It was roughly 13 years ago that I became an uncle. A godfather and an uncle at the same time. The “godfunkle,” I called myself. It was something I thought I would be good at. Being the fun uncle, the cool uncle—I can manage that. I will never be a good father, a good husband, a good friend, or a good employee, or really a good anything, but I could be a good uncle. That's just the right amount of minimal work for me to be successful at.

But I was wrong. I'm not the godfunkle. I'm not the fun uncle. I’m not the cool uncle. This weekend with my nieces and nephew has taught me that I'm not the cool uncle. I'm the weird uncle.

I could blame things. I could blame the distance between me and my sister's family, the fact that I don't like to travel to the north in the cold when the weather down here is nicer. I could blame that I don't have summers off anymore, so I don’t have as much time to travel. I could blame #ThePark for making me clomp around like Frankenstein. It probably isn't very endearing to young children. But ultimately, I have to blame myself. I am the reason I'm a bad uncle. And the reason is quite simple: I do not trust the tingle.

The tingle is a powerful component of Uncle Magic. It connects uncle to niece and nephew through the ether of time and space. Even if I'm not near my nieces and nephew, the tingle keeps me close to them. Yet I deny it. I choose not to trust it.

There have been times when I have trusted the tingle. For instance, Amazon wish lists have a powerful connection with the tingle. I can look at the wish list my sister posts for my niece and nephew, and I know which gift to buy. I know it's the pastel Stanley cup. I know it's one of those dogs dressed like he's a fireman. I knew that slime was the right gift without even knowing what slime is. The tingle tells me what the best gift is. Not the most expensive gift, but the best gift, the right gift, the gift that they will like most.

But the wish list tingle is easy to obey. I won’t be there when they open the gift, so there’s no chance of me witnessing their disappointment. And no one in my family would ever tell me that they hated my gift. There’s no chance of failure for an uncle buying from an Amazon wish list. But in person, when I must actually bear witness to the effects of my uncle choices, that is when the fear sets in. That is when I am revealed as a bad uncle.

The past weekend, I drove to visit family, including my nieces and nephew. On the way, I stopped at Buc-ee's to buy snacks for my nieces and nephew, who have never been to a Buc-ee's before. Obviously, I got the basics: beaver nuggets, some jerky, peanut butter caramel popcorn. But I also encountered the gummy wall. Gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy butterflies, gummy sharks. Something drew me to it. And not just because I like Swedish Fish and I wanted to see if Buc-ee's had an equivalent to Swedish Fish. The tingle drew me there.

The tingle told me that I should buy some gummy bears for my niece and nephew, or some gummy worms, or some gummy sharks. But I doubted it. I said, what if they don't like gummies? Some people don't like gummies at all. What if the gummy bears get stuck in their braces? Do they even have braces? I didn’t know, so I didn’t buy any gummy candy.

And, of course, when I get to the Airbnb, what were the snacks that they brought on the plane? Gummies. The kids love gummy candies. They're gaga for gummies. And I had brought them none.

Also at Buc-ee's, I saw those little things you put inside Crocs to decorate them. The tingle told me to buy my nieces and nephew some Buc-ee Beaver Croc decorations. But I doubted the tingle. I thought do kids still wear Crocs? Is that still a thing? So I didn't buy any. And what do all three have on their feet when I get to the Airbnb? Crocs. They could be wearing Buc-ee Beaver on their feet, be the talk of the school back up north where there are no Buc-ee's. But instead, they have nothing. Empty, plain crocs, with nary a regional gas station mascot to be found.

Tonight, because of my uncle failures, my nieces and nephew will snack on a limited selection of gummy snacks with unadorned Crocs on their feet. I have failed them as I have failed myself and I have failed my duty as an uncle. I have not trusted the tingle when it guides me to the things that could demonstrate my worth as an uncle. I will never be the cool uncle.

And yes, I’ve thought about rebranding myself as a different sort of uncle. I could have gone to Cici’s with them and scarfed an amount of pizza that could impress my nieces and nephews, that could show them that I am capable of something. But that's not cool uncle behavior. That's wacky uncle behavior. And I'm not the wacky uncle. I don't have that kind of personality. Yes, I have the Hawaiian shirts, but the vibe isn't there. I'm either the cool uncle or I am nothing, and today I am nothing.

