The Size of Your Dreams by - (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📖
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“Wow,” I said.
“You’re just saying that…” Megan shrank.
“No, really, those strawberries look good enough to pick off the page. They remind me of the ones at Golder’s Farm.”
She danced in her seat. “That’s what I was thinking of when I drew them. You really think it’s good?”
“No, I think it’s cruel. Golder’s won’t open for picking until June.”
Megan’s face lit up. “Thanks, Kelvin.”
After dinner, our dishes piled up in the sink. Megan went off to her room, and Dad grabbed the newspaper and headed to the den. Mom pulled out her pink gloves from under the sink. She stood to face the mountain of dishes and sighed.
“How about I do the dishes tonight.” Did I really say that? I hated doing dishes.
Mom turned around, her face frozen in shock.
“Gimme the gloves.” I stretched out my hand and she hesitated. “Come on, Mom. You can dry, okay?”
Mom shook her head and woke out of her shock. “Um… okay.”
She picked a towel from the drawer and took the first plate from my hand. “This reminds me of when Dad and I first got married. Dad had a lot more time on his hands when he was finishing his doctorate. He used to wash dishes, and I would dry.”
“Was this in Boston?”
“Yeah. We had this tiny little studio apartment with a kitchen small enough to fit into your closet.”
I soaped up the first pot. “What did you do when Dad was studying?”
“I took classes at the museum of art. That’s when I painted the snowy landscape in the hallway.”
I stopped and turned to face my mom. “You painted that?” How did I not know that? “I thought you got it at a gallery or something.”
Mom blushed. “I must have told you…”
I shrugged and turned back to the sink. I probably hadn’t paid attention – this was turning out to be a theme. “Did Dad paint something too?” It was hard to imagine, but then again, I hadn’t known about Mom.
Mom cackled and almost dropped the heavy pot I’d just passed her. “Dad? No,” she said, “But we first met at the art museum.”
My shoulders clenched. I should have known this story. But I didn’t. “Tell me…”
“Some famous art guy Smithy or Smithers or something came to the museum to talk about Monet when I was in my last year of college and just getting interested in painting. Dad had already started his PhD, and I think needed a break from reading so many biology papers.” Mom grabbed a handful of forks and ran the towel along each one as she spoke. “He said he just ‘happened’ to sit next to me. I think he did it on purpose. The lecturer was late, so we got to talking.”
“And you liked him?” I’m sure that sounded wrong. I was just surprised anyone could find my dad attractive. He always looked so… dorky. His hair was all over the place, he had dandruff and seemed to dress a decade behind the times.
“He was a great listener. He asked me all about the art in the museum and barely said anything as I told him about my favorite artists and their different painting styles.” Mom’s hands grew still, and her eyes looked up in reverie. “After the talk, we walked around the museum, and I showed him my favorite pieces. He was so happy to hear my thoughts. I liked that.”
“So then you started dating?”
“No.” Mom giggled. “I thought he was too nerdy.”
I waited for her to finish the forks then passed her the knives. “So what happened?”
“He kept asking to spend time together, and he was nice enough, so I went. Then, I don’t know—he grew on me.”
“How?”
“He was thoughtful. He took me to his favorite Mexican place, and when we got there, he asked the waitress all about her son. Dad knew the boy was sick and had been doing research in the medical library at the university to try and help. Then he left the busboy this big tip. He was this immigrant from somewhere in Africa who barely spoke a word of English. People usually ignore guys like him.” Dad still tipped busboys. It hadn’t occurred to me no one else I knew did that.
Mom laid the glasses upside down to dry on the countertop. “After a while, he looked different to me…”
“Different how?”
Mom tipped her head toward her shoulder like a little girl. “I thought he was cute. We never officially dated, but one day Dad brought me to the art museum, making up some story about a newly acquired sculpture. On our way to the new exhibits gallery, we walked through the Impressionists section. Dad stopped in front of the Monet painting, and that’s when I noticed that the words ‘Marry Me’ were written with pink rose petals on the floor.”
“Monet was your favorite,” I said.
Mom nodded—her grin illuminated her face.
* * *
On Wednesday, Christy and I were the only students in class when the bell rang. We waited a few minutes, but neither Darnell nor Jarod showed up. Strange, given that I’d passed them both in the halls earlier in the day.
Finally, Christy said, “What’s been going on with you, Kelvin?”
I had yet to give any updates in class. I got the impression that Mr. Griffin very intentionally had not drawn attention to me. I glanced up at him before responding, but he gestured for me to go ahead.
“I’ve been feeling great.” The words left my lips of their own accord, but felt true. It was easier to share now that it was just Christy listening. I knew she wouldn’t laugh at me like Jarod. Darnell wouldn’t laugh either, but my stomach clenched at the thought of talking about how good I felt in front of someone who looked so miserable.
I told Christy about my experience with my sister on Friday night, about going to Darnell’s on Saturday, and about helping my mother with the dishes the night before.
