um... yeah.

If you were guaranteed an answer to any question you have, what would you ask and of whom?

"Why?" to the Eternal Force.

What's on your "To-Do" list today? What are you most looking forward to and what are you most dreading?

Oh, good lord.  Do you know just how big my to-do list is?

My lists!

"Ugh. My feet stink."

"Mine do, too!"

"Yeah, well, I have my shoes off."

"Touché."

Having spent most of the weekend eating the peanut butter cookies Shirley made on Friday, I didn't do so well this morning at Velocity. The workout was 3 rounds of: 20 chest passes with a semi-bouncy 10# medicine ball, 10 shuttle sprints, 20 backward over-the-head ball tosses, 10 shuttle sprints, 20 sideway tosses (each side), 10 shuttle sprints, and 20 ball slams. I managed the first round with the 12# medicine ball, but could barely lift the ball for the second round.

My last set of sprints were pathetic in speed, but fairly okay in my starts.

I did manage to finish the workout, but I think that was more due to the fact I didn't have to duck out early to shower before catching the train. Mom's picking me up from the train station.

On the way to the station, as Kris was dropping me off, I commented, "Too many cookies, not enough exercise this weekend."

"Yeah, restraint isn't exactly in your vocabulary, is it?"

When it comes to Shirley's peanut butter cookies? Absolutely not.

Sitting here at Kris' softball, I'm entertained by the men and one woman playing the game. It's a much different group than the ultimate crowd: nearly everyone is overweight, slow. Yet it's very clear this group of people enjoy playing the game, probably asmuch as we enjoy playing ultimate, love their sport as much as we love our sport.

Or maybe not. Ultimate players are very much an insane, dedicated group of people.

The pitcher on Kris' team is really good for the league, which I think is the B league, maybe C, I don't know how many teams in each.

Watching Kris is pretty awesome. It's close enough to baseball that Kris is clearly having a good time, enjoying the idea of playing baseball, his one true sports love, again.

I read eariler this week an article about a 41 year old goalie who absolutely loved playing soccer. He played every weekend, during the week if he could, throwing himself around after the black and white.

His wife, on the other hand, hated that he played. She feared his injuring himself, and possibly making himself unable to work. His being the sole bread winner in the family of three, her concerns may have been valid, but insisting a spouse stop participating in the sport he loves, the activity that keeps him young, and alive, well, that insistence sounds an awful lot like marital suicide.

Kris plays softball, and risks making his minorly injured shoulder a serious injury. It's his shoulder, it's his choice. I'll schedule the massages; I'll rub when I can; I'll always cheer him on; but I'd never ask him to stop.

How could I when I see the joy in his face when he throws that perfectly grounded ball?

"I don't have a gaydar."

"No, you don't. That's why you have me!"

"But, you just assume everybody's gay."

"Yeah, well, I'm right 10% of the time."

I'm sitting here at the airport, waiting for the passengers from the previous flight to disembark from the plane I will board in ten minutes. To my right is the line to board the plane in the first boarding group. To my left is a short but growing line of people also in my boarding group.

Between these two lines is a woman with sense. She recognized the people sitting in the chairs by the window were actually in the first boarding group line. Rather than walk down the aisle between these rows of chairs, one of which my butt is sitting, she has chosen to stand at the end of the row of chairs, forcing everyone else who shows up for this boarding group to line up behind her.

And that line is growing.

Yet, there are empty seats around me.

Looking at the other boarding lines, I realize the flight will be full and even if I board at the and of the first group, I will get a good seat, one where I am on the aisle and can get up to use the lavatory, without interupting my temporary travelling companion's sleep. Or game. Or reading.

I am tempted to gather my two bags, my two very heavy bags, and move farther to my right, allow these people access to these empty chairs around me.

I stand up to move down a seat.

But, to do so means I jump in line in front of the other passengers around me, the ones who were here before I was and who should have earlier dibs on the good seats, than I.

I sit back down in my original seat.

Yet, is there really any difference between row 14 and row 15? Do I care if the ten people to my immediate left board before I do?

Maybe I do. I stand up.

Maybe I really don't. I sit back down.

The woman at the end of the row of chairs watches me, amused. She doesn't move.

No. No, I really don't care. The flight lands at the same time, whether I'm in row 12, 17 or 25, as long as I have an aisle row.

Any other row, and the flight takes an eternity.

Two Fridays ago, Kris and I went to Seattle and visited with Ben, Lisa and Jake. Ben, at one point, showed us Jake's Michelin Man legs and arms, where his baby fat rolls jiggled and folded. At some point soon, Jake will hit his second baby growth spurt and lose all of the jiggles. Until then, however, Ben is showing it off.

On Wednesday night last week, at communal dinner, I mentioned we had journeyed north and seen Jake, and wasn't he just the most adorable butterball? Beth commented that, look, everyone has a line on his arm, just above his elbow, where his roll of baby fat made a permanent crease in the skin. No, really, look, look.

We all looked, and sure enough, we all had those lines. Sure, some were really faint, almost invisible, but still there.

So, today on the drive from the airport with Kris and Heather, we talked about this fact when Heather and I were catching up. When I said everyone has this crease, here, look, look, Kris chimed in, "No, not everyone."

Well, the man with less than 4% body fat could be right, but I wasn't going to admit it any time soon. I pulled up his shirt sleeve and tried to find his crease. "It's there," I insisted, looking.

We found Heather's really fast, and mine was findable. Kris' not so much. "Well, it's there."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. You just can't see it."

"If I can't see it, doesn't that mean it's not there?"

"There's a subcutaneous crease that isn't visible from the surface. So, yes, just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it? I won the argument? I can't believe you're giving up that easily."

"You used 'subcutaneous' in an argument. How can you not win?"

Heather piped up from the back seat, "You two are such geeks."

The worst possible retail ploy to hit the bottom line of my bank account balances has to be Amazon's Prime service. First they lure you in with a free three month subscription to the service: sign up for free second day delivery for three months. After three months, there's no way you can't continue the sercice: you're addicted on the inexpensive prices for items you can afford to wait two days for.

Worse, if you order late at night, which actually is not only the only time I have during my frantic days as of late, but also the time of least resistance and possibly of worst judgement, Amazon will treat that day as one and your order can be your hands in less than 36 hours.

Yeah, if that's not one of the longest sentences on this page, I'd be shocked. Not technically a run-on sentence, but still one a high school English teacher might cite when deducting points.

Heck, I'd deduct points for that one.

Right after I deduct the next chunk of change and hand it over to Amazon.

If I had a job there, would they pay me in books?