I am having a party and you’re invited, maybe. If you are a citizen of the great state of North Carolina you are invited. If you are not a North Carolinian then you’re not invited. It is a theme party of sorts. You see I’m inviting all the North Carolinians to attend my I-don’t-care-if-it-is-the-South-and-you-think-you-live-life-at-a-slower-pace-this-is-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works-and-it’s-time-to-catch-up party. There will be drinks and light refreshments provided. In addition, there will be some skits put on by those who are not inbred or have lived in municipalities where greater than 50% of the population is literate.
The first skit is titled, “Despite what the New Mothers Support Group at the trailer park says, it is not ok to fill your toddler’s bottle with cola.” The idea for this skit came from a trip to the NC State Fair. I understand that junior is going to lose those teeth anyway, and by the looks of it, dental hygiene doesn’t run in the family, but for the love of all that’s holy, give him a chance.
The second skit is called, “The left lane is for passing, the right lane is for driving 12 miles below the speed limit.” In the rest of the world if you are going to drive slower than the rest of the traffic, you get in the right lane. If there are 6 lanes, I really don’t care which lane you lollygag along in, but when there are two lanes, do the right thing and move over.
The third skit is called, “Dogs belong on leashes, and kids…don’t.” This skit was also inspired by the fair. Just like dogs get a trip to puppy obedience school, kids need a little obedience training too. Try this: stop putting soda in their bottles, set some ground rules, if they break the rules, punish them, and leave the leash for the canine (that’s just a fancy word for dog). I don’t care if it looks like a monkey, you’re not tricking anyone, it is still a leash.
The fourth skit is called “It is ok to move over to let someone merge onto the highway.” This one is inspired by my drive to work every morning and is pretty self explanatory.
The fifth skit is called “Most pig race announcers don’t have pressed jeans, color coordinated shirts, and a lisp.” Again, from the fair. You’re not fooling anyone, I saw the way the livestock looked at you.
The last and final skit is called, “Whichever of you voted to ratify property tax on vehicles is a schmuck.” I got a bill in the mail the other day. Property tax on a 1991 Honda with no air conditioning and a dented quarter panel? Really? What’s next, property tax on my iron and coffee table? Need a tax base? Try tourism. Heard of it? Maybe you should check it out.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Secret
I have a secret. A secret that I have never told anyone. Not my parents or my wife or my siblings. It has haunted me since last week when I remembered it.
As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.
The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?
It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.
But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).
I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.
Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.
At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.
My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.
Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.
As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.
The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?
It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.
But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).
I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.
Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.
At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.
My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.
Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Fat-tastic
This may sound odd, but I've been thinking about fat a lot lately. Mostly because I have been watching my love handles aggressively expand into real estate worthy of their own zip codes. As far as I can tell this annexation of my obliques by the lipid monster is due to a combination of forces worthy of perfect storm status. The first force at work is my wife, who is an amazing cook, with a fatal (for me) flaw. She will make 3 dozen cookies (this week it was Boston creme pie cup cakes) with no intention of eating more than 2 over the course of the next week. Now, we all know that there are starving kids in Africa and that chocolate chip cookies go bad after 72 hours. So, I don't know where she expects them to go, but I can't stand to see them go to waste.
The second force at work is my lingering back injury that makes it all too easy to skip my thrice weekly runs. Running for the sake of running is one of my absolute least favorite things to do, but I feel obligated to try to do something to turn the calorie deficit in my favor. Give me something to chase like a ball or a Frisbee and I'm like a greyhound at the track (but slower and hopefully without a muzzle). They say that if you run long enough you'll get "runner's high" and all your pain and problems will disappear. I guess I have never run far enough, because the only high I get is when I take a shot of my asthma inhaler and feel oxygen finally return to my brain. Or maybe runner's high really just makes you feel like your legs are made of jello, your lungs are slowly shrinking, and what vision you have left is doubled. If that is the case, I get runners high going to the mailbox. They say married people want their single friends to get married so they will be as miserable as the married folks. Perhaps runners just want everyone else to be miserable like they are, so they made up runners high and sadistically watch they rest of us stumble down the street towards an imaginary escape.
