Things I learned during today’s lunchtime spin class…

1. People seem to want participation, even spontaneous singing is encouraged, especially when a sing along type song comes on.
2. “Build Me Up Buttercup” by the Foundations may be perfectly designed for audience singing, especially the echo.
3. Many people know “Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung, but very few people join me when I begin to sing along.
4. This may be because of bashfulness or just a pure hatred of me, but somehow and in some way they must not enjoy the song. Hard to believe, I know.
5. People who know the lyrics to Wang Chung songs are morally obligated to sing along, otherwise the entire Wang Chung experience will fade from our collective memory (more my opinion, instead of something I learned, but still a valid point).
6. There is a large segment of the population, either too young or too old to fully appreciate such a Wang Chungish concept. It is the job of everyone who knows of Wang Chung to sing along, until either everyone around you can also sing along or they plot against you and smother you in your sleep.
7. The person next to me in spin class did not appreciate my Wang Chungy rendition. Her loss and really the loss of all those who do not full understand Wang Chungishness.
8. After “Build Me Up Buttercup” and “Everybody Have Fun Tonight,” even someone as clueless and self-absorbed as I am suddenly realizes that it is time to quit singing along and fully concentrate on spin class, because it may be my singing that is keeping me from burning a sufficient number of calories to keep up with my eating habits.
9. Still, when you hear Wang Chung, you should sing along, because that’s the only way to ensure that future generations are fully exposed to all things Wang, as well as all things Chung.
10. Now, they have a valid Wang Chungish reason to ban me from all group exercise activities at the YMCA. Silence is golden. (In a hushed voice, we join together, “Everybody have fun tonight, everybody Wang Chung tonight.”)

When I was a third grader, I was really into Presidents.  I could name them all in order.  I could tell you facts and figures about them.  I loved the World Book Encyclopedia write-up about them and accompanying portraits.  It was my thing.

As a result, I had lots of Presidential stuff in my room.  A little Styrofoam stand that held tiny versions of the Presidents in kind of a small version of Disney World’s “Hall of Presidents,” but less animatronic and certainly less creepy.  I also had a huge quilt that my Grandmother made me that showed all of the Presidents.  Finally, I had some dolls of famous Presidents (Millard Fillmore and Calvin Coolidge were not allowed).  Now, I know what you are thinking.  Dave had dolls.  Well sure, dolls in the same sense that lots of boys own action figures, just like how my 6-year-old son Ben has a set of superhero action figures.  Same thing.  Yep, they were actually more like Presidential action figures.  That is my story and I’m sticking to it.  Besides, no one even blinked an eye, when the JFK doll spent a long weekend at Malibu Barbie’s beach house, although Ken remains very jealous.

Little Dave with Grandma Franck’s “Presidents Quilt.”  Note how vain I was assuming the place of James Madison’s head.  Plus, what is that mystery hand to the right trying to tell us about President Grant?  Some of life’s questions will forever remain unanswered.

See, just a couple of action figures hanging out, although President Reagan never claimed to have “Spidey Sense.”  Some however claimed that Abe Lincoln was a vampire hunter.  Things that make you go hmmm.

Flash forward to three years ago.  My folks were cleaning out some stuff and they ran across my Presidential collection.  Soon I received a series of boxes in the mail filled with all sorts of Presidential goodies and ever since then, during the month of February, our house is decorated with an impressive assortment of Presidential memorabilia.  The tiny Hall of Presidents, the quilt, and of course the Presidential dolls (err, action figures) grace our home, right beside your standard Valentine’s Day heart decorations.  There they are, famous Presidents looking down on us.  FDR, Andrew Jackson, Truman, Ike, et al, and as 6-year-old Ben referred to him, “Teddy Washington.”  Hum, an indication of the decline of American history in our schools?

No need to travel to Orlando, I’ve got a “Hall of Presidents” right here.

Teddy Washington

As I type this and all through the month of February, when I sit on the couch, there is Abraham Lincoln staring down at me, reminding me to be honest, even as I write my daily embellishment of some random event.  Okay, I get the message, Birthday Boy.  You can look elsewhere.  Please.  It’s getting kind of creepy, just like living in a less animatronic version of the “Hall of Presidents.”

As I type, I rest under Abraham Lincoln’s soft gaze.

You have been so good.  As a reward, here is a bonus story for Abraham Lincoln’s Birthday…

Earlier today, 11-year-old Jacob was tormenting his 6-year-old brother Ben by indicating that the stuffed animal Ben was playing with really belonged to him.  Sure, at one point Jacob probably did own the teddy bear, but many years ago he discarded the toy and his little brother has been playing with it for several months.  Case closed.  The ownership has changed to young Ben.