It seems like only three years ago I was able to walk in the woods with ease. In fact, it was three years ago. I walked in the woods all the time. Then things started getting harder, I started getting  slower, and walking through the woods became more tiring. I thought that I was getting old, that I was getting fat, that my knee was acting up on me, but it wasn't any of those things. It was #ThePark showing its signs.

Now, I very rarely walk in the woods. It's hard for me to negotiate the trails. I have to keep a close eye on where I step. One of the fun parts of walking through the woods is looking around and seeing what's in the woods. But now I have to watch my step to avoid roots and sticks and branches and rocks and other things that my foot could clip as I'm Frankenstein clomping through the woods. Yet here I am, 13 months after being diagnosed, in the woods at a state park, scaring deer and trying to get mauled by an alligator.

I haven't seen an alligator, and I'm already exhausted after barely making it halfway around the lake. I probably should have gone hiking before I set up my tent, my gazebo, my cot, and chased a bee out of the gazebo. I should have drank more water instead of just drinking coke.

That's all I've had today. Just a coke. And yes, I know you're saying, but Shawn, isn't coke nature's water? And yes, yes it is. But sometimes when it's really hot outside, you need regular water to amplify the power of the coke. The life-giving energy of Coca-Cola Classic. I've had my coke. I've had my water chaser. Now I'm wandering through the woods, hoping I'm going in the right direction.

Hills. Why are there hills? This is supposed to be the low country. Low as in no hills. And here I am, walking up a hill. Exhausted. Wondering how long it is until I get to the  other side of the lake. That's kind of the biggest challenge of walking with Parkinson's. It's not that I'm always clumsy. Sometimes I'm clumsy, when I'm not paying attention. I don't always trip over cords or seams in the carpet or sticks or roots or stuff like that. But the thing is, when I get tired, like I am right now, I slow down even more. And my walk goes from a steady clomp to a plod. It's a cumbersome lumbering. I'm endlessly plodding through the woods, feeling like George O'Brien in Sunrise.

There are benches throughout the trail, always at the top of the hill. But I know if I sit down, I'll have a hard time getting back up again. So onward I plod, hoping that my slip-on Skechers with soles made of Goodyear tires or something like that will give me the traction I need to finish this accursed hike around the lake.

Why am I doing this? To get the attention of someone who probably doesn't even think about me anymore? To prove that I am still healthy? Out of boredom and a desire to be alone and just read and write? I don't know. I hiked the entire Beaver Trail and I barely caught a glimpse of a beaver. A fleeing beaver, running away to its little beaver hideaway as it heard me arrive. No beaver for your boy today, only exhaustion and pain. As it always will be.

#1000WordsOfSummer

I don't know if they are, but it feels like it. When I'm walking. When I'm trying to sit still. Especially when I'm eating. I feel that everyone in the room sees me dropping food on myself. Spilling the spaghetti. Dropping my Coke. French fries on the floor. Things of that nature.

You could say I'm paranoid. You could say that I'm seeing things that aren't really there. But it's how I feel. Because it wasn't always like this. I've always been a thoroughly forgettable dude. Tall, but not unusually so. Unattractive, but in a nondescript way.

But now, thanks to #ThePark, I think I stand out more. I shake. I clomp around like a Frankenstein. I wasn't big into going out to eat before, but now I rarely ever go out. Even when I travel, I've started getting takeout more often than sitting in a restaurant.

I feel awkward in public, more so than when I was just a weird goon looming in the background. But now, I can't just joke and say, oh, I'm just a weird, dude. I'm just a goofy goon. Now, feel I have to explain myself.

There are times when I wish I had a little card that I could hand out or a sign that I could place next to my table at a restaurant that explains that I have Parkinson's and that is why I'm spilling food all over myself. It's not because I am a baby. I'm a grown ass man. With a shitty disease.

Again, I am not a baby. Yes, I am messy, sloppy, and covered in spaghetti sauce. But I am NOT a baby.

When I am covered in sauce, or when my hand shakes so much I can't read the poem I'm holding, or when my phone starts buzzing to remind me to take my meds, I feel obligated to explain what's happening, that if I don't explain things, all people will see is me shaking or spilling or clomping around without swinging my arms.

