wordonism

This post is a continuation of my epic adventure to China. If you haven’t familiarized yourself with Part 1 and Part 2, those are probably good places to start. If you click on each on the links above, you’ll be taken directly to the respective pages.

It’ll fill you in on the back story, but as with many things in life, it’s your choice. Knowledge can be power, and overwhelming.

Catabolic. No Protein.

A few moments later, another flight attendant came by to offer me an extra bonus tray. At first my heart soared: they found me a chicken dish, one that had been hidden in the heart of the aircraft galley. But, alas, it was only another tray of the sides – to replace the delicious airline chicken entrée that didn’t exist anywhere but in my hungry mind.

Perhaps she took pity on me, having seen my crumpled visage, etched with the thousand sorrows that is an empty belly soaring thousands of feet in the sky. Or perhaps, her training in warding off the hanger had warned her of potential threat. I would never know.

I took the second tray gratefully, acknowledging her kindness. What it lacked in heft from the missing entrée, the tray made up in effort, albeit effort that would never fill the void left by the chicken I’ll never have. That hollow hydrochloric acid filled hole of disappointment just deep to my navel. Two soft sounds escaped my lips, my mama had taught me well.

“Shi shi”

Devious Interlopers

The moment I unwrapped the new tray, exposing the plump, curvaceous bun, I thought to myself, forget the intermittent fast, I’m going to carb load instead. This is the power of metabolic flexibility. Unencumbered by only one dieting style, I could freely choose the path I wanted. This was true freedom.

The buns were warm and soft. They melted the butter on contact. The salads, while containing raisins hidden among the foliage and chickpeas, were pretty good as well. Only because I was able to pick out all those vile little buggers thanks to the thousands of dollars I had spent almost a decade ago on laser eye surgery. As life does, it just proved to me you may have to wait, but you will see the value in some of your long ago decisions.

Except one little fucker.

It snuck in and assaulted my taste buds. But with a quick ‘Pfffth’ towards the first class cabin, problem solved.

In this case, I went for distance, not height, knowing the overhead bins had the potential to cause ricochet return fire. The risk was too great. The cake was soft and moist – though not chocolate, it was pretty tasty nonetheless (it was not seafood flavoured and didn’t have raisins, really that’s all that mattered in that moment).

The Flight Continues.

It’s now 5 hours that we’ve been in the air. The fancy LCD screen firmly affixed to the back of the seat ahead of me, sharply angled downward due to the recline of the seat back, enveloped my crotch in its faint blue glow in the quiet, fart filled darkness of the airplane cabin, the time to destination alternating in the top right corner between itself and the local time at origin.

Only about 7.5 hours to go.

I’ve watched one movie already, played one game of black and white, and will soon start another movie.

It’s at this point I’ll pause my writings and pick up again if anything interesting should occur.

Thanks for reading, dear reader. Knowing you’re here with me as I relive this big adventure will make it more palatable for me.

[author’s note: these posts were crafted from the in vivo, real-time notes and musings of our protagonist while on the trip itself, this is totally the reason for all grammatical errors, typos, syntax miscues etc]

Photo by Mai Moeslund on Unsplash

The following is Part 2 of 5. Read Part 1 Here. The other parts to follow over the next week or so.

Perhaps, with my words, I may assist other non-travelers in their own journeys. Or perhaps not.

Only by reading, and heeding, will you find out.

The second leg – The long leg.

There was 13 hours of flying ahead of me. The longest I’d ever been on an airplane in my life. Trapped. Enclosed. Essentially immobile. The longest I’ve been away from a ‘safe’ restroom. There was no other option, so I made my peace.

I had been told by my more well-traveled friends to seek an aisle seat.

They had advised me that this vaunted position facilitated one’s ability to stave off those pesky DVTs as well as future emboli, and further allowed easy egress for restroom breaks when one’s bladder or bowels forced the issue. Which was a certainty in the next 13 hours.

Unfortunately for me, it was not to be.

Madame Fortune would not gaze lovingly down upon my countenance with her soft, chocolate eyes, bathing me in the deep love and compassion she carried safely in her soul for a novice traveler like myself.

Having had no hand in the booking process or setting up the flight ticket, I had no prior ability to choose my seat. In fact, there wasn’t even an option to complete an online check-in or even to upgrade seats, if I were inclined to live large and make it rain.

My boarding pass didn’t lie. 52A. Another window seat. Just like the flight before, but this one for 13 hours. Ugh.

I found my seat and organized my carry on items. The plane filled up quickly, the crew brisk and efficient, as though they had done this before many times. The two seats beside me remained empty.

No one was coming my way…

That deep, secret feeling of joy welled up inside me. I let myself revel in it, just a little. I didn’t want to get carried away, let that feeling grow too big only to be crushed later.