Walking in on the argument, Charlene noted that their dispute was similar to the Wisdom of Solomon (i.e. Ben cared about the bear, while Jacob was claiming ownership just to be difficult).  The boys looked confused, so I quickly relayed the story.  Two women were arguing over who was mother of a baby.  They asked the King to decide.  The King said he would just cut the baby in two.  One woman shrugged, the other was willing to give up the child so it could live.  King said the latter was the mother, because she cared about the child.  To wrap up, I steered a little off course and added, “Then they threw a huge party and that’s why we celebrate Lincoln’s Birthday.”  The kids continued to look confused and Charlene insisted on relaying future Biblical lessons.

Little known fact, wise King Solomon often consulted a stuffed teddy bear, when making major decisions.

The End.

As the kids head out to school, the house tends to get a little chaotic, as boots are thrown about, coats fly through the air, backpacks are strapped on, and Charlene navigates her way to the door.  For whatever reason, I decided that ten minutes prior to this moment of ultimate chaos would be the best time for me to call in a prescription to the pharmacy.  This should have been fine, but I never noticed before how things begin to ramp up, just prior to head-out-the-door-for-school time.  Also, my prescription could have waited until sometime later in the day, but I found it for whatever reason urgently important for me to call in my prescription for middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling.  Hey, you younger people, don’t laugh.  Put on a few pounds and get older and you too could find yourself with middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling, which I believe is the clinical name for my affliction.  Consider yourself warned.

There I was calling in my prescription to the automated service, when one-by-one I became distracted.  Question from automated refill message, “For verification purposes, enter the last four digits of the phone number associated with your prescription.”  This verification is needed because of the huge black market for anti-middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling pills.  At that very moment, our dog Kirby needed to go outside.  Kirby, our dog that feels the need to mindlessly bark every time he runs outside.  Kirby, the dog that we have tried all manner of solutions to quiet his barking.  Solutions, as in a citronella collar that sprayed citronella up his nose each time he barked (he began to enjoy having citronella shoved up his nose, while he barked).  Corrective measures, which he now ignores (apparently “Kirby, no barking!” is a sign of affection in the dog world).  Three bark collars, which he kept burning out or draining their irreplaceable batteries.  A muzzle, which just makes his barking quieter, but when coupled with an industrial strength hunting bark collar and the dog whistle that just came in the mail may finally get him to be a little more quiet and allow him to continue living in our home.  This background was provided so that you don’t say, “Oh, that poor Kirby.  Those people are so mean using a muzzle on him.”  No, no, no.  It should really be, “Kirby, get the point already and hush.”  Well, Kirby really needed out at that very moment and I needed to put on his muzzle and cradle the phone against my ear and enter the last four digits of my phone number for verification purposes.  Something had to give.  Apparently it was my brain, which could no longer remember the last four digits of our phone number, which I thought was “3583,” even though the last four digits of our phone number are not “3583” and as a result, the automated prescription refill service hung up on me.  My upper portion of my stomach gurgled its disappointment.

Our 11-year-old son Jacob likes to call Kirby “The Winter Pup,” when he wears his muzzle, because of his striking resemblance to “The Winter Soldier,” who was a frenemy featured in the latest “Captain America” movie.  Ah, if we only hadsuper powers to make our pup just a little quieter outside.

Not discouraged, I got the correct last four digits for our phone number from my wife, who was now looking at me as if my middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgle had migrated to my brain.  I once again began the endless dance with the automated phone attendant, but for whatever reason I figured this would be the best time to simultaneously plan our evening’s childcare with my wife.  “You’ll be home at 6:30?”  “Yes.”  “No, wait automated attendant lady, I wasn’t talking to you.”  That is when my automated pharmacist hung up on me.  Again.  My stomach gurgled louder.

Angry and middle aged, I was determined to try again.  I punched in the number, navigated the first few questions, and then my 8-year-old son Sam approached me with what I believed to be an urgent matter.  “Dad, I really like the pockets on these pants,” as he happily put his hands in what are apparently the finest Italian tailored child track pants that Target has to offer.  Really?  You’ve got to be kidding me.  Pockets?  Pockets make you happy.  That was the urgent matter?  Is the phone against my ear invisible?  “Yes, those are nice pants,” I replied, as I punched in the numbers for my prescription.  As I kept at it, my stomach made an appreciative gurgle.

