I write this fresh from a walk in The Nature.
Not deep into The Nature. I haven't really done that since my teenage years. The Nature and I got each other out of our systems during my Boy Scout days, and we have a healthy respect for each other's space now. But I ventured outside for a brisk walk a little while ago and now I'm sitting here trying not to die.
Usually when I gather the bulk of my steps every day, I do so marking time in place, or on the reclined stepper at the gym. The latter, far less often than I should.
My wife on the other hand takes a handful of laps down a largely ignored road next to her mother's house. She, her mom, and her mom's incredibly friendly dog that is 98% muscle and 2% brains do this every day. Every day, when Kim gets off work, unless it's raining. So through repetition they aren't just good at it. They're amazing at it. They have an august pace to their walks, and there have been a couple times that I've decided to join them.
Big mistake. Huge.
I'm in nowhere near the shape the two of them are. In 1990s Winston Cup terms, I am the Dick Trickle to their Dale Earnhardt, with my #90 car at least three laps back very early on.
I was never a NASCAR fan, but I'm always a sucker for a good story like Dick Trickle's.
So I followed them like a creepy stalker with evil in his heart, stopped short of the point where they turn around, and waited for them to come back and pass me again. And it was on the way back to the house that it happened.
One thing I've always had pretty decent control over in my life, except in cases of extreme exertion, is my breathing. This is despite years of inhaling cigars and cigarettes, and the fact that I have insulated my lungs in the last decade with a thick protective layer of adipose tissue. It's probably what made me an above-average tuba player in school and allowed me to run on a soccer field for a long time as a kid without getting tired too quickly. I can breathe really well. It's a good skill to have. It's sort of vital and everything.
While taking a nice deep breath as I walked down the path, I felt something hit me in the face and bounce into my mouth.
Maple seeds are a Midwest staple in the springtime. When I was a kid growing up in the thickly-forested northeastern digit of the Michigan mitten, we used to call them "helicopter seeds" because of the way they corkscrewed through the air on their way down to the ground after the trees shat them out by the trillions.
And now, after all these years, I can tell you what one of them tastes like.
I'm reasonably certain that it went down. It was swallowed before I had the opportunity to try and pry it out of my own throat. In some part of my brain I'm convinced that i can still feel it cemented to the back of my throat, but I'm pretty sure it's just the sensation of having that dry son of a bitch attack me.
So now I sit here like a small child who swallowed a watermelon seed, concerned that he's going to grow a giant watermelon in his tummy and die. Instead, I imagine an expansive maple sprouting in my duodenum, growing branches and creating a home for chipmunks as it begins to grow a thick layer of lichen on the bark of its northern side.
At least I seem to remember from my days in Troop 992 that that's the side it grows on, anyway.
STATUS REPORT
What I'm watching:
The Stanley Cup Final. I hate the St. Louis Blues, and I mostly tolerate the Boston Bruins. But it's The Stanley Cup, so I'm watching.
The Beloved Kim and I just binged Dead To Me on Netflix. Everything you've heard about it is true. At first I didn't think it was going to amount to much, but it was good fun and some of the best work I've ever seen from its two female leads: Christina Applegate and Linda Cardellini. It was just announced today that it's returning for a second season. I give it an A minus.
We're trying to get into Psych, too. It's just not connecting with us yet.
What I'm not watching:
I understand the NBA is still a thing, and they, too, are about to crown a champion. Hoping the Raptors win because I'm tired of hearing about the Warriors in much the same way that non-Bulls fans were tired of hearing about Jordan and the Bulls back when I gave a two tugs of dead dog's dick about the NBA.
What I'm reading:
I'm still reading last week's book about Clint Eastwood. It's been a busy week and I haven't had much time to unwind by reading.
What I'm Hearing:
I'm absorbing a podcast called The Antarctic Report, which is filled with stories about the last continent from people who have been there. In the car it's been the final gasps of the free XM preview.
What I'm Working On:
Making the transition to normal people hours. My life has just shifted from "Start waking up at 2:30 am and take an afternoon nap" into "Start waking up at 6:30 instead." For the first time in about six years. It's a hell of an adjustment to make, and I'm only two days into it. The extra sleep is a struggle and last evening, not having had an afternoon nap, my body was confused and went into hibernation mode. I'll get there.
I'm also comparing notes to see which story I want to pursue out of a few possible novel concepts. No one's in the lead yet.
That's enough for this week. Dinner's ready, and I need to push that bastard maple seed the rest of the way down. I'm hoping everything won't taste like maple syrup.