The Book of Awesome

by Neil Pasricha

  I don't know about you, but for me Driver's Ed classes were torture. Learning how to drive in a classroom is like learning to ride a bike in a swimming pool. It just makes no sense. Overheads were thrown up on screen, with the instructor drawing triangles to show us our blind spots. We would discuss the history of seatbelts and watch gory videos to scare us straight.

  It's fair to say most of Driver's Ed class is pretty foggy to me. My notes are long gone and there's no way I could draw you a picture of my blind spot. But there is one thing that I do remember from those classes. One bit of one lecture on one afternoon that stuck in my head. It was when the instructor said that every driver goes through four steps on their way to learning how to drive. Rapping his chalk on the blackboard to get our attention, he continued, "It's just a matter of knowing what step you're in."

  * Step 1: You don't know you don't know. You've never tried to drive a car before so you have no idea you suck at it. All you know is that there are cars everywhere and people driving them. So what's so hard about that?

  * Step 2: You know you don't know. Surprise! You can't drive. You realize this the first time you make a painfully slow and wide turn into the wrong lane. It hits home when you tire-punch the curb and accidentally run a red light. You can't park, can't parallel park, can't park on a hill, and forget to signal. It's depressing, but at least now you know you don't know. You made it to Step 2, whether you wanted to or not.

  * Step 3: You know you know. After a while it finally comes--the blissful day when you realize for the first time you can drive! Step 3 usually arrives after scaring a few pedestrians, enduring some frustrating coaching sessions with your parents, and listening to lots of "Uh-oh, you're on the road?" jokes. But you finally made it. And now you're higher than a kite, sitting pretty on Cloud Ten. Congratulations!

  * Step 4: You don't know you know. Eventually it becomes old hat. You're on Step 4 the first time you arrive at work instead of the grocery store on Saturday morning or land in your driveway in a sudden panic because you can't remember the last fifteen minutes of your commute. "How did I get here," you ask yourself, before realizing you must've driven home in a waking dream, signaling subconsciously and turning effortlessly, your brain clicking over to autopilot without letting you know. When this happens, you don't even know you know anymore.

  But this isn't about Step 4. It's about Step 3. It's about the great joy of realizing you've learned something new, something massively new, and can feel proud that your effort, practice, and determination has finally paid off. That first day you first realize you can drive is a wicked high.

  And isn't it a great sense of freedom when the road hockey rinks and street chalkboards of your childhood transform into highways to drive-ins and out-of-town parties? The world seems to suddenly shrink and open up. It's cool thinking how many cities and places connect to the street you live on and all the places you'll eventually go. . . .

  AWESOME!

  Crap job shoes

  My shoes go through a very specific Shoe Life Cycle.

  1. Papa's got a brand-new shoe. Wrapped in tissue paper, wedged in a cardboard box, baby shoes come home from the factory and begin their new life in the closet. Even though you know they're around, you might not be ready to give up your regular pair, so there's a chance they could sit for a bit. That's okay. They're getting used to their new home.

  2. Baby steps. Eventually they take the first step. It's a bit awkward and they hug your foot a lot differently than your old pair. But they are excited: Shining brightly, glowing whitely, they blind the world with their sparkling laces and reflective sheen.

  3. Adolescence. Hey, every shoe is going to get a bit curious and test the limits. It's in their nature. These teenage years are when they step in their first puddle, get dripped on by their first ketchup squirt, and go out really late to an outdoor concert in a muddy field. They get a bit messed up, and maybe you worry about them, but they'll be all right. They had to grow up someday. Some say this is when they first get to know their shoes on a really deep level.

  4. The Workhorse Years. Now they're number one in your rotation. They're providers of the entire shoe family, putting time on your feet for the pairs of sandals, dress shoes, and gym shoes littering your closet.