The last force at work is entirely my fault and I am willing to admit it. I am on a quest to find the best chicken wings in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area. This has obviously required me to ingest an unthinkable amount of saturated and unsaturated fat, but it is clearly for a good cause. While I am grateful to those chickens that gave their lives for the effort, I am afraid it has been in vain thus far. Even as I type I can smell the fragrance of inferior wings wafting off my fingers. This time I am thankful that I didn't find the place with the best wings because I don't know that I have the courage to go there on a regular basis. Deep in downtown Durham, with nothing but a walk up window is a little wing shack that also sells cigarettes and 40's of malt liquor (convenient, I guess, if you live in the neighborhood). This place makes Buffalo Chips look like Chucky Cheese's. Buffalo Chips is my hometown wing dump where I once watched a man get thrown through a glass door and limp away a bloody mess into the darkness. It is also the mark by which all wings are measured. So until I find a wing that makes my lips tingle the way the suicide wings from the old Buffalo Chips, the search goes on.
The other reason I have been thinking about fat is a comment made by my wife after a trip to Walmart. Yes, we shop at Walmart. I know some people are against Walmart because they drive out small businesses and maybe they employ low wage workers in other countries and blah, blah, blah. To that I respond, was Walmart not a small business at one point and maybe they just did it better than everyone else? Are low paying jobs better than no jobs? Is it possible to get a shopping cart at Walmart without a wobbly wheel? The truth of it is, I don't really care about all that stuff because things are cheaper there and they offer unmatched people watching opportunities.
So my wife comes home and says, and I quote, "I hear all this stuff about Americans and obesity and I think that there isn't a lot of fat people running around...and then I go to Walmart." After I stopped laughing I thought about it, and besides being a Mecca for dental work, I'm pretty sure it's a tough place to be a coronary artery.
With all this focus on fat lately I've been wondering what's is the cure? How can we avoid being called, "Fatty" and, "Tubs" and having to pay for two plane tickets when we fly?
Coincidentally, the answer came to me when I was walking into Target. I watched a tone and fit looking chap as he crossed from my right to my left passing 3 sets of perfectly good double doors in order to walk through the automatic doors. He probably walked 20 or 30 feet out of his way in order to avoid having to open the door. My first impression was that he was lazy. In fact, I thought to myself, "Only in America would someone walk out of their way to not have to open a door." Then it occurred to me that maybe this guy had the answer to America's obesity problem, and I bet he didn't even know it. In fact, I was so wrapped up in thought that I read "pull" on the door and ran into it as I proceeded to "push."
If you haven't figured the solution out for yourself yet, I'll spell it out for you. Put the automatic doors on the sides of the Walmart away from the parking lot and bingo! The draw of the automatic doors will be too much to resist and America will walk themselves to a healthier and trimmer future.
The second force at work is my lingering back injury that makes it all too easy to skip my thrice weekly runs. Running for the sake of running is one of my absolute least favorite things to do, but I feel obligated to try to do something to turn the calorie deficit in my favor. Give me something to chase like a ball or a Frisbee and I'm like a greyhound at the track (but slower and hopefully without a muzzle). They say that if you run long enough you'll get "runner's high" and all your pain and problems will disappear. I guess I have never run far enough, because the only high I get is when I take a shot of my asthma inhaler and feel oxygen finally return to my brain. Or maybe runner's high really just makes you feel like your legs are made of jello, your lungs are slowly shrinking, and what vision you have left is doubled. If that is the case, I get runners high going to the mailbox. They say married people want their single friends to get married so they will be as miserable as the married folks. Perhaps runners just want everyone else to be miserable like they are, so they made up runners high and sadistically watch they rest of us stumble down the street towards an imaginary escape.
The last force at work is entirely my fault and I am willing to admit it. I am on a quest to find the best chicken wings in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area. This has obviously required me to ingest an unthinkable amount of saturated and unsaturated fat, but it is clearly for a good cause. While I am grateful to those chickens that gave their lives for the effort, I am afraid it has been in vain thus far. Even as I type I can smell the fragrance of inferior wings wafting off my fingers. This time I am thankful that I didn't find the place with the best wings because I don't know that I have the courage to go there on a regular basis. Deep in downtown Durham, with nothing but a walk up window is a little wing shack that also sells cigarettes and 40's of malt liquor (convenient, I guess, if you live in the neighborhood). This place makes Buffalo Chips look like Chucky Cheese's. Buffalo Chips is my hometown wing dump where I once watched a man get thrown through a glass door and limp away a bloody mess into the darkness. It is also the mark by which all wings are measured. So until I find a wing that makes my lips tingle the way the suicide wings from the old Buffalo Chips, the search goes on.