“But you’ve always been quick in this class to offer your help,” Christy said. “Why is that such a change?”
“I don’t know. I feel the shift, but I can’t put my finger on exactly why.”
“I bet you can,” Mr. Griffin said.
I hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I guess I was so filled with self-pity before that I didn’t have time for anyone else’s difficulties. No,” I corrected myself, “I had time, I just didn’t notice.”
The door opened, and Jarod walked in. “Where have you been?” Mr. Griffin asked, his voice more concerned than accusatory.
“The nurse’s office.”
“You look OK,” Christy said.
“It’s not me. I brought Darnell. He passed out during lunch.”
Smarter, Not Harder
Darnell dragged himself into class on Wednesday. It was the first time in weeks that he didn’t wear a number across his chest. “I failed,” he said.
“That remains to be seen,” Mr. Griffin said. “What is your weight?”
“230.” Darnell slumped into his chair like a wet rag. “Today’s my deadline, and I’m three pounds over.”
“You lost twelve pounds,” Christy said. “That’s remarkable.”
“More,” Jarod said, “you dropped sixteen pounds since Thanksgiving.”
“I still missed my goal. It’s like what Mr. Griffin said to you Jarod, if you hit your goal, you build momentum. You miss it, you lose it.”
“What he said,” Jarod leaned forward, “is that if the deadline passes and you’ve missed your goal, you should still congratulate yourself for all the progress you made. He just told me not to give up before the deadline, which I almost did.”
“I tried to push myself to hit my deadline. I figured if I didn’t drink yesterday I could lose an additional pound or two in water weight. Look where it landed me. The nurse made me drink like a gallon of water, then my mom made me eat when I got home. She said ‘no more of this craziness,’ and she stood over me while I finished everything.”
“Still,” Jarod said, “now’s the time to see all the progress you’ve made. Not to beat yourself up.”
“It’s too hard. I don’t want to keep doing this.”
“Nor should you,” Mr. Griffin said.
Was Mr. Griffin really telling Darnell to give up?
“No?” Darnell asked.
“Absolutely not. It was madness.” Did Mr. Griffin blame himself for one of his students passing out during school? Did he come to realize that all of these steps he was teaching us were misguided?
But what about all of the progress that Christy and Jarod had made? What about my own opening up? What about Darnell losing twelve pounds? Was he really going to throw in the towel now? I called out, “You can’t mean that, Mr. Griffin?”
“I do mean it. Darnell has been on a burnout path for weeks.”
“He’s been doing great,” Jarod said.
Mr. Griffin shook his head. “It was never sustainable.”
“You realized this the whole time?” Christy asked.
“I did.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“Of course not. I’m here to teach. Darnell’s just learned a lesson he’ll never forget. He wouldn’t have gotten that if I’d interfered.”
“What’s the lesson?” Christy asked.
“That I’m just a fat guy,” Darnell said, “and that’s all I’ll ever be.”
Mr. Griffin laughed. “No, Darnell, that’s not the lesson I wished to impart.”
“Then what’s the lesson?”
“Work smarter, not harder.”
“Huh?” Darnell said.
“Work smarter, not harder.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Since Thanksgiving, you’ve lost sixteen pounds, all from willpower. Willpower is a wonderful thing, and by using it, you strengthen it. But willpower can only get you so far. It’s not a sustainable strategy.”
“Why not?” Christy asked.
“You burn yourself out. If Darnell hadn’t burned out now, I’m sure he would have done so come exams. There’s only so much we can pile on our plates and continue to will our way through.”
“Then what’s a sustainable strategy?” Darnell asked.
“That’s what you must discover. It will be different in each case. The answers are all within your reach, and if you can’t see them, I’m certain your Mastermind Group will.”
“So what do I do now?” Darnell asked.
“First thing, write a new card. Never let one card expire without replacing it with the next, or you really will lose your momentum. That’s especially true now with Christmas and New Year’s around the corner. You don’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving, do you?”
“No. I never want to go back there.” Darnell pulled out a pen. “OK, fine. I’ll write another card.” He received one from Mr. Griffin. “What should it say?”
When Mr. Griffin remained silent, Christy said, “Maybe you should write a more realistic goal? Like when I aim to lower my lap times, I pick a number that feels challenging but not outrageous. Maybe fifteen pounds in one month is too much to be, as Mr. Griffin says, ‘sustainable?’”
“How much do you think?” Darnell asked.
“Maybe just one to two pounds a week?” Christy offered.
Darnell’s sighed and turned to Mr. Griffin. “Is that what you are suggesting?”
“No, Darnell.”
“Then what?”
Yet again, Mr. Griffin remained silent.
“Why won’t you help?” Darnell pounded his desk.
“I am helping. I’m helping you to realize that between yourself and your Mastermind Group, you have all the resources you need to answer this question.”
Darnell turned to us. “Any of you have anything else to add?”
“I don’t know everything that
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