpopped kernels at the bottom of the bag. Your stomach will rumble and you'll either stay hungry or pop more and overeat.

  Stop too late and you'll enjoy some well-popped corn but some kernels will be burnt, the bag will be smoky, and your fire alarm could have a fit. We don't want that either.

  Yes, that's why it's so great when your microwave pops popcorn perfectly. Either you grow to trust your dependable Popcorn Button or you slowly master the timing yourself.

  How good does it feel when you pull out that perfect, steaming bag and pour it in a big bowl as the movie starts?

  AWESOME!

  That one really good pen that never gets lost

  You know the one.

  The cap is long gone, the end is chewed up, but that trusty ballpoint, she keeps flowing like Niagara Falls.

  Loyal, failsafe, and inky to the bone, that one really good pen might be stashed on top of the fridge, deep in a dresser drawer, or down at the bottom of the pencil case.

  But it's stashed, and it's handy, and it does the deed just fine.

  Now sure, once in a while you might even think you've lost your trusty old pen. You don't see her for a few weeks, maybe a few months. You figure she accidentally rolled under the stove, mistakenly got garbaged, or worse--was hoodwinked by a callous and immoral Pen Thief masquerading as a fiddle-dee-dee, aw-shucks Pen Borrower.

  There is a period of grieving, but one random day you just find her again, sure enough--sleeping soundly in your winter jacket pocket or lounging around carefree in the old Scrabble box. It always seems to happen when you least expect it.

  And isn't there just something about that one really good pen that's always kicking around? Yes, in these days of kitchen whiteboards, visual voicemail, and text messages, it's nice having a steady-eddy pen by your side. Because that pen is something real. Something honest.

  And something worth loving.

  AWESOME!

  When you're driving late at night on an empty gas tank and a gas station appears on the horizon

  When it's late at night on a lonely road and your fuel gauge starts flirting with the Big E, it's gut-check time.

  First you enter Fuel Preservation Mode and start accelerating really slowly and coasting nonchalantly through stop signs to save your precious remaining fumes. Next maybe you fall into a bit of a Blame Game, wondering why you let yourself get to this terrible place and pledging never to do it again. After that it's time for Survival Mode, where you make a mental checklist of all the emergency food and supplies you have in the car, imagining yourself building a napkin blanket to keep warm and eating restaurant mints and ketchup packets to survive.

  And then finally, when hope is almost lost, with that fuel light burning brightly, that steering wheel gripped tightly, and those hands shaking slightly, you drive up another dark, lonely hill and finally notice some blissful heaven-sent gas station lights appearing just over the horizon.

  AWESOME!

  Remembering what movie that guy is from
>
  Smack dab in the middle of the movie's big scene it always happens.

  Everything gets tense for the courtroom finale or championship football game, and then all of a sudden the defense attorney or opposing coach turns out to be that guy from some other movie and you just can't stop thinking about where he's from.

  Wait, was he the prison guard in Shawshank? The lawyer from Miracle on 34th Street? Or, no, no, no, I got it. He's the knife guy from Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

  AWESOME!

  Using Rock-Paper-Scissors to settle anything

  While traveling on a road trip across the States a couple years ago, my friends Ty, Chris, and I ended up staying at a hotel that had two beautiful double beds cordoned off in private rooms, and one thin piece of felt spread over a hard metal frame in the middle of the common area. Clearly, there were two good places to sleep and one joke of a pull-out bed that came with a free Day Full of Back Pain at no extra charge. So we stood in the front hallway and surveyed the situation, bags in hand, stern looks on our faces. We knew decisions needed to be made, and quick. After sleeping in basements and on motel floors for a week, we all finally had a chance of getting a good night's sleep. We had to settle it.

  Well, first of all, we ended up giving Chris one of the rooms, since he actually found the place and we were driving his car. It was a gift and Chris took it immediately, without a word, leaving Ty and I to fight over the remaining room. Well, we were through being nice guys. We both wanted that room bad. So we agreed to settle it the only way we knew how--with a long, drawn-out best-of-seven Rock-Paper-Scissors war.

  Quickly, we took care of logistics. We agreed to shoot on the count of three instead of right after it. Any double clutching would be interpreted as a rock, no questions asked. We ruled out celebrating each win with the ceremonial action move, where you snip your scissor-fingers across their palm-paper or smash their scissor-fingers with your rock-fist. No need for any gloating. And lastly, we made doubly sure that it was a best of seven. Nothing more, nothing less, no extensions. Whoever got four wins first got the good bed because it was game over.

  With that we dropped our bags, steadied our fists in front of us, and sized each other up, cracking our necks and loosening our shoulders for the big game.

  And so it began.

  I opened with rock, soundly shattering Ty's flimsy scissors. Ty then countered with scissors again, falling once more to my sturdy rock. Then Ty switched gears to paper, but I was ready, this time employing his very own scissors to slice him to bits. Down 3-0 in a flash, Ty called for a quick pause. "I need to think," he said. And I'll never forget it. He looked me square in the eye for a moment, squinted a bit, laughed, and then said, "All right, I'm ready." The next three rounds were a nightmarish blur--his paper smothered my rock, his scissors snipped my paper, there were a couple of draws, and then he completed the comeback with a fateful suffocating of my once-sturdy rock with his murderous sheet of airtight paper.

  He quickly tied it up with that move, and so it all came down to the final toss. Before we threw our fists I peeked behind me at the open bedroom door, the setting sun casting warm shadows across the shiny silk bedspread, a flat-screen TV propped up on the wood dresser, a little loot bag of mini toiletries lying across the fluffy pillows. I looked and I dreamed and I drew . . .