  5. Retirement. Eventually, they hit the golden years. Scuffed beyond repair with broken laces and smooth, worn-down soles, they're put in a home at the back of the closet behind old tennis racquets and a pair of rusty skates. Although they're gone, you and I both know they're always there when you need them most. Mowing a damp lawn, painting a messy bathroom, building a deck in the backyard, they come out and serve as your crap job shoes, dedicating the remainder of their long proud lives to service.

  Paint splotches, dead leaves, and caked-on mud coat their tired, worn-out bodies at the end of your long life together.

  Never ever forget.

  AWESOME!

  Celebrating your pet's birthday even though they have no idea what's going on

  All they know is everybody's snapping photos of them in a party hat and there's a slice of cake in the food dish.

  AWESOME!

  Waking up and realizing it's Saturday

  CRAP WHAT TIME IS IT I GOTTA GET TO WORK!

  Wait a minute.

  AWESOME!

  High tens

  High fives are good. High tens are great.

  Picture it--jaw dropping in slow-motion silence, eyebrows furrowing in mock-angry rage, head slowly wagging side to side, and both hands lifting high up top and waiting a brief moment for your friend to answer your call and deliver a booming double palm-on-palm SMACK.

  Now that's a beautiful picture. That's the happy dial turned to 10. That's a good day giving birth to a great one. That's a photo from Appendix A of The Study of the Best Things Ever. Lady, I don't know who you are, where you live, or what you're all about, but I know that you gotta love that beautifully loud high ten and its satisfying twenty-finger crack. It's just explosive.

  Like I said, the high five is good too, especially if a baby lays one on you. But really, almost anyone can deliver a high five. It's just one hand! Once you start tenning, the five starts to look wrong, incomplete, and unfinished. It becomes a half, a partial, a sort of. It's like a flop with no flip, yang with no yin, pong with no ping, or a unicycle.

  But the high ten! Sugar, let's talk about that high ten. Now that's the celebratory hand-on-hand gesture for you and me. See, the high ten takes guts for two big reasons:

  1. First off, higher chance of looking stupid: You throw a high five up there and no one answers it, no problem. You just put your hand nonchalantly back in your pocket, scratch your head, or swipe it through the side of your hair, grease-monkey style. No one notices you covered it up and all is well. But you throw a high ten up there and you get left hanging? Well, now you just look foolish--like you're trying to get the wave started at your kid's T-ball game or airing out your pits at the backyard frat party.

  2. Also, there's more coordination required: Think about it, during a high five all eyes are on that one hand. With four eyes focused on one slap, there's not too much that can go wrong. Yes, there's the awkward pinky-on-pinky slap, but those don't happen too often. Now, the high ten's a different animal. This time each person has to focus on two slaps. Time them right. Aim them precisely. Smack them hard. You can't just high ten perfectly the first time. It is very difficult and requires a great deal of training.

  However, the good news is that once you work up the nerve to pull off the high ten, it can be a very rewarding slap. So give it a shot. Test it out. See what it's all about. And hey, maybe even try laying a thundering double palm-on-palm SMACK on one of your closest friends . . . today! Then maybe go out for beers or something. Wings too, if no one's eaten.

  AWESOME!

  Seeing somebody laugh in their sleep

  It's late, it's dark, it's quiet.

  You're tossing and turning, wrapped tightly in a mummy's tomb of crumpled sheets, while your
bed buddy blissfully slumbers on. Maybe you try lying in absolute perfect silence, flipping the pillow, or taking deep breaths timed to Subconscious Sam's snoring beside you.

  You might be frustrated, you might be tired, you might be ready to pack it in and scream, but sometimes, once in a while, it's at these perfect moments when the person next to you starts laughing in their sleep. And what a bizarre and hilarious sight that is because it's like--what's so funny?

  I mean, sure, we're used to laughing at things we see in our waking life. Your roommate drops a hammer on her toe, your brother gets squared by a tennis ball, sure. We get those things. But when somebody's laughing in their sleep, it's a different kind of funny because it's the most inside of inside jokes. You aren't in on it, and frankly, they aren't either.

  So whether it's the baby in the crib, your dad in the tent, or your girlfriend wedged beside you on the futon, there's something hilarious when you see them laugh in their sleep and try to imagine what's running through their head.