Could it be? Could I have the whole row to myself?

As you likely guessed, I did not.

All the seats filled up. Including the two formerly empty ones beside me. Good thing I was smart enough not to let myself feel too much joy earlier. It would have been devastating. It’s much easier to have not had than to have had then had taken away. At least this way, it was only mildly disappointing.

Pinned against the window seat, knowing that for 13 hours every time I required an exit, I would be disturbing the people beside me, I settled in. It was what it was. In the end, we were 30,000 feet in the sky, traveling to the other side of the world.

Still fucking amazing. Every single time.

Counting Sheeps.

With that thought, I wrapped up my neck in my brand-new, bright red sleep supporting choker that my good friend Rumu had ordered for me using her magical Amazon Prime, and shut my eyes.

To my new seat mates, it probably looked like there was some element of auto-erotic asphyxiation as I looped that band tightly around my throat, barely cutting off the air supply, achieving that nice fuzzy light headedness we all enjoy a little, sometimes.

With a content smile softly settling on the chapped, cracked corners of my mouth, the result of failed hydration attempts with Coke Zero, I shut my eyes and thought to myself how this device was working exactly as promised, much better than those useless U-shaped neck pillows.

The weariness and stress of international travel, the ever-present fear of missing flights, and the insanely early morning wake-up to check and double check everything before the journey departure finally caught up to me.

Respite. My eyelids heavy, I let them fall, turned off my mind, and slept.

I woke up well-refreshed with absolutely no neck stiffness or pain thanks to the fancy neck pillow, brought to consciousness by the low rumble of the meal carts being pushed through the narrow aisles. Clickity-clack. The timing was impeccable, as on my awakening my belly rumbled in hunger. The effect of missed sour patch kids, for sure.

I could make out the quiet, hushed tones of the flight attendants asking the passengers for their choice of meal.

“Would you like the chicken or the salmon?”

As the flight attendant arrived at our row, she spoke in Chinese to the couple beside me. They responded in kind and both received their trays. They were having the salmon. It was my turn now. I looked up at her, my still cracked-mouth already forming the words, but she cut me off before I even had a chance.

It’s like she knew. But she actually didn’t.

“We only have the salmon left”

I broke a little. The tiniest of cracks inside my fortress deep and mighty, to match those on my parched lips.

I don’t like seafood. At all. In any way. In any style. Any type. No you can’t convince me otherwise. Just like everyone tries.

Something strange happened. It’s was as though I didn’t understand her, an epic misunderstanding. Panic welled up inside and spilled out of me, coating my words in their thick, tell-tale grime. It was quite embarrassing really.

“I’ll have the chicken.”

“No sir, we only have the fish left.”

“So there’s no more chicken?”

My voice had risen a few octaves. The panic even more apparent, more viscous. She looked at me with those knowing eyes. Compassionate, but firm.

“No sir, we only have salmon left, do you want salmon?”

“No thank you. Are you sure there’s no more chicken?”

It didn’t compute. I couldn’t fathom, couldn’t comprehend. The fog, unshakeable. How could it be? I shook my head. How could this happen? How could this happen, to me?

“Sorry sir, but there’s only the fish.”

Acknowledging defeat.

Our eyes met again, mine defeated and broken, hers with kindness masking the exasperation of having to deal with flight passengers on a regular basis, with their problems and concerns and demands.

She handed me the tray, minus the fish entrée.

There was a chick pea and carrot salad. A soft, warm bun with a nice side pat of butter beside it and a small piece of cake to round it out. There on the bottom right corner of the platter was the empty rectangle of what could have been my chicken and rice. My entrée. Desired but unattainable. The curse of the sour patch kids had struck again.

My eyes affixed on that void, where my chicken should have been.

It was not to be.

Adapt.

This was the first big lesson. Adapt.

Life has a way of teaching you that things won’t always go your way. There are circumstance beyond your control. Roll with them. Take the punches in your face. Absorb them. You were never that pretty to begin with. Not pretty enough for the chicken. Make the best of what you got. With that in mind, I steeled myself for the hunger, that empty burning in the pit of my belly.

Sometimes, you just have to extend your intermittent fast.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

This is the first part in a multi-part series of my travel to China last year, exactly a year ago to this day, January 2nd 2018.

This is a true story. Not simply based on one.

While parts of this story may have been disclosed in various ways over time, to various people, through various means, this is the whole thing, unabridged for you to use as you see fit.

As a lesson? A warning? Perhaps even a long-winded yarn to be disregarded until you too find yourself on a flight across the world, the searing pain of mental self-flagellation stinging as you think to yourself, I should have heeded the Wordonist.