The other reason I have been thinking about fat is a comment made by my wife after a trip to Walmart. Yes, we shop at Walmart. I know some people are against Walmart because they drive out small businesses and maybe they employ low wage workers in other countries and blah, blah, blah. To that I respond, was Walmart not a small business at one point and maybe they just did it better than everyone else? Are low paying jobs better than no jobs? Is it possible to get a shopping cart at Walmart without a wobbly wheel? The truth of it is, I don't really care about all that stuff because things are cheaper there and they offer unmatched people watching opportunities.
So my wife comes home and says, and I quote, "I hear all this stuff about Americans and obesity and I think that there isn't a lot of fat people running around...and then I go to Walmart." After I stopped laughing I thought about it, and besides being a Mecca for dental work, I'm pretty sure it's a tough place to be a coronary artery.
With all this focus on fat lately I've been wondering what's is the cure? How can we avoid being called, "Fatty" and, "Tubs" and having to pay for two plane tickets when we fly?
Coincidentally, the answer came to me when I was walking into Target. I watched a tone and fit looking chap as he crossed from my right to my left passing 3 sets of perfectly good double doors in order to walk through the automatic doors. He probably walked 20 or 30 feet out of his way in order to avoid having to open the door. My first impression was that he was lazy. In fact, I thought to myself, "Only in America would someone walk out of their way to not have to open a door." Then it occurred to me that maybe this guy had the answer to America's obesity problem, and I bet he didn't even know it. In fact, I was so wrapped up in thought that I read "pull" on the door and ran into it as I proceeded to "push."
If you haven't figured the solution out for yourself yet, I'll spell it out for you. Put the automatic doors on the sides of the Walmart away from the parking lot and bingo! The draw of the automatic doors will be too much to resist and America will walk themselves to a healthier and trimmer future.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Get Your Learn On
For the last couple of years I helped mold the minds of America’s future. A scary thought, indeed. As a “Professor” of backpacking and sailing I taught them how to “Climb the mountains of life” and “Navigate the seas of uncertainty” and other similarly cheesy and absurd topics. After reading the following conversations you may be convinced I failed, however, at times, I don’t think I was given a whole lot to work with.
Backpacking class, lecture on food.
Me: Any ideas on foods to bring for dinner?
Girl: (enthusiastically) Easy Mac
Me: Ok, let’s talk about Easy Mac. How do you cook it?
Girl: Microwave
Me: Just so I know we’re on the same page here, we’re talking about backpacking foods, right?
Girl: Uh huh
Me: So you want to cook Easy Mac on your trip?
Girl: Yep
Me: So after we hike 6 miles into the woods you want to cook Easy Mac?
Girl: (Starting to get frustrated and feeling singled out) Yeah, why?
Me: And how are you going to cook it?
Girl: In a microwave
Me: So you’re going to hike 6 miles and then cook Easy Mac in a microwave?
Girl: (Really frustrated and starting to give me the stink eye) YES!
Me: And you don’t see any problems with this?
Girl: What?!?
Me: Nothing, sounds like a great plan. Bring enough for your group.
Same class, different girl
After hiking several miles along a river my backpacking class stopped to take a break at the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and continue down the
other side of the river to their campsite for the night. The bridge looked similar to this one; a two lane highway, stripes down the middle and sides, and guardrails. After resting for a few minutes I gathered the troops and we got ready to start hiking again. The conversation went something like this:
Me: You guys ready to get going again?
(undergraduates are like a school of little fish: they cluster together, move around a lot, and nobody wants to stand out so much they get eaten (or called on in class). So consider their comments to be all be simultaneous and mumbled)
Mumblings from class: Alright. Ok. Already? Let's go. Do we have to? Fine.
