An eight-year investment pays off big

You know, it’s hard work being right all the time.

That statement is an inside joke between my wife and I, a line of faux arrogance that I employ on occasions when I am, in fact, right (a situation that generally involves classic rock trivia or major league baseball facts).

Today’s post is about a day I couldn’t have been more wrong: October 30, 2008.

That’s the day, after almost eight years, DOE announced that the company I worked for would no longer be the Yucca Mountain contractor.

The day that I learned my family and I would be moving in a few short months to a similar job in a yet-to-be-determined destination.

After eight years on a project I dedicated much of my time, thoughts, and efforts to, I heard of our defeat and said: “Well, there’s eight years of my life wasted.”

I said it several times over days following the announcement – my coping with disappointment, I suppose. Sadly, I’ve thought it many times since, as we’ve moved across the country and struggled to survive and thrive.

I won’t say it again, and I’ll tell you why: I was wrong.

Really, really wrong.

Last week I was Phoenix for four days of business meetings. As I made travel plans, I knew I’d be within an hour of Las Vegas, so I called my family and some friends to confirm they’d be in town, and I bought a ticket from Phoenix to Las Vegas.

What an amazing, emotional, rewarding three days. My eyes are tender, both from the amount of sunshine (the sun’s been AWOL in Maryland for much of the past five months) and from holding back emotions as I reconnected with so many who touched my life during those 8+ years.

I visited with my parents and sisters, who I haven’t seen since last August, over carnitas and carne asada.

I showed up unannounced to watch Melissa’s old high school softball team play. Afterward I shared laughs and hugs and stories with several of Melissa’s former teammates, their parents, and the team’s assistant coach (and my good friend) who were stunned to find out the guy who looked like Jason Bohne but couldn’t possibly be him actually was him.

I played “Louie Louie” on the guitar at the dinner table and hit all the notes.

I ate steak salad and chocolate cake in the sun (I’ve had enough shade, thank you) on a near-perfect Las Vegas spring day.

I met several members of my Yucca Mountain staff for breakfast. A four-hour breakfast. After eight years of working together, trusting each other, and doing fun and creative things, it takes that long to polish off a breakfast burrito and hash browns.

My buddy and I yelled “Ohhhhhh!” from the comfort of his couch when the guy from Northern Iowa drilled the three-pointer that sank #1 Kansas, even as it destroyed my NCAA bracket. His wife appreciated our enthusiasm. No one had a better seat for that game than I did.

I visited with several of my kids’ friends, many of whom climbed on me, punched me, raced me, threw things to me and at me, played games with me, told me silly stories, fist bumped me, or hugged me. I couldn’t get enough of any of that.

I played football, catching passes from six- and nine-year-old girls, their 11-year-old brother, and their 30-something-year-old dad…all of whom told me to “go long.”

I ate self-serve yogurt to celebrate a friend’s becoming an Eagle Scout that very night. I stayed up late talking to his parents (like we did so many nights after baseball games) – and then had a heart-to-heart with their six-year-old daughter while we jumped rope together at 6:30 the next morning before wrestling with her brothers.

I plotted the future.

I ran a 5k hosted by our previous ward. My time (28 minutes) was ok for a guy who hasn’t run outside in four months – and would have been better if I hadn’t stopped along the way to talk to people whom I haven’t seen for years. I was bested at the finish line by my “best friend buddy” (her term), the six-year-old who rode her bike alongside me the entire time. I cheered (quietly) as a friend completed her goal in style. I high-fived parents of people whose kids I taught in church, and of those who taught my kids.

I had way more fun with the band name “Barenaked Ladies” than I should have.

In rapid succession I was told via text messages that: a) I was a dirty dog; b) I stink; and c) that I suck. Those were all from my wife, my true love of 20 years. My offense? I sent her a photo of the Rubios fish tacos I was eating for lunch. My best friend and I laughed as we ate our tacos and the messages continued to stream in. The next day, my best friends and I went to Zabas for more tacos. I didn’t tell Yvonne. I knew I stunk.

I laughed so much it hurt. I slept like a rock when I had time. I didn't waste a minute. I cried when I left.

And that, in a nutshell, is a fraction of my three days in Vegas. A near perfect weekend. The only things that could have made it better were 1) if my wife and kids had been there, and 2) if it had been longer.

So I was wrong. I’m happy to admit it. Eight years in Las Vegas were filled with memories and friendships and experiences that will carry me throughout my life. Three days proved that those years weren’t wasted, they were investments that will continue to pay off big.