Shame Gets Shit Done

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Last New Year’s Eve, I was standing on my deck with my best friend, Eric, and his son, Carter. We had just celebrated Irish New Year, which basically means that we raise our glasses on Irish time. My wife and I adopted this tradition by accident when we went to an Irish pub one New Year’s Eve and watched a gaggle of Irish expats finish off the celebrations by 4 p.m. While we were on the deck, I marveled at Carter. I’ve known him his whole life, but just this year he turned into the Incredible Hulk.

Funny enough, about a year before his transformation, my daughter beat the shit out of him at arm wrestling. At the time, she was a nationally ranked rock climber, and she could knock out 17 pull-ups with ease. Apparently, she also knocked around Carter’s ego with ease—she became part of his origin story. Say what you will about shame, it gets shit done. Case in point:

I’ve known this kid his whole life. I can still slap him around.

An hour or so before we were talking on the deck, one of my daughter’s friends, another fine young man with more charm and personality than he should have for his age, met Carter, shook his hand, and said with complete sincerity, “I admire your physique.” Our neighbor overheard this exchange, and as the boys cleared out, she looked at me and asked, “Did he seriously just say that?”

Okay, so back to the deck… I’d had a few—not sloppy by any stretch but definitely in possession of a little effervescent confidence. I looked at Carter and felt inspired and said I was considering doing 50 push-ups every day for the next year. A little New Year’s Resolution I was flirting with. I asked my buddy Eric if he wanted in.

“No thanks,” Eric said.

I turned to Carter. “I don’t think I could do fifty push-ups,” Carter said.

That sealed it. Kid wouldn’t do it. But this old man would. And I said as much. Just as I said it, another good buddy, Adam, walked into the conversation. “50 push-ups for 2024? I’m in.” Just like that, we sentenced ourselves to a year of hard labor by way of an exercise that has its roots in Ancient India and Ancient Greece.

There’s a quote I like that’s apocryphally attributed to Hemingway. He probably didn’t say it, but I’m guessing he would salute it: “Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” Again, I wasn’t drunk, but I do like making bold proclamations to people who will keep me accountable. It’s a hack for getting things done.

I admire his prose style and his drinking philosophy.

As I’m writing this, Adam and I have completed at least 18,200 push-ups. I say at least because on some days we did more for whatever reason. But we did 50 every damn day. This year I did push-ups hungover, sick, and exhausted. I did them in airports and alleys, in hotel hallways and public bathrooms (I laid down paper towels). I did them on good days and bad. I did them during wildfires. I did them during my colonoscopy prep and even a few hours after the roto-rootering (against the better judgment of my gastroenterologist and much to the chagrin of my wife). I did them in nine different U.S. states. I did them here. I did them there. I did them everywhere.

This guy gets it.

Each day, Adam and I would knock out our push-ups and send each other a text message. I just sent Adam this one: “Day 364 ✔️.” When we first started, our texts were often coupled with hope and naivety. I would text things like “I can see some definition in my shoulders.” Or, “50 is pretty easy. Considering jacking it up to 100.” Early on, my wife was at Adam’s house, hanging out with his wife, and she asked him how the push-ups were going. He told my wife that the accountability texts were great because it forced him to get the push-ups done no matter what.

Funny how a year of push-ups changes a man. I texted Adam a few weeks ago and asked him if he was going to continue doing push-ups in 2025. I received this reply almost immediately: “FUCK. NO.” I was thinking the same thing.

But as the new year approaches, I’m rethinking it. I probably will stick with the push-ups routine. I don’t exactly look like Carter, but I’m betting I can still beat him at arm wrestling. If I can’t, I’m confident my daughter will defend the family honor.

Before I wrap up, a couple things:

1. I do love New Year’s Resolutions. In past years, I’ve consumed a gallon of water everyday, written three pages every morning (which led to Cobbler’s Gulch), trained for and completed a marathon—all of these because I opened my big, stupid mouth. I’m going to open it again right now to ask for 2025 suggestions. My son is trying to get me to dunk a basketball again, but I’m concerned that it might actually kill me. If you have any resolutions I might find fun or rewarding or edifying—particularly unique or even odd ones—lay ‘em on me in the comments.

2. I’ve been lucky enough to be party to other people’s goals by way of accountability. I’ve seen people finish books, screenplays, marathons, and a bunch of other stuff they wouldn’t otherwise finish—all because they knew I was waiting for the daily checkmark. A checkmark goes a long way. Consider reaching out to someone who will shame you into an adventure. If you don’t have anyone, send me a message—I’m happy to be your courier of shame and accountability.

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Unrelated, a narrative podcast I wrote and produced with my kids recently broke the 25,000 downloads mark. If you like your adventure with heart and humor, you might enjoy it. Click on this link to hear the trailer! Available wherever you get your podcasts!

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And if you haven’t picked up my dark crime comedy novella Dig…