Remember when you were a kid and, before you headed out somewhere, your mother would insist you pee. It didn’t matter how recently you had just gone, or how plausible your promise to make it til you got there was, eventually the conversation would devolve, she’d drop a “just try and go,” and off to the potty you’d prance. As an adult who walks most places I’ve grown to appreciate the philosophy; before I leave the house, see a doctor, or get on a plane, I do my best to make sure nothing will stand between me and whatever mission I’m about to set out on. So you can imagine my retort when an ultrasound technician insists that I pop off to the toilet before we continue the procedure. “Because this is the thing,” I said… “I JUST PEED, not more than 10 minutes ago. I swear, I even know where it is… 4 doors down on the left.” I don’t know why I was so adamant about not going, I guess I just assumed she thought I was lying. I even paused to give it a good think over after which I became even more convinced: “I [didn’t] have to pee, I promise!” She rolled her eyes and instantly became my favorite person as she placed the ultrasound instrument square on my bladder and goes: “See there’s pee in there! Now go try, I promise you’ll pee.” I laughed all the way to the bathroom. Can’t argue with science.
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Last Friday I witnessed first hand a formal battle between “flirting for sport” and “flirting with purpose.” While one of the SB Coterie did his thing across the bar, I leaned on a table an toggled my focus between him and Sports Center. After a few minutes a very tall bloke shimmied past me and mumbled something about my shoes being quite tall as he made his way to the bar to order a drink. Never one to forgo an opportunity for extroversion, I requested he repeat himself thereby initiating a conversation of sorts. You should know, at this point I’m like 90% sure he’s tangentially affiliated with the boys, but even if he wasn’t the fact that I was literally surrounded by people who most certainly were… left me kinda cocky. So when he quickly turned conversation to one of solicitation, I couldn’t resist playing along.
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My night went something like this: realize I’ve been in Miami 6 months, vow to reconsider the cupboards of shit that have gone untouched, start tearing thru the kitchen. The easiest project to tackle was the booze and book cabinet, so I did. Don’t worry, no liquor was lost during the execution of this mission. After review, my once mini library went micro and 25 lbs of overflow literature got loaded up for the library. I consulted Google to confirm location and operating hours, strapped on a backpack, snagged my skates, and took off. The rollerblades lasted about 5 blocks before I became convinced the displaced center of mass would land me on my ass. I plodded the next 15 blocks in flip-flops, in vain; for thru the sweat I saw a sign saying the library closed at 6pm. I tried to play it off – maintained stride as I turned the corner before putting the book bag down to take a drink and regroup. The denial continued for a good 30 seconds during which time I reviewed the entrance three or four times; I couldn’t believe there wasn’t so much as a book drop slot for me to unload – albeit anonymously – into.
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