Pre-Trip Excitement II

I finished that pesky paper I had mentioned yesterday, so stress levels are down, and once again, anyone who meets me is likely to walk away thinking, "Gosh, I just met a man of leisure!" Right after that, they're going to save my number as "Do Not Answer this Number... Creep." Maybe with all the leisure time I have now, I should change my name to that.

For those of you interested in stalking me*, I'm going to Nova Scotia tomorrow morning. Now, Nova Scotia, for better or worse, is in Canadia, where the internet has yet to be discovered. Don't worry for Canadia's sake - they have their top scientist** working on it. Unfortunately, progress is slower than molasses. What this means is that I will probably not be posting for the next ten days. What this also means is that you won't have any reason to click refresh compulsively on my page, hoping that I've added a new post*.

"O kind and humorous man of leisure," you're probably asking your screen right now*, "what should I do in the meantime without your blog to amuse me and prod me into deep thought?" Proselytize. Tell people exactly what you think of me***, and then tell them to read my blog. I'd appreciate that so much that if you told me you showed someone my blog and they laughed, I would probably buy you a cookie.

A good way to spread the word about me could be to get a tattoo saying something about how much you love my blog. Nothing says unnatural devotion like injecting ink directly into your skin (if this seems extreme, just use a fat sharpee). On that note, while running today, I saw an interesting tattoo. I didn't have my camera with me, so I'll have to use my descriptive powers. Imagine, if you will, an average guy jogging in front of you with his shirt off. Brown hair, normal farmer's tan, green shorts. You keep imagining, I'm going to keep remembering. Imagine a weird spot on his lower back, right above the shorts... Look closer, through your mind's eye. It's a circle... Wait, no, it's a male sign. A male sign! A male-sign tramp-stamp! What is he trying to broadcast to the world? More importantly, is the conversation I'm imagining in my head one that's ever happened?

Him: I noticed you've got a tattoo of some squiggly lines on your lower back. Does it mean anything?
Her: It means I haven't found my soul-mate.
Him: *turns around, lifts shirt a tiny bit* Check it, babe. Hoo-ah!
Her: Ignore what I said last. It's all changed now. Let's go home.

Actually, that's probably what he thought would happen, but I can't really ever see that going down. Can anyone else envision a more realistic conversation between those two? If you can, I'd love to hear it.

I hope you all have a great time over the next ten days. Really. Please don't miss me too much*, and expect a report when I get back!


*Yeah, right. It's ok, I know I'm deluding myself.
**The person who discovered Maple Syrup. He's still alive.
***Actually, maybe you should skip this part.

Anyone for (sport of your choice)?

I'm a regular runner. Not as regular as Grandpa on metamucil, but I normally get out for a run five times a week (and you better hope Grandpa is more regular than that). I don't really compete any more (if you can even call what I did in high school 'competing'), but I run often enough and have enough of a competitive mentality about it to think of running as a sport. Makes sense, because running is a sport, and you won't find many people who disagree with that, although you may find some who view it just as exercising (someplace in the same realm as dancersize).

Athletes of a similar caliber

You won't, however, find anyone who would say that running is a game. Things like golf, or shuffleboard, those are games (Grandpa is regular on the shuffleboard court - take that how you will!). But not running.  Now, to me, these are clear distinctions. Rarely do you get activities that really cross boundaries. I ride a high horse, though. I've always thought of running as the most pure of sports, and I'll admit that I look at most sports and think "Sure, it's cool, but it's not running."

This brings me to the point of this post. Yesterday , while trotting down riverside park, I was confronted by one of the all too real dangers of living in New York City (without a trusty stunt double to face the dangers! I've been sorting through applications for this thankless position and have been unable to settle on a candidate). Now, I'd like to show you what you would have seen if you had been with me on that run, but I can't. You'll have to settle for what a camera operated by someone who doesn't know what he's doing with it (i.e. me) recorded.

Adults (?) participating in the sport (?) of kickball!

So I've determined that I've probably fallen victim to one, perhaps two, of these dangers of New York City.

1) An inability to distinguish what is and is not a sport.

2) An inability to distinguish what is and is not a grown up.

Both of these are caused by living in New York. Let's be honest, there's a space crunch. I remember one time a friend and I made a "sport" in high school that involved trying to get a bouncy ball to bounce on every step of a stoop. But is that an excuse for thinking kickball is a sport? If anything, these people should be kicked off so that area can be used for a real sport, like shuffleboard. Shoot, I've been in this city for too long.

The other option is that I simply didn't know that these people were in second grade. This is also an issue exacerbated by living in New York. Maybe young people are just looking older and older. This isn't a surprise to anyone who loves Miley Cyrus. Honestly, I think this problem is more severe in New York City because so many of those young'uns are so darn fashionable (I say this in the same way that a midget says other people are tall). I'm not judging, but darn it, how do you tell the 22 year old sluts from the 16 year old ones?

Let's just hope that these two dangers never get combined into a sport/game/exercise in which you need to guess if dating someone would end up with you in prison - I'd be horrible at that.