Time Sauters On and My Legs Feel the Birthday Burn, Let me Tell Ya - As anticipated, Mr. +Andrew Wright went ahead with his plan to upgrade his age-points (see, I totally am learning from these track night recounts) and leveling into Category 32 Man. I was skeptical at first, but I am so proud of him, let me tell you.
As also anticipated, we had a cumbrously titillating schedule. Let me cut the suspense right now with a butter knife and some weary determination: we checked off absolutely every item on our teeming agenda. It was more or less about a month and a half of date nights rolled into a single day; boy was it fun, and boy am I glad I have time to be comatose today!
Morning started around 7:00 a.m. with the ceremonial paper shredding and gift accepting. To really hone down our DINKYness, I gifted Andrew a generally unnecessary, but nifty objet d'kitchen: a little rice-cooker with several fancy presets, a nifty Japanese name to assure you that it knows how to cook rice, and a very cute little elephant on the box. We'll be experimenting with the time sets and auto warm features for days to come, I'm sure! From all I understand, I have the option of throwing in some sort of grain, pushing a button and choosing whether it will become rice, brown rice, spelt, beans, oatmeal, or spun gold. I might have read that copy wrong, of course, as my Japanese is rusty (Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto!!), but I'm pretty sure this is the gist of it all. Eventually our darling little Zoji will conspire with our smart-devices and take over the home, 2001-style, but at least our e-overloards will be darned adorable.
At 9:00, there was the welding rodeo - no, this does not involve going after cows with blow-torches. It's a competition at the Bellingham Technical College. It does involve blow-torches! And welding! We got to watch the teams about midway through the two-day countdown. My dad went back at five to take photos of the final products. You buy it, you gotta haul it, but apparently that didn't deter people at the auction from bidding.
We broke for brunch at The Old Country Buffet with my father. I helped my dad discovered awhole neeeew world of decadent daybreak indulgence as a result. And possibly also re-discovered the limits of his occasionally capacious gustatory capacities. My favorite part about the TCB (not Y), experience was that even at breakfast, they still have salad, thus making it still one of the best places to feed me, the rabbit,and normal people at the same time.
Naturally, no birthdastravaganza in the Andrew household would be complete without working out from the hours of 1 to 5:00 p.m. I only joined for the first two activities, but they were mighty and good ones at that. For a change of pace (har har), we/I opted for an indoor treadmilling experience. This was due to the brooding wavering of our morning weather and common predictions of deluge. I can only assume that my choice to stay indoors was the reason that Bellingham had a coruscant spring evening instead of the Tsunami that we all know would have descended upon our fair hamlet after about ten minutes of any outdoor run.
Running on a treadmill is an odd experience. I actually started running on one, and used it frequently for structured workouts when I was in law school (and thus more determined to do something to focus the supernova stress oven in the pit of my stomach). But it has been a while. Running outdoors has a lot of trappings. The smells, the sights, the constant changes in terrain and elevation. My brain on outdoor-running reads like a Joycean caprice: "oooooh la la tra la la, breathe, breath, ooooh a rock, oops pace-clock says we're going too fast, hmmm la la, this has got to be uphill, oh maybe we've done a mile, where the next... ooops a down grade and too fast again, hmmm SQUIRELL!... moo-cow!" and so on. Treadmill running is didactically steady: you set a pace and incline and you'll damned well stay there with absolutely no distractions beyond the pulse of your heart (not to be reflected in the HR monitor section, since that part is always broken, and running with your hands holding onto a rail is rather an exercise best reserved for Buster Keaton), the tick-tock of minute, and the jostle of your suddenly bursting bladder.
Of course, I used to run with music, and have occasionally watched television, but something about that constancy can bring me directly into a state of body awareness I rarely have on the road. My running timeline: first five minutes, I'm concerned that I've accidentally put the pace too high and/or the machine is broken, because it just shouldn't feel that hard; by ten minutes, suddenly I'm warmed up, breathing comfortably and I think maybe the machine slowed down; by fifteen, I really wish I'd hit the bathroom before starting because my bladder is most likely about to burst; by twenty, I'm warm enough that I think I should take my outer layer off; by twenty-two, I'm cold enough that I put it back on, a change that will occur frequently for the remainder of the run; by twenty-five, the Harlem Globe Trotter has taken a powder and I don't feel much interest in any bodily functions other than the constant chug of respiration over my pounding feet; by thirty, I'm glad I have the extra layer as a towel, but I'm still not sure if I'd prefer to have it on or off; by thirty-five, I'm suddenly hearing the Rocky Theme and fist pumping my way up the pace meters; by cool down, I think I could have gone for waaay longer; by the end, I'm ... well reeling and staggering upon the realization that most of the world does not, in fact, move under my feet and rather prefers to stay stationary (actual prat falls may vary).