Whenever I explain my situation, people are usually surprised. My dad didn't even believe me when I first got diagnosed. Parkinson's associated as an old person's disease and I'm not old enough. Most of the time it’s only my right hand that shakes. I don't fall down. I very rarely stumble, although I did trip over a cord today.

It confuses people. Because I'm not your typical Parkinson's patient in their eyes. I feel weird explaining the complexity of the disease because I'm not a real doctor and I know I come across as pedantic.

I don't know how much detail to go into. Do I tell them it's a dopamine deficiency and that my drugs encourage compulsive behavior, so I spend too much time online shopping? That I don't want to go to Vegas anymore because I'm afraid I'd lose my house on a video poker machine in the high limits room at the Park MGM?

Do I tell them about the other weird symptoms? That sometimes I talk in my sleep. That I wake up screaming and kicking. That I don't poop every day anymore. Is that weird? Can I get into a discussion about how often people poop and how my poop cycle has changed now that I have Parkinson's? I think that would be weird. But it's a serious issue because sometimes I don't poop and then I poop a lot.

I don't know if I should tell them how difficult it can be for me to do certain things. I don't like to wear a tie anymore because it's tough for me to tie a tie in the morning before my meds have kicked in. Putting on socks is just a pain. Like who invented socks? It's too hard. Why can't they be more simple? Why are they so tight? I even got a little device that is supposed to help me pull my socks on, but I can't figure out how to use the thing. It's too complicated. I think I put the sock on it and then I slide my foot through it or something like that. I don't know. It confounds me. So I buy certain sock brands because I know that they're easier to get on. Polo socks are nice. Versace socks are garbage. If you're reading this, Versace: make better socks. Your socks are trash. I hate them. But I'll still wear them when I want to look extra bougie.

It's tough not knowing how much detail to go into. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. I don't want to sound like I'm asking people to pity me. Because in fact, I want the exact opposite, I just want them to understand what's going on. But not to have to say, oh let me help you with that. Or do you need help with this?

I don't need help carrying my plate. I might almost drop it, but I generally don't drop it. I just almost drop it. I can still move boxes. I can still lift tables. I can still move furniture and do all the stuff that I became good at when I toiled at the mall or as the elementary school trash man. I can still do most things. I just don't like to eat spaghetti in restaurants. Because it gets all over me. And I don't want people looking at me, thinking I'm a baby. I'm not a baby. I'm a grown man.

#1000WordsOfSummer

I have an email job. During the school year, I’ll visit schools and work with teachers, but it’s still an email job. Even when I’m in schools, a large chunk of my time is spent responding to emails or sharing links to documents through emails or deleting emails from salespeople who think that I actually have a say in how the district spends money. During summer break, I still work, and I spend even more time at the computer. And this summer, I’m finding that email jobs and #ThePark don’t mix.

I can’t type on laptop keyboards anymore. The keys are too light and flat, and I make too many mistakes when typing. That’s why I got my beloved tiny keyboard. But the tiny keyboard is a travel keyboard. Typing on it for too long causes too much tension in my neck and shoulders. Part of this is probably due to my bad posture, but the tinyness of the keyboard also makes it difficult to open up and relax while typing. When I’m out and about, it’s fine because I’m not typing for long stretches. But in the summer, when I’m at my desk for 100-hour days, the tiny keyboard is just too tiny. So I did what anyone whose meds encourage compulsive behavior would do: I spent too much money online shopping and bought a split mechanical keyboard kit.

I have been practicing on the split keyboard for over a week, and Reader, I still cannot type. The placement of my hands feels more comfortable, but the struggles I’m having learning to type on this thing is causing more tension than typing on the tiny keyboard for an extended period of time does. Although I do type slightly faster on the split keyboard, 49 wpm vs 44 wpm on the tiny keyboard. But that’s still way too slow for someone who spends all day typing. T And the splitness of the split keyboard has shown me how much worse the right side of my body perform. It makes me wonder how much longer I’ll be able to do an email job.

Now I know you’re probably saying, “But Shawn, what about voice typing?” Voice typing isn’t ready for prime time yet, especially considering that #ThePark can lead to a softer voice and slurred speech. My hope is that AI will actually do something useful and make voice recognition and context-aware voice control more effective. Either that or I figure out how to type using just my left hand on half of a split keyboard. Hmm, that sounds like something I can skip sleeping to read about and eventually spend too much money on.