Bones - Fail until you dont: Fight Grind Repeat

Fight, Grind, Repeat or...Your Motivational Guide to Being Less Terrible at Life When I decided to write another book (even though I didnt know if I had another chapter in me, let alone a whole new book in me), I wanted to write about how to face your fears. I figured Id describe a lot of the fears Ive felt in my life and how I faced them alllike the superhero that I am. But, to be honest, that would be a load of crap. And my fans are quick to smell the BS. (Its weird to call my people fans.

When I think of fans, I picture a Green Bay Packers diehard with face paint and no shirt fighting the elements in subzero temperatures. My people arent fanatical about me. They understand meor at least can stomach me for relatively large amounts of time. Thats all I really need. And I appreciate that.) So instead of hitting you with a fake face-your-fears-its-amazing read, Im going to tell you the story of when I faced my biggest fear. And Im writing this just a few hours after it actually happened.

Basically, this is the book version of an NFL instant replay. Except not so instant, because youre reading it months after it happened, because these books take forever to get published. Rest assured, the details are still fresh in my brain as I sit here in the Little Rock airport, a familiar and comfortable setting. Im surrounded by nice folks decked out in Arkansas Razorbacks hats and T-shirts. About ten people have already stopped to tell me that they listen to my show. (Man, Im getting old. (Man, Im getting old.

I know I started radio at seventeen, but twenty years? So, my career is as old as some of the girls Ive considered dating. I mean, I know twenty is too young for me. They cant even get into a casino. But Ill start taking rejections at age twenty-five or so.) Although my morning show is nationally syndicated, its always cool when someone from where you grew up says they listen. Its especially sweet in Arkansas, my first home (with Austin and Nashville coming in second and third). Despite all that good stuff, my cage is a little rattled right now.

Mostly because of that fear I just mentioned. (You know, the one we discussed before debating openly if Id still date a college sophomore. To reiterate, I dont think I would.) Before I reveal the mysterious fear, a little backstory. You know all about this if you read my memmmmwarrrrrr (a.k.a. memoir), Bare Bones by Bobby Bones (thats me); or have listened to my radio show, where I talk a lot about myself; or have stood anywhere within twenty feet of me in the last hundred months. But just in case you dont fit into any of those categories, heres a quick versionI dont know my biological father.

I mean, I know who he is, like his name and where he comes from. Its the same place I came from. (Not the same vagina. That would make him my brother-dad, and Id have a reality show on TLC right about now.) But thats about it. This stranger, otherwise known as my dad, left my mom and me around the time that my memories started being formed. So I have only fleeting impressions of him sort of being there, but no full-on memories.

No ball playing. No whuppins. No youll eventually get girls to like you, or you cant date that many girls at once. (Amy, my cohost and moral compass, set me straight on that one.) So, yeah. I dont know my dad. Its sad. Its sad.

So sad that I decided to turn it into a joke for my stand-up act. Here it is: THE SADDEST JOKE IVE EVER WRITTENI was on Facebook yesterday looking at the tab ofPeople You May Knowand my biological father popped up. (Long pause for effect.) I didnt.Id now like to do an impression of my biological father... (Then I walk offstage.) (In my mind, that joke was a real hit, even though it just confused the audience. But I love it. I love creating any sort of emotion. I love to make people confused and question if they are supposed to laugh. I love to make people feel, which often means taking them out of their comfort zone.) Jokes aside, when it comes to not having a dad, Ive been sad, angry, resentful, apathetic (having repressed all the previous feelings), and then sad again.

Thats a cycle Ive repeated for about the last thirty years of my life. And, as I was thinking of the scariest things Ive ever doneyou know, for a relatable and engaging anecdote to open my new bookI felt like it would be hypocritical not to describe my biggest fear. And that is... meeting the person Ive turned into the ultimate villain in my mind. My dad. I let my anger and fear keep me from ever reaching out.

I thought I was punishing him for not being around when I was a kid. In reality, though, I was punishing myself. It wasnt until I started thinking of the central ideas of what I wanted this book to be about that I felt I finally had to take that polar plunge. (Thats the stupid group of people who jump into the water in winter because they say its so invigorating. But most of the time, I think they just end up with pneumonia.) Although I might have been subconsciously looking for any reason, I decided to reach out to my dad after all these years because I didnt want to feel like a hypocrite when I wrote about all the positive results that come from facing fear. She did. She did.

Crap! Now I had to reach out. Again, if I wanted to lecture you about chasing your biggest fear, you would come back at me about why I hadnt done mine. So I was in it to win it. Or, as they say on the streets, I was in it because I was writing a book about failure and didnt want the whole thing to be a farce. Yeah, thats street lingo. Hey.

Its Bobby Estell, I texted, thinking if I just wrote Bobby he probably wouldnt know who it was. (I nearly texted, Its your long-lost son Bobby. But I wasnt sure he would get the sarcasm.) Im going to be in town, I continued, and wanted to know if we can meet up. Then I waited for a text back. One hournothing. Two hoursnothing.

I assumed he wasnt like me, the guy who keeps his phone in his hand the entire day, but it was still nerve-racking to not get a text back after a few hours. I had really put myself out there by sending that message. The least I would expect was an answer, even if it was No. I was traveling that day, so I didnt have a lot to do except stare at my phone, which made time drag by even slower and my anxiety ramp up even more. I began to think he wasnt going to text me back at all. Rejected again.

Finally, about four hours and twenty-three minutes later (but whos counting?), I got: That sounds good. Let me know. What did that mean? Sounds good? And let me know? AND why did he take four hours to get back to me? Was he on a job site, getting an MRI, trapped in a well? Or did it actually sound not good to him... I dont know what I was expecting. WOWOWOWOWOW!!! Glad to hear from you. Nahhhh. But still. But still.

Over the next few days, I distanced myself from my nagging doubts. If there were an Olympic sport in compartmentalizing emotions, Id take down Muhammad Ali or Michael Phelps as being the greatest of all time. Right then, I separated myself from it. Bam! Much like doing the Tide Pod Challenge, I acted like I didnt want to go through with it, but secretly I wanted to see what all the fuss was about (both meeting my dad and eating Tide Pods). (By the way, WTF are people thinking eating those small packets of washing detergent? And by people, I mean adults who are smart enough to put videos on YouTube. Theres no reason we need to do PSAs for twenty-three-year-old Internet attention whores who choose to eat soap.