It’s taken me this long to process the events of that period of my life. To build up the internal fortitude to come face to face again with the intense feelings and emotions that reviewing my initial notes and journal entries to put these words down, was sure to evoke.

The memories. Harsh. Jagged. Sharp.

Here they are, dear reader.

Takeoff.

It’s a couple days in to 2018 and things have started off on a different foot than usual.

As I write this, I’m tens of thousands of feet above the ground, safely encapsulated within a soaring metal carriage hurtling through the atmosphere at hundreds and hundreds of kilometres per hour.  That alone is an incredible, awe inspiring thought.

What a time to be alive, no?

Today marks the beginning of my roughly 5 week adventure in China – an opportunity that developed rather quickly over the past 3 weeks. In that time, I’ve probably felt a gamut of emotions and feelings that I haven’t felt for what seems like an eternity – stress, anxiety, loss of control – not that I’m perfect, but as you’ve undoubtedly gathered, I’m pretty damn close.

Over the past few years, I’ve lead a relatively structured life. I was in control of everything. I was the one responsible for making my daily decisions and making my choices. It was I, who was responsible for getting everything that needed to get done, done. I own and run my own business. I am in charge. It was just the way I like it.

My Napoleon syndrome was at ease. Because I was the Boss.

I’ve departed to meet up with the team, most of whom would have arrived prior to me; my flight itinerary robust, with stops in Montreal, followed by Beijing then finally arriving at my final destination of Changchung, in the Jilin province of China. 

As I sit here in the sky, I don’t know exactly where I’ll be staying but I do know that I’ll find out in roughly 20 hours.

I stand corrected.

19 hours and 35 minutes, to be precise – if all goes according to the e-ticket I have “tucked” safely into my ancient, nearly 5 year old Samsung Note 3 smartphone. It had the fancy stylus. Though rarely used, I liked that.

The last time I flew trans-oceanic was an eternity passed, so long ago that I don’t know whether I crossed the Atlantic or the Pacific ocean – hence the use of trans-oceanic. It was over 34 or 35 years ago. An adulthood ago, you might say. Enough time that I’ve grown quite a bit since then, though my friends may argue not much in height, only in paunch.

Being a novice flyer with that constant, nagging fear of missing flights or other such disaster, and also conveniently hitching a ride to the airport with a buddy on his way to work, I arrived with plenty of time to spare. Three and a half hours, in fact.

In my mind I kept considering my flight an international one with a suggested 3 hour pre-flight check in, but I soon realized that the first leg would still be considered domestic, as it was Toronto to Montreal, but that thought had slipped my overworked, anxious brain. I digress…

As one does when faced with excess time at the airport, and being but a mere economy class rider with no fancy lounge access, I bought stuff. Well, I bought one stuff – a Coke Zero.

If you know me, you may be wondering what got in to me at this point. I never imbibe in diet or calorie reduced beverages. That’s not my style. It’s never been my thing because, hell, I love the taste of sugar. And I’m perpetually on a “bulk”.  So more calories is always something I strive for, sneaking them in when I can.

However, this was one of those rare times that I used my brain and did that logic thing.

In this case, I knew I’d be on a plane, ideally snake free. I knew I’d be slowly dehydrating, much in the same way that raisins are made –take something beautiful like a grape, and turn it into something vile and disgusting, a shrunken, shriveled sack of it’s former glorious self.

I couldn’t let this happen to me.

So my mind knew I had to stay hydrated while at the same time minimizing my simple sugar intake. And as an added bonus, not rot my teeth (which, in reality, I could have just brushed as I made sure to pack my toothbrush and toothpaste for easy access in my carry on baggage, not to be confused with my personal baggage, which is heavier and also travels everywhere I go – knowing the difference here was the first step in upgrading my novice traveler status card to sophomore).

As I was walking up to the counter of the Relay station, those airport ubiquities that offer all the things you’d crave, want, desire, or need on any form of airplane travel, to pay the requisite King’s Ransom for the bottle of frosty Black Gold I held so gingerly, I saw them.

They called. They beckoned. They whispered my name in that siren call I’ve often fought so hard against in the treat aisle at the local grocery store.

“We are here”

“Look at us”

“Feel us, so soft, so tender, so juicy”

“We’re fresh, we’re colourful, we are just like you imagine us”

“Just like at the movies.”

Those fucking little sour patch kids.

I could feel their eyes fixed on me. Those beady indentations with their little sugared irises. Their expressions of joy and delight, entreating me.

Don’t fear, dear reader, I held strong.

Even after picking up the package. Even after feeling their comforting heft in my calloused, yet silky hands. Pressing into the package flesh, feeling the give of freshness, that telltale sign that their words held true, they were indeed fresh. Soft. Pliable.

In that instant