As we started to hike across the bridge as a class, a girl made a loud announcement to everyone.
Girl: (loudly and as if making a discovery) I think this bridge is man-made!
Me: (under my breath) this oughta be good
Crickets: Chirp, chirp, chirp
The class literally stopped in their tracks to hear what she had to say next. Surely this couldn't be the extent of her announcement. There must be some explanation as to how she came to her earth shattering discovery.
The awkward silence continued on, and the tension building. The school of undergrads started to stir and some mutterings could be heard from the masses.
Mumblings from class: What did she say? Huh? What? She's so pretty! What? What an idiot! I think she's right. Huh?
It soon became clear that there was nothing else coming that would help to explain what she was talking about. That was when one of her classmates swam clear of the school and let his voice be heard.
Guy: (in his best documentary narrators voice and mocking tone) Since the beginning of time this bridge has stood here. Through the first ice age it withstood the elements. In the Jurassic Period dinosaurs used it to cross the river.
The laughter eventually died down, and for the remainder of the trip, anytime there was a culvert, telephone pole, or train tracks, someone would invariably let the class know that they thought it was man made.
If all went as planned, she should be finishing law school shortly. If your lawyer in the future is a UF alumni, your first question should be whether or not she took my backpacking class. If the answer is yes, take my advice, and just get up and walk out.
Backpacking class, lecture on food.
Me: Any ideas on foods to bring for dinner?
Girl: (enthusiastically) Easy Mac
Me: Ok, let’s talk about Easy Mac. How do you cook it?
Girl: Microwave
Me: Just so I know we’re on the same page here, we’re talking about backpacking foods, right?
Girl: Uh huh
Me: So you want to cook Easy Mac on your trip?
Girl: Yep
Me: So after we hike 6 miles into the woods you want to cook Easy Mac?
Girl: (Starting to get frustrated and feeling singled out) Yeah, why?
Me: And how are you going to cook it?
Girl: In a microwave
Me: So you’re going to hike 6 miles and then cook Easy Mac in a microwave?
Girl: (Really frustrated and starting to give me the stink eye) YES!
Me: And you don’t see any problems with this?
Girl: What?!?
Me: Nothing, sounds like a great plan. Bring enough for your group.
Same class, different girl
After hiking several miles along a river my backpacking class stopped to take a break at the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and continue down the
other side of the river to their campsite for the night. The bridge looked similar to this one; a two lane highway, stripes down the middle and sides, and guardrails. After resting for a few minutes I gathered the troops and we got ready to start hiking again. The conversation went something like this:Me: You guys ready to get going again?
(undergraduates are like a school of little fish: they cluster together, move around a lot, and nobody wants to stand out so much they get eaten (or called on in class). So consider their comments to be all be simultaneous and mumbled)
Mumblings from class: Alright. Ok. Already? Let's go. Do we have to? Fine.
As we started to hike across the bridge as a class, a girl made a loud announcement to everyone.
Girl: (loudly and as if making a discovery) I think this bridge is man-made!
Me: (under my breath) this oughta be good
Crickets: Chirp, chirp, chirp
The class literally stopped in their tracks to hear what she had to say next. Surely this couldn't be the extent of her announcement. There must be some explanation as to how she came to her earth shattering discovery.
The awkward silence continued on, and the tension building. The school of undergrads started to stir and some mutterings could be heard from the masses.
Mumblings from class: What did she say? Huh? What? She's so pretty! What? What an idiot! I think she's right. Huh?
It soon became clear that there was nothing else coming that would help to explain what she was talking about. That was when one of her classmates swam clear of the school and let his voice be heard.
Guy: (in his best documentary narrators voice and mocking tone) Since the beginning of time this bridge has stood here. Through the first ice age it withstood the elements. In the Jurassic Period dinosaurs used it to cross the river.
The laughter eventually died down, and for the remainder of the trip, anytime there was a culvert, telephone pole, or train tracks, someone would invariably let the class know that they thought it was man made.
If all went as planned, she should be finishing law school shortly. If your lawyer in the future is a UF alumni, your first question should be whether or not she took my backpacking class. If the answer is yes, take my advice, and just get up and walk out.
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