  AWESOME!

  . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  Wait, wait, wait, hold on, last question: Do you ever try to influence their dreams by whispering little things in their ear and stuff?

  Me neither.

  AWESOME!

  When there's ice cream left at the bottom of the cone

  My friend Allison was obsessed with The Last Taste.

  Sitting on the deck during a cookout, over at a friend's for a potluck, it didn't matter. "No meal should end with anything less than the best taste possible," she'd say, while devouring the pink and juicy inner cube of steak she'd saved on the edge of her plate during the entire meal. "It's just not worth the risk."

  I admit that at first I found it odd but over time began to admire her strong-willed ability to resist further nibbling. Me, I typically capped off a rich slice of cheesecake with a bite of a cold, tough dinner roll from an hour ago without even thinking about it.

  But not Allison.

  No, she didn't mask the last bite of a cold cut sub by picking at the stray ribbons of mustard-smeared lettuce lying on the tray. She didn't chase the sticky brownie paste stuck in her molars with a glass of watery skim milk. And if we were dining out in style, she wouldn't taste-test a bite of my dinner after she finished her own. "There's no way that could be better than my ravioli was," she'd say, shrugging. "I want to keep tasting ravioli."

  So keep tasting ravioli she did. Because that's what Last Tasters do, people. They find a taste they like and they stick with it.

  Now, we both know Allison isn't the only one. Stop for a second and look at yourself, just look at yourself. What are you, lying in bed, sitting on a plane, reading on the beach? And are you nodding along? There are plenty of you even if you don't wear buttons or meet in chat rooms. Basically, if you make sure there's always a perfect crust of toast left for that last smear of egg yolk, you're one of them.

  But don't worry, because it's a good thing.

  See, that kind of Eat Planning is something worth respecting and something worth believing in. You come, you chomp, you go home happy, your mouth slowly savoring those final fleeting fumes of deliciosity after the meal is done. Nothing wrong with that.

  But sadly, even for those in the biz, it's not all sugar and sunshine out there. No, some foods trip up the best of Last Tasters. Plain nachos at the bottom of cheesy salsa towers, dry crusts at the end of the sandwich, and perhaps most dreaded of all: the hollow cardboard bite at the bottom of the ice cream cone.

  Oh, I know the ice cream looks innocent at first, and when you start eating everything is smoooooooth sailing. That napkin-clad cone lands in your hand and you give a few light licks, not wanting an overly aggressive tongue to topple the tower onto the sidewalk. Then your scoop settles into the cone's lippy grooves and you get a bit more pushy. Broad, sweeping swirls do laps, and sometimes you even punch in with a big bite or a lip-smearing kiss. If it's dripping there's no time for small talk because you're spinning the cone like a corncob.

  Sitting on a picnic table by the dorms, watching the sun dip down at the cottage, camping in the backyard with the grandkids, you lose your sense of time and just keep licking, licking, licking, licking.

  Frozen nirvana makes you woozy and lowers your defenses until you're almost done. And that's when it hits you like a hammer: Brother, you're not going to make it.

  Shocked, you stare down at the cone in your hand and notice it's feeling a bit light. There's more ice cream in there but not much, and you have a funny feeling those last few bites of cone are going to be hollow and tasteless if you don't do something about it.

  So you weigh your choices:

  * Option 1: The Vacuum. With time running out, some people cut their losses and form a Perfect O with their mouth and speed-suck the remaining creamy plunder from the cone. This way you end up with a solid 100 percent ice cream finish and ditch the cone in the trash.

  * Option 2: The Pusher. Here your tongue gets in the game and pushes the ice cream down and down deeper into the cone. You're not giving up, you're not sacrificing, you're just making sure you end up with a great final taste. The earlier you perform The Pusher, the better for everybody involved.