After running, there were weights. Which didn't involve much waiting at all, I'm happy to say. Apparently, having given birth to little bicep babies during the week, our general he-men companions and silver sneakers were all out on maternity/paternity leave. With free reign over the free-weights (and the indentured weights as well), we finished up our strength portion quite handily. This meant it was time for Andrew to hop on his bike for "a little ride," you know "just over an hour." I hear he rode up and down some pigs and an atomic dog. My best to him. I'm just glad he returned in one piece, and actually came back into the house after only fifteen minutes of opening the garage door and being waylaid by a telephone call - I was quite confused, having heard muted voices and wondering if our playboy Canadian neighbors had perhaps stopped by to borrow a cup of... I don't know... chain lube?
We jetted from sweating to dining, at a Greek restaurant of Andrew's choosing. He ate something quite large and meaty, which I am told was lamb. Given that the only part of the name that I heard was pai- (greek for child from my previous classical studies), I certainly hope it was lamb and not a wandering urchin (yes, I have been watching Hannibal, now that you mention it!) The treat was on my mom and her boy-toy, and they even threw in a card to spice the birthday dining-a-ma-jig. Our waitress, threw in the baklava, some of which still sits in our fridge. And we all were compelled to sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY at the beckoning of our quite chipper waitress, who I swear is taking some supplement that I would like to add to my mood-altering diet!
And lest you suppose there was a dearth of post-prandial jetting, OH NO... at 8:00 p.m. we went almost straight from the balmy hospices of Mykynos to the sultry barrios of Bellinghamos Aires. This might not have exactly been part of the Andrew Wright birthday package, as much as my monthly hosting gig. Still, I know Andrew just adores sitting on a bench in a haze, passing out, and eventually rallying just as I am ready to leave for the evening! Tonight's main attraction was LIVE MUSIC. That's right, we reanimated all of our favorite songs and let them wander about willy nilly through our humble milonga (ok, I guess that would be undead music, which would be more of a Halloween thing, so I'll drop it all now). It was a local group, one that plays often enough that they proved far more of a draw for out-of-towners than any of our local regulars. I would go so far as to say that it seemed far more like our milonga had been colonized by Canadians last night... I'd go further and say that it was shockingly rife with bald men in dark suits and turtle necks who appeared to have all come from Canada and I am certain are members of some form of cult and/or singing group. It was fabulous to have drawn such a crowd, but the bustle made me feel a bit overstimulated, and the lack of familiarity did not draw me to the dance floor after a fairly long day and some already fatigued legs.
Not to denigrate any of our attendees, but there just weren't a lot of leads that called to me last night. This isn't from snobbery or xenophobia per se, but some evenings I can make a dance caramel with almost anyone and some evenings I just need to see a certain ooey-gooey-center-of-the-cookie oomph to a lead's connection with his other follows before I am willing to brave new frontiers and try the unknown. It's especially less appealing when the songs and tandas are quite long, as can often be the case with live music. I was also not quite connecting with the music last night, which may have been a chicken or an egg in the sequence of not-quite-feeling it. Still, David and I taught a very satisfying lesson, there was great food, Andrew had a nice almost-nap, and some of the newcomers were very nice conversationalists. We stuck around for about an hour and a half before I surreptitiously scooped up several cups of vegetables and strawberries, ripped my heels from my feet (the shoes, not the part of my foot), and ran for cover before anyone saw me leaving. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall not even begin to say goodnight, lest I be saying it until morrow and all.
And finally at 10:45 p.m. WE CRASHED... for just under five hours before waking again and collaboratively sending Andrew on his way to the Blue Roosters' Mutual of Enumclaw Stage Race. He's a team player and his team wants him to play Corner Marshall from 9-5 today. Enumclaw, for perspective is about 2.5 hours south of Bellingham. He planned to leave at 6, which either necessitated my participation or his getting up roughly at 4:00 a.m. I suggested I could be of assistance, being somebody generally able to get out the door fully clothed and fed within fifteen minutes of waking... and so I was. I got up at five, made his lunch and breakfast, and then woke him up at 5:30. After eating, I watched him get ready and maybe helped fish out his sunglasses and fill his coffee cup. Together, we managed to get him and quite a lot of provisions out the door at just 6:15. I am now totally confused, as this is when I leave for work on week days. Tomorrow is absolutely and unquestionably going to feel like any day but Monday!
I am also buzzed up on coffee and bustle, exhausted and burnt out on movement. Unable to concentrate much on anything conscious, but equally unable to plunge back into the warm womb of unconsciousness. I suspect a day of many vacant stares, dysphemic abuse of the impish inanimate objects already plotting my destruction today, and perhaps an early bedtime just disrupted by the return of my handsome 32 year-old!
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