Completing the call, I glanced down at the phone.  1 minute and 53 seconds it took for the successful final call, an eternity in head-out-the-door-for-school time, but my order had been placed.  Soon, my kids were off to school, we were off to work, Kirby was taking a nap, the chaos dissipated, and the gurgle subsided.  All was well and next time, I will select a better time.

Today was rather slippery.  Freezing rain, sleet, slick outside, you get the idea.  As a result, over lunchtime, I made a run to the store to pick up some salt.  The key words there were “pick up.”

As I retrieved three bags of salt and hoisted them into the shopping cart, it struck me how freaking heavy a 50 pound bag of salt can be.  Sure my upper body is not a portrait of fitness, but these babies were hefty.

Pushing my 150 pound heavier than it used to be shopping cart to the checkout aisle, it struck me.  If I took my weight and subtracted one of those 50 pound bags of salt, I would be on the lighter side of my ideal weight range.  That’s right, I am carrying around a 50 pound bag of salt on my belly every day.  Talk about a workout!  You would think I would be more fit as a result (Huh?  Great logic, chubs.).

Settling back into my chair at the office, I got ready to work.  That’s when I saw it.  Staring at me from the corner of my desk, my office candy jar filled to rim with heart shaped chocolates.  Hershey’s chocolate, pretty tasty stuff.  Made in the USA, too (Snack like an American!).  After unwrapping a few, popping them into my mouth, and chewing, I figured that I had burned a few more calories getting at my little snack (All right!  That’s enough!  Stop it!  Enough of the bizarre justifications!  Step away from the candy jar!).

Ah, the office candy jar, such a tempting temptress.

Oh well, time to embrace reality.  Once I finish off the candy jar, it is time to put it in storage.  Time to start working off that bag of salt, after I unwrap the final few chocolates, of course (Counts as a warm up, right?).

This year, I utilized a new strategy for the purchase of elementary school valentines.  Rather than wait until the last minute and get whatever remains were left on the shelf (really, what boy wants to distribute Hello Kitty valentines, because that’s the only remaining box in the sad windswept aisle at Target?), I made the kids make their selections in mid-January.  I know what you’re thinking, “Mid-January?  Get a grip, Paulsen.”  No, honest, it was one of the best parental moves that I have made.  As soon as I saw the shelves get stocked with heart shaped candies, we swooped in.  There waiting for us was a bonanza of valentines.  All shapes and sizes.  A plethora of “Be Mine” happiness.

6-year-old Ben selected some Captain America valentines and we stashed them away.  Flash forward a few weeks to the present and apparently kids in Ben’s kindergarten class have begun bringing their valentines to school, which has created a level of anxiety in young Ben that he is falling behind.  As a result, earlier today we assembled the Captain America valentines and got them ready for distribution.

As I helped apply heart shaped stickers, I realized that I had not looked closely at the Captain America valentines.  What I found was nifty (I think I just aged forty years, when I typed “nifty”), as well as deadly (there we go, typing “deadly” took me right back to hyper-testosterone-charged teen years.  It’s a nice feeling to drop 25 years).  The valentines came with a hidden picture feature.  Take the long pointy stick (no lie) that comes included with each valentine and rub the paper to reveal colors on Captain America’s uniform.  How strangely patriotic, semi-artistic, high tech, and yes deadly, all at once.

Captain America is armed and ready for Valentine’s Day.

Getting ready to pack up the valentines, Ben requested that I attach a piece of candy to each card.  Once again, my teen brain delighted in the obvious choice.  Staple on a heart shaped lollipop and now each valentine contains not one, but two sharp sticks.  What a lovely and irresistible choice.  Nothing says romance like pointy weapons.

Plus, after Valentine’s Day, they can be used as mini chopsticks.

Next year, heart shaped safety goggles.

Sitting at the gym, while the boys burned off some post-basketball energy, I grabbed a copy of “Family Circle” from the magazine rack.  Browsing the pages, I found a wonderful nugget, the kind I crave, a strong candidate for “Cookie of the Week.”

Preparing to make “Oreo Brownies,” I found myself ill prepared.  First, I did not have all of the specified ingredients.  Second, I found myself short on time.  Enter hubris, “Dave, you are wonderful.  You can do it.”  Thank you for the encouragement, ego, I think I’ll try this recipe anyway.

Substitute semi-sweet chocolate for unsweetened chocolate.  Shorten the time needed to whisk the eggs.  “You’ll be just fine,” my healthy baking ego reassured me.  Confidence builder, indeed, but oh so wrong.

