I spent most of last week on vacation recovering from the disappointment of the Tough Mudder’s cancellation. I took refuge in a small Missouri town most people have never heard of. I intended to write a few blogs while there, but came to the conclusion working vacations are not real vacations. To “celebrate” my return, I’ve decided to sum up what I learned.

I Can’t Wait to be an Old Man

I like to  think of myself as an old soul and some of my vacation activities proved it. Despite not having any real plans, I usually woke up before the sun. I would then check the morning news, play a game of Scrabble, and then start in on a crossword puzzle. It was delightful. The only thing missing was a rocking chair and the opportunity to tell some nosy neighbor kids to “Get off my lawn” Clint Eastwood style.

Some Fears Die Hard

About 10 years ago, I went on a canoeing trip and had a near-death experience. Long story short…the tide was strong, the canoe tipped over, and my life jacket was stolen by an evil tree branch. Making matters worse, I wasn’t a very good swimmer at the time. Did I mention this happened twice in one month?

Naturally, when the topic of canoeing was brought up I declined, right?

Not exactly.

I decided enough time had passed since the incidents in question and it was time to get back on the proverbial horse. I’d improved my swimming skills since then and should be fine. The good news is the canoe never tipped and I didn’t drown. The bad news is I spent the entire trip irritable, cranky and with my ass cheeks clenched so tight that had there been a piece of coal lodged between them, I probably could have made a diamond.

It’s still a work in progress.

Being Home Stinks

I was a little bummed out when I made it home because it meant my vacation was over and that I wasn’t going to be able to see one of my favorite people again for a few months. As I got out of my car, I thought to myself:

This stinks.

As I opened the door to my apartment, the same thought crossed my mind, but for different reasons. It seems that in my haste to hit the highway, I left a pound of shrimp on my kitchen counter. I had been gone for six days. The apartment smelled like a combination of dead hookers sprinkled with dirty gym socks. Home sweet home?

Not so much.



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