  "And a one, two, three!"

  Ty took it with a quick slice of the scissors.

  I was left holding my open palm in my hands, wondering why I didn't go back to my faithful old rock. I could have shattered his scissors to smithereens, and I would have, too. I should have, too. But it never happened.

  Ty retreated gleefully to the private bedroom, slamming the door shut hard, sealing my mind-boggling loss with a brain-piercing bang. And so it was. Of course, I couldn't sleep that night. And it wasn't just because of the metal prongs stabbing my kidneys. It was because of the way I went down.

  But I can't blame the game. No, Rock-Paper-Scissors was there, settling an undebatable debate. It answered our big question, shutting the lid, closing the door, sealing the deal. You can't argue with Rock-Paper-Scissors. When it's over, it's really over. Sure, you can beg for that extension, but the victor never needs to take your bait. They played by the rules and they won.

  Rock-Paper-Scissors helps you decide between pepperoni or sausage, the freeway or the back roads, the drive home or the sleep home. It answers the little daily decisions that freeze us up. Who showers first? Who's paying for pizza? Who gets to change baby's diaper?

  These are all tough questions. And they are all easily settled with a quick game of Rock-Paper-Scissors. But if you do enter the arena, then take my advice.

  Just go for two out of three.

  AWESOME!

  Pushing those little buttons on the soft drink cup lid

  Cola, Diet, RB, or Other.

  When we were kids, my sister and I carefully pushed those little plastic buttons every time we scored a meal at McDonald's. We pushed Cola if we had cola, RB if we had root beer, and Other if we were sucking back some McDonald's orange drink, which was our usual.

  Honestly, we thought there was a big Garbage Survey at the end of the day and every customer had to punch their button to send in feedback. We figured some poor sap stuck his arm shoulder-deep in that bag of lettuce scraps drenched in Big Mac sauce, hollow ice cream cone bottoms, and greasy french fry containers and pulled out all the cup lids. We imagined he arranged them in tipsy, drippy piles and counted how many sold that day, adding the results up on a clipboard and calling them into the head office so they knew how many batches to make for tomorrow.

  Kids, huh?

  These days every time I enjoy a fine dine at a fast food joint, I make sure I still take lots of napkins, swivel in my chair, and press those little buttons on the drink cup lid.

  There's just something about the way they give, the way they turn white, the way they're permanently transformed for all eternity that just makes me itch for it.

  It's just compulsive. It's just instinct.

  It's just

  AWESOME!

  Your colon

  Have you ever run the last leg of the relay?

  If you have then you know it's a stressful experience, because you either make it or break it. I mean, you're either ahead and it's up to you to hold the lead, or you're behind and it's up to you to catch up. Everyone else is done, so they stand behind you relaxing and catching their breath while you give everything you've got to sprint for the finish. And of course, because you're last you're dealing with a sweaty baton, a trampled path, and cold muscles.

  It's not easy.

  Well, guess who's running the last leg of the relay in your body? Guess who's anchoring the team? Guess who's picking up the slack? Guess who's taking the baton for the final leg of the race?

  Dude, it's your colon. Or Cole for short.

  Now, Cole's a humble guy. I mean, call him colon, call him large intestine, call him big snakey, call him whatever you want. He doesn't care. He just shows up to work, all five feet of him, day after day, week after week, year after year. He punches his time clock and starts working in the dark, tight recesses of your abdomen from the day you're born, twisting himself up into all kinds of positions, kicking it into high gear from the get-go.

  Now, Cole does a lot of work:

  1. He stores and dumps waste. This isn't a pleasant job, but someone's got to do it. This man is the garbage man and the trash can, think about that. He doesn't get one of the nicer jobs like looking at your food or tasting your food--no, he just stores and dumps it after everybody else has had their way with it. I mean, they've done such a number on it that it's no longer food--it's called chyme, a partially digested semifluid mass that probably smells like what would come out of a dog if you fed it raw pork, chicken curry, and bleach. Thankfully, Cole's a real professional.

  2. He gathers water from the waste. I know what you're thinking. "Don't my esophagus, stomach, and small intestine already do this?" And actually yo
u're right, that is true. But Cole picks up where they left off. Yes, he smiles backward at the gang, flashes them a big thumbs-up, and then quietly finishes the job when they aren't looking. What a team player.

  3. He absorbs vitamins. What, you thought he was just a chymebag? Just a water sucker-upper? No man, he's also rooting around for vitamins too. He's the guy at the dump with an eye on your discarded clothes and furniture, aiming to spot those hidden gems that are useful somewhere else. You know all this talk about reducing, reusing, and recycling? Cole's been doing that for thousands of years. He practically invented it.

  Now, Cole the Colon is a huge player in your body, but you'd never know that from talking to him. If you try, he'll ignore you and you'll just hear the deep, quiet sound of chyme processing. And that's sort of the point. He's always there, always grinding, always working the gears, always helping the younger guys along, and most important, always getting the job done. And just try getting him to take a vacation!

  So this one's for Cole. Pat yourself on the belly today and thank your colon for being a true servant leader, a humble team player, and a bona fide nice guy.

  AWESOME!

  The day you first realize you can drive

  When I was sixteen, the local Driver's Ed course was offered on a muggy, unbearably humid week in the dead of summer. The classroom was on the top floor of an old downtown building housing a mixed bag of dentists, lawyers, and travel agencies with faded posters in the windows.

  The room had no air conditioning, just windows propped open with rulers, pleading with Ma Nature for some heavenly breeze to keep us awake. We panted and dripped and it reeked like a pack of chalk crumbled like saltines in a big soup bowl of sweat.