The brownies tasted fine, but they kept collapsing.  I had to keep popping them back in the oven.  Desperate attempts to save the brownies and my pride.

A sad pan of fallen brownies.

A photo of my first attempt.  The photo is a blurry mess, sort of like the brownie it shows.

Alas, the only way I could build myself back up and reclaim cookie glory would be to try again.  Tackle the recipe with a renewed sense of gusto and a pantry full of the correct ingredients.

Sure enough, my standard belief in baking was confirmed.  The beauty of baking is that if you have a good recipe and you follow it faithfully, you will find success and baking happiness every time.  #truth #wordstoliveby

A pan of successful Oreo Brownies, a thing of beauty.

OREO BROWNIES

“Trust me, these brownies are a delight.  Make sure to purchase the unsweetened chocolate and take the necessary time whisking the eggs and you will end up with a treat well worth the wait.  Oreo goodness intertwined within every moist brownie bite.  Enjoy.”

¾ cup Butter

6 ounces Unsweetened Chocolate

4 Eggs

2 cups Sugar

1 teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1½ cups Flour

¾ teaspoon Baking Powder

½ teaspoon Salt

1 cup Oreo cookies

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

In the microwave, melt together the butter and chocolate.  Stop after every 30 seconds to stir.

Once fully melted, remove from the microwave and let cool.

Mix together the eggs and sugar on high speed for about 5 minutes.  I know this seems like a long time, but it will give the butter/chocolate mixture time to cool and will enable the eggs to give the brownies their all.

Mix in the cooled butter/chocolate and vanilla extract.

Mix in the flour, baking powder, and salt.  Set aside.

Coarsely chop the Oreo cookies.

Stir ½ cup of the chopped Oreos into the brownie batter.

Pour batter into a 9”x9” baking pan that has been lined with aluminum foil and greased.

Sprinkle the remaining ½ cup of the chopped Oreos on top of the brownie batter.

Bake for 30-35 minutes or until the brownies are set.

Cool in pan on a wire rack.

Use foil to remove from pan, before cutting.

Makes about 16 brownies.

Revised Source:  “Oreo Brownies” from Family Circle magazine.

An Oreo Brownie, its friends devoured, the last of its kind, all alone, the way life should be.  #browniesuccess  (Please, ignore the partial eclipse from my head.  It appears as if my baking hubris has also caused my head to swell.  #professionalhazard )

Last Saturday, I told the exciting (in my opinion only) tale of my 11-year-old son Jacob’s socks starting a new life under a pillow on the couch (Athletic Side Effect Edition).  Against my better judgment and under a protest of “ew” from my wife, I decided to leave the socks under the couch pillow and see when Jacob would find them and hopefully place them in the hamper.

Footage from last Saturday showing the hidden sock love shack.

Days passed and the situation remained unchanged, until last Wednesday, when I found that for reasons only known to the preteen mind, only one sock had been placed in the hamper.  Sadly, one sock was left behind.  Lonely and without its mate.  A sad sight to behold and an even sadder knowledge that a sock still remained on the couch.

Last Wednesday, only one lonely sock remained.

Earlier today, I looked and the lone sock had vanished.  With great hope in my heart, I conducted a final quality control scan and my happiness was dashed.  The sock had sunk.  The brave little sock was on a voyage to the center of the couch.  Although I was proud of the sock and its adventure, the time had come to begin its journey home.

The brave little sock deep within the couch.

Unwilling to just put the sock in the hamper myself, I placed it on top of Jacob’s tennis shoes that were resting by the back door.  Within the hour, the sock magically appeared on the laundry room floor.  It had found safe haven.  A little detergent, some fabric softener, and a fluff in the dryer and the sock would soon be reunited with its mate.  A week away from home was long enough.  You will always be welcome in the sock drawer little wanderer, it’s time to go home.

The sock on the laundry room floor making its last stop on the way home.  Oh, how the sock drawer will erupt in celebration.  Welcome home, sock.  Welcome home.

Some bonus sock coverage for you…  this evening, in an act of divine comedy, Jacob won a pair of M&M socks (and a box of M&Ms) at a church event.  My son winning socks at church.  God only knows where they’ll end up next.

