It's 3:44 am and I'm washing down my peanut butter and banana sandwich with two mugs of freshly ground joe. For dinner.
Conservatives rejoice, this is the only Grindr I'll ever put my beans in.
I'm not too sure when I first stepped into the 14-hour time machine, but it's a lot less cool than Marty McFly made it seem. And to make things worse, by drinking standards it's still saturday night and the PB sandwich wasn't purchased at a sidewalk stand, so there's a depressing element to it. Why am I not intoxicated? Other than from the liquid plumr fumes coming from the clogged kitchen sink, or the occasional waft of funny-plant coming from down the hall - but that's less likely from the Western arts majors and more likely from Betty's glaucoma regimen; given away by the muffled screams of joy from someone winning the Showcase Showdown.
I can recall four or five events over the past few years that made me think, damn, I'm adulting now. But after a little more thought - forced upon me by a twenty minute "tea" visit with Betty - this turned into, damn, everyone else is adulting, except for me. My undergrad soul is still as fresh as Betty's stash (God bless the medicinal strains) and when the boys from the Ottawa crew get to having a few wobbly pops and regatta talks, it makes me wonder why I left town in the first place. But my other grad school boys had all moved on last year, so surrounding myself with the new crop of boat-moving beauties was a bit of an adjustment, and I was never sure if my presence was grand, or grandpa, so things never really took hold. But that was completely my doing, and made clear to me a few times (a good coach can tell when your technique is shit, in and out of a boat). But props to Big Simon, who reminds me of me and wouldn't take no for an answer. Luckily he's about 6'3" and 215, so when people were naturally drawn to "the statue" it made it easier to sneak out of the house and avoid the bar.
Big Simon motoring 2-seat at the top of the frame, along with seven other good humans and Mr. King's left arm.
And now that I'm seven tedious highway hours away in a frosty apartment taking a "dinner" break from work to siphon java and plot my rise into the Nat Geo payroll system, I'm feeling rather explicitly in a chronological grey zone. Shit's getting real. I've nearly made a living out of narrowing down my options, and while if I look at it in isolation it seems completely logical, the concern comes when it's juxtaposed with Normal. Nine-to-five, water coolers, beer leagues, pants. Ew. I still refuse to trade in my grey hoodie and visible dangly bits to find love at the Christmas party. (Truly no offence intended for anyone who lives that life.) But now that I've put in the years of work to earn the desk job, yes, I honestly feel entitled to decide if I want it.
Welp, I just went to refill my mug and I lost my train of thought - probably a good thing. I blame the wilting effect of Betty's plants. So excuse me while I meander down the hallway for leaves and root for the beauty who bids $1 on the bedroom set.
Back to work!
(or goodnight, or good morning and good luck with that steady state erg. (I promise I won't tell if you "have car problems" and show up late so you don't have to do the whole 19-minute warm up.)