I love a good challenge. And today it was hustling to a meeting with a hot overly-peanut-buttered English muffin without letting any of that crunchy Kraft nectar drip onto the floor, or worse, onto something I wouldn’t lick it off of. It’s a hotel, they clean the floors daily, get over it. I knew today was going to be a good day. Primarily because I have a weather app and it told me so, but also because of my successful albeit grotesque licking of the rotating English muffin in the elevator. I got to the ground floor with no drips, a sense of pride, and a napkin with a cougar’s phone number on it.
The meeting went swimmingly and by noon I was on the road to Henley in St. Catharines to pick up my new boat. I’ll explain in a later post why I went there for a boat yet came back without a boat, but it could work out in my favour, or it could not, but that was inherent in my use of the word “could.” Until then I’m stuck as the Hanlan Boat Club seat filler/mosquito swatter, turning 2000m into 2300 with my skills in bow on a log ride of a race course.
This was the first thing that came to mind when they told me my boat wasn’t ready.
For those who aren’t cultured/aware/alive, Seinfeld references are more important than the ones at the end of a scientific article on vaccinations. So get used to them.
I left the course empty-handed and empty-boat-racked and headed back to the Fog for the afternoon row (yes, I do actually do work here) (here and there, that is.) I calculated the timing perfectly and made it just in time for practice at five six o’clock. Shit. Now I was so early that I had flashbacks of my prom date. So I toured around the mobile home (office) and the un-cattled barn (boathouse) and uncomfortably greeted everyone as they casually showed up and gave me weird why-are-you-at-my-club-I-hope-you're-as-socially-awkward-as-we-are looks.
Fun side note: as I write this, I’m wearing my “slim fit” khaki shorts that I bought because someone told me they looked good and were stylish – trust no one – but I keep having to get up and walk around because my legs are going numb. So this post is taking a while to finish (it's as if I'm thinking about baseball in bed). Luckily I don’t need a belt because there’s essentially one on each thigh holding these mini pantaloons up. From now on I’m all loose fit; no noose fit.
Once we got on the water I was made uncomfortably aware that the guy usually in my seat is a former Pan Am gold medallist. Thank you for that. Are you trying to say something? There are only two of us in this boat and I’m comfortable with my swimming skills if I decide we should get imaginative and pretend we’re in a submarine.
I always find it humorous how many angry thoughts go through my head while I’m on the water with someone, yet on the outside all you ever see is this:
The ambiguity of working hard or holding in angry rant. Also, not sure if this is a famous rower or just Tony Hawk in a boat. The Google search was rather lenient. Hopefully the hotel doesn’t flag me for searching “angry blow face.”
Anyway, I got home around 8:30 and the valet looked at me like I was clearly at the wrong hotel. Poor guy has never experienced the wonders of eating post-practice ju jubes in full spandex. I suspect the businessmen at the lobby bar were equally confused. Although one seemed like it may be up his alley. You know when you look at a wealthy man and you can just tell right away that he’s got a tickle trunk in his room? Well, it’s a thing. And my radar was beeping, fast.
Since the 4:30am unsleep cycle starts back up tomorrow after my few days off in Philly and getting settled in T.O., I suppose it’s bed time for me!
Once I swing by that bar in the lobby.
Ask a cat.
(There’s one in the tickle trunk.)
Ta-ta for meow.