I was in dinner Heaven.  The Goodness Coffee Shop was serving their glorious Chicago Dogs and one was waiting for me.  All that stood in my way, all that stood between me and my Chicago Dog dinner was my children, who every now and then required because-we-are-in-a-restaurant-we-feel-it-necessary-to-be-at-least-somewhat-needy assistance.  To their credit, they were being very well behaved, but this was an issue of me and my dinner.  Kids, really?  Step aside…  please, my Chicago Dog awaits.

“Dad, could you help with the ketchup (to his credit it was one of those little ketchup packets that I use my don’t-tell-my-dentist teeth to open)?”

“Dad, can I have another hot dog and some more chips (because at this very moment I appear to be going through a Chicago Dog inspired growth spurt)?”

“Dad, where is the bathroom?”  Followed shortly by, “Where did Sam go?  He left without us.”  The answer being, “He went to the bathroom.”  Then followed by a much longer string of explanations, because “He went to the bathroom” did not supply adequate information regarding Sam’s whereabouts or the reason for his departure.

Then my favorite question, one which at the same time baffled me on many levels and also lured me in, “Dad, can you help me?  I dropped a chip in my drink.”  Sure enough, floating on the surface of my 6-year-old son Ben’s blueberry flavored water was a potato chip.  Now to my credit, I really wanted to sit down and enjoy my Chicago Dog, so I was distracted and not really thinking straight.  In fact, it did not cross my mind, until I started to write about it, that I could have just fished out the chip with a utensil.  Ah, the solutions that come to you, after a good night’s rest.  Instead, I was somewhat confused by the situation.  How did what appeared to be a regular sized potato chip get inside a water bottle that has only a 1 1/8^th inch diameter opening?  Was the chip going to his mouth and then dropped in?  Was the chip in his mouth when he took a drink?  Was my Chicago Dog getting cold?

Not thinking straight and yet to get a good night’s rest and think of the utensil solution, I suggested that Ben simply “drink” the chip out of the bottle.  That is when, he reminded me of the simple but forgotten law of water bottle tides, “I have tried that, but it keeps going to the other side of the bottle.”  Ah, yes the fleeing chip conundrum.  A chip adrift on an ocean of blueberry infused water tastiness.

That is the moment, I suffered my fatal flaw.  The flaw to which I so often fall victim.  I switched from “helpful dad” to “wisecracking dad.”  Perhaps it was my hunger, perhaps it was my desire to have a big drink of the blueberry water, but most likely I think it is a cause buried deep within my DNA that made me say, “I can drink all of the water and then only the chip will be left.”  Fortunately, young Ben suffers from the same DNA flaw and appreciated my smart-aleck response.  Giving a sly grin, he seemed satisfied.  Ben would now release his father to indulge in Chicago Dog bliss, while he remained victim to the whims of sloshing blueberry drink.  The chip would remain adrift.

I consider it a family tradition to take photos with our Chicago Dog dinners.  My kids, on the other hand, appear to be suffering from an overexcited father’s desire to document each Chicago Dog meal.  My efforts did however yield one very telling sign of the evening ahead.  Note the blueberry water (circled and prominently sitting in the middle of the photo) with its foe, the bag of chips, ready to dive in.

Let’s see, Jacob’s nightstand holds his lamp, two books, a baseball trivia calendar, a Kellogg’s limited edition alarm clock, and of course his socks.  I suppose this way he is ready at any time during the night, if his feet get cold.  Be prepared.  Always have your socks at arm’s reach, never on your feet.

Oh and by the way, let’s touch on the baseball trivia calendar.  In 1987, Andrea Dawson was MVP on the last-place Chicago Cubs.  Okay, but a better question, why does the calendar let 11-year-old’s know that February 6 is Waitangi Day in New Zealand (i.e. celebrating the day New Zealand became part of the British Empire).  New Zealand on a baseball calendar.  New Zealand, baseball.  A country that was not part of the World Baseball Classic in 2013 or part of the baseball tournament in the 2008 Summer Olympics.  So there you have it.  New Zealand on a baseball calendar.  In comparison, Jacob’s socks on the nightstand make a lot of sense.  Play ball!

Happy Waitangi Day to all and to all a goodnight.

Welcome to “Thirst – The Conclusion.”  Last night, we experienced Dave’s harrowing journey into a dark break room to purchase bottled water.  Dave emerged with water, but was timid, while taking photos of the light switches to properly document his experience.  What gives?  What remains?  What adventures are waiting?  Join us as we quench the “thirst.”  (Catch up on all the action by reading “Thirst – Part One.”)

Now, “Thirst – The Conclusion…”

I was pretty proud of myself.  I once again packed up my gym clothes and planned on attending spin class at lunch.  I was on a fitness roll.

