Man-play

I biked through the blizzard at 9 PM last night. Snow insulated all the sound. I heard snow shusshing around my bike tires and my treads whirring as I spun through powdery fresh snow, the only living thing outside at that moment. After meeting with friends and killing time with scrabble while snow filled in my lonely tire tracks, we went back out after midnight, once again the only living creatures outside. We walked across the frozen lake, snow up to our shins, unable to see across the lake. Everything around us was just a purple-white sheet.

Then we tackled the shit out of each other. For a few hours. Four grown-ups tearing ass across a frozen lake. We launched ourselves into each other. I was breathless, sweaty and in mild pain the entire time. It was exactly what I would have done in second grade in a blizzard except now I'm a hell of a lot bigger, stronger and faster. So are my buddies, which makes things interesting, rapid and painful.

In true little kid fashion we played until someone got hurt, apparently grown-ups do more damage.

Then we shushed back home through the snow.

Vacay

I don't function outside the vortex of medical school. I am used to having zero time, which allows me to do -- anything -- during my free time. But with that removed (vacation) my motivation drops dangerously low.

With the exception of my motivation to watch entire seasons of sitcoms on Hulu.

It's a dangerous trap. I'll procrastinate activities I normally use to procrastinate, but it's all a farce because what I'm actually procrastinating will be something menial like buying new coffee.

Snow emergency!



Snow plows are the coolest. My driving increases 50% in the winter to involve switching sides of the street to avoid the tow.

Me and Sarah (sic) went to a dinner party. These things are happening more frequently because we are older, and established adults (parents) are starting to invite us to these things. I was a little excited for this one because I love my parents, love chasing the dog and like eating and drinking.

The goal was to welcome some relatively new neighbors and just enjoy each others' company. One couple brought their kids -- kids who are hilarious. But that was my problem. I'm good with dogs. I can rile a dog and unrile a dog when it's time to stop. With kids I can only rile them further. Or I can go into doctor mode -- but doctor mode only really works in a doctor's office. I can't bust out the white coat and stethoscope in the living room.

I started with my old favorite joke -- I told a four-year-old that my girlfriend was only three years old, and also that she is a robot. Sarah beeped and slumped over on cue. The kid laughed and gurgled. Kids have such impossibly big heads for their little bodies.

Anyhow -- this was the high point. The kids quickly realized that they could climb on us, and that this was the best thing to do. We tried to stop them. Their parents tried to stop them. Then something incredible happened -- all the other adults talked and drank and ate while Sarah and I found ourselves babysitting ...

For free.

The only thing that I do for free is school. I am paying to be at the hospital up to 80 hours a week -- anything else and best believe I'm charging by the hour. There was no escaping. We had been nominated childcare by quiet committee. Then my neighbors starting asking Sarah about whether we would get married. It was getting hot inside my head.

Then I heard a 7-year old girl whisper to Sarah that she thought that I was hot. It creeped me out. Sarah's eyes got wide like Graves' Disease as the little girl trotted over to me to tell me to my face that I was hot.

No book has prepared me for what to do in that situation. I had wanted to deactivate the children two hours ago, but now shit was getting real, and I still hadn't had a chance to enjoy my drink. Powerless to control the madness, the girl trotted from me to tell her mom how hot I was.

The girl's mom yelled. She yelled that it is inappropriate to talk that way about adults.

I took the child-free moment to enjoy a gulp of wine and feel uncomfortable.

Free bacon -- you will pay

Look at the dumb bloke. In the past they did not know that free bacon and PBR would ever have any repercussions. It turns out that it does. I lost my Thursday morning and afternoon to free-bacon Wednesdays at the Triple Rock.

On their calender it simply says "Free bacon: 9 - 11 PM." I'm hella on vacation. I'm so on vacation that I have to parse out errands, one for each day, so that I feel like there is a greater purpose to my life. Wednesday I mailed a letter. Today I bought triple-A batteries. Tuesday I cleaned a bicycle. And so on. So, I am perfectly poised to take advantage of late-night bacon specials around the Twin Cities.

We slid into a booth, and a waitress took our order -- two PBR tall boys, keep the tab open.

"Do you boys want free bacon," she asked.

As if.

We got two baskets stuffed full of bacon. It was an opposite reality. Bacon, usually the limiting reagent was in surplus, and there was beer. We dug in, one basket of bacon per person, and it felt a little wrong, but oh so good.

But today my stomach was angry, hurt and confused. That was why, in addition to going to target to buy batteries, I also took between two and three naps today, because the burden of wakefulness made my stomach churn.

Look what I made:



The old components looked like they'd been salvaged from the Titanic.
I got this mountain bike for my birthday when I was 14, and rode it for a good part of last winter when my main bike got stolen by some worthless, nutless waste-of-flesh-mouth-breathers. Anyhow, the frame was OK, and I noticed that riding something with big honkin' tires allowed me to keep the rubber side down a lot more than I was used to. My mix of poor attentiveness and icy surfaces had me writhing on the pavement more often than not last winter, so this winter I decided things would be different.

So now I have the beast to ride. All new parts except the rims, stem and frame. The old bike didn't really brake or go that well, but this bike goes and stops.

Luxury!