  Now it's a tough choice, but I recommend you go for The Pusher. Don't give up. The benefits are really worth it. I mean, it's a great last taste when you're holding that tiny little goblet of bubbly, melted ice cream and can toss it back for a tasty cool and creamery finish. Instead of having empty and brittle cardboard fouling up your mouth, you score a soft and sweet sugary delight.

  People of the world, let's face it: When you ace this move, you become the true dairy queen.

  AWESOME!

  Sweatpants

  Old, faithful sweatpants.

  So comfortable yet so risky for wearing out of the house. Seriously, how many of you pull off The Sweatpant Look at the movies or grocery store? I bet not too many, despite the fact that sweatpants are God's Gift to Legs.

  They're just so practical:

  * No need for a belt. You just toss em on and you're good to go. Just think, if we all switched to sweatpants we'd render the belt obsolete. No more belts! Gone, just like that, forever replaced by a superior technology: the elastic waistband.

  * Easy to turn into shorts. You roll them up and you're good. That's right: instant shorts. Now that's flexibility. A side benefit is that they don't look terrible, unlike rolled-up dress pants or rolled-up tight white jeans.

  * Stretchiness. Have you ever heard someone say, "I lost thirty pounds! I had to buy all new clothes!" Me too. And have you ever heard someone say, "There was a sale on Ben & Jerry's last week and now none of my clothes fit me!" Me neither, but you know that's going on too. The point is that most clothes aren't stretchy, so if the size of you changes, so does the size of your clothes, which generally means going out to buy more. But guess what? You don't need to buy new sweatpants! They're the caring, understanding, stretchy friend in your closet. They'll wrap themselves around you comfortably no matter what size you are. Thanks, sweatpal.

  * Warmth. Hey, when you're walking around in your beltless shorts, it's easy to overlook one of the key features. That's right, folks, I'm talking about warmth. I mean, there's a reason they're not called shiverpants.

  * Relatively cheap. What's up with the price of pants? You'd think we were buying limited-edition bald-eagle-head-encrusted-cashmere-infused-Kobe-leather trousers judging by the price of these things. I mean, they're pants! Let's keep them affordable. That's why it's all about sweatpants. A side benefit is that they rarely change color or style, so you can use them for years to come without worry. Remember, when it comes to sweatpants, gray is the new gray.

  So let's sit back and smile a slow smile, nod a slow nod, and clap a slow clap. Let's raise our drinks, then clink them, then drink them. Yes, let's give cheers to sweatpants. Let's say thank you, sweatpants, for everything you do, on behalf of the world's hot, comfortable legs.

  AWESOME!


  Multitasking while brushing your teeth

  Hey, there's a lot to get done around here.

  Oh what, you thought those magazines on top of the toilet were going to organize themselves? Sure, sure. And I suppose the shower curtain will magically get pulled out and straightened by the same invisible bathroom butler too, right?

  No, but seriously though: Isn't it all about maximizing time while you're scraping away at your pearly yellows? I mean, you master the basic motions after the first few hundred practices, and then it's like hey, hey, couple minutes of free time every night during the big brush. If this sounds like you, then congratulations: You may be a Toothpaste Stroller.

  Toothpaste Strollers don't worry because they know their molars aren't going anywhere, so they check email, set the alarm clock, or put on pajama bottoms while brushing away.

  Now, if you're like me, whatever you do while brushing your teeth ends up taking much longer than normal. But that's part of the fun. I mean, say you're taking off your socks with one hand while brushing with the other--well, that's like two minutes of awkward hopping and peeling while your brushing loses focus and maybe slips out of your mouth a few times. You end up grabbing the counter before you slip, a half-peeled sock on your foot and foamy streaks on your chin, and you just have to laugh.

  Because you'll get it eventually.

  When you do, you'll be an official member of the Toothpaste Stroller Society (TSS). Fellow members, you know what I'm talking about. You know that multitasking while brushing scratches a small part of your brain the right way. Now instead of daydreaming or examining your wrinkles in the mirror, you can feel satisfied that as you spit that bubbly foam puddle into the sink, the dog-eared pile of magazines are just as organized and ready for bed as you are.