Arriving at the gym in plenty of time and changing my clothes, I suddenly realized an error.  An omission I had made before, I had once again forgotten my water bottle.  Quickly running through my options, I realized only one remained.  I would need to venture out into the below freezing temperatures, in my gym shorts, which display my properly toned legs (I highlight this because it is the only part of my body actually in shape, so I might as well flaunt them.  Keep your eyes on the legs, if you can see them in the shadow of the belly.), and jog to the car, in order to see if I had enough change for the Y Center vending machine.  I knew it would be close, but I had no idea what sacrifices would need to be made.

Opening my frost covered car, I leaned over the frozen interior to see what change rested in the center console.  Sadness.  Great frozen sadness awaited me and my exposed muscular now-chilly legs (There I go again, oh well, I am really proud of my legs.  If you got ‘em, show ‘em.  My self-absorbed gift to the world.).  About 90 cents.  Well short of the $1.50 needed for a beverage.  Then I saw it, underneath the various charger cords and an old Elmo figurine, a gold dollar.

Shiny, perfect, resting there, and waiting for me.  The Sacagawea gold dollar would put me over the top and help deliver me my beverage.  I reached for the coin and recalled its original purpose.  Over the summer, I had stashed the golden coin in the car, in the event that our 7-year-old Sam lost a tooth, while on vacation.  I was never a good Boy Scout, but in this instance, I was prepared.  If that tooth popped out at the lake or during a visit to family, I would have been able to instantly fill the role of Tooth Fairy.  I would have been a hero.  I was ready.  My needs however were different now.  I needed water to survive spin class.  The kids would understand (sort of) and there was plenty of time to restock the gold dollar, before any upcoming travel.  Tucking the dollar in my right shorts pocket (next to my well-developed quadriceps), I was ready for class.

Sacagawea and the Tooth Fairy, unrecognized as one of history’s great power duos.

Judging from the vending machine, Propel flavored water has a stranglehold on the Y Center.  I picked Strawberry Kiwi flavor, as opposed to my preferred flavor of Grape, because it reminded me of my 6-year-old Ben’s love of Kiwis, and I hustled up to class.  My Adonis-like legs carried me up the stairs and delivered me to spin class just before it started.

The musical theme for the class was fun:  Salsa.  Peppy, distracting, just the thing for exercise.  Taking a sip of my Strawberry Kiwi water, I realized my son Ben likes Kiwi, but I like Grape.  I should have chosen Grape, because he wasn’t the one drinking it.  Duh, sentimental fool.  Peddling with all of my might, a song from the past visited me, “Macarena.”  In the mid-90s, I used to dance a mean Macarena.  Don’t laugh.  Don’t mock.  In the mid-90s, everyone danced the Macarena.  Kids, I’ve seen the Twerk and I’m telling you, it is nothing to be proud of, so don’t slam the Macarena.  Well, so there I was, recalling the Macarena, when I spontaneously (but not too loudly) sang the line, “Hey, Macarena!”  Perfectly timed.  Perfectly acceptable behavior, but no one else joined in (as opposed to the time around Halloween, when I sang along with “Time Warp” and people joined in).  I was a loner.  I was the sole Macarena tribute artist.  Sure I considered flipping one of my hands around to the music.  I remembered the dance and I could have pulled it off on the bike (sure I probably would have risked falling off my bike, but I could have done it, I swear), but I did not.

It had become painfully obvious.  First, the timid behavior, while taking photos of light switches.  Now, my fear of looking just plain stupid, while I danced the Macarena on a bike.  What had happened?  Had Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up, finally grown up?  Was I now more fact (Sacagawea) than fiction (the Tooth Fairy, that’s Mr. Tooth Fairy to you)?

Heading to the Men’s Locker Room to shower, I realized that perhaps it was not such a bad thing.  Perhaps my chiseled legs of a Greek Olympic god were now carrying something much better than a boy who never grew up, they were now carrying a father, who embraces the joys of life, but maintains just enough common sense for society to accept him.  Peter Pan?  That boy had skinny legs and I bet he never drank Propel. 

Allison Williams as Peter Pan, let’s not even dwell on the confusion this creates.

Bonus footage…

I could not resist, here is an actual photo of my (David’s) legs. Like I said, other than needing a little sun (I blame this on the long Minnesota winter), they are perfect, almost as if they were chiseled by a Renaissance master.

Photo credit to Rico Heil (my close personal friend, although he is completely unaware of this, who photographed me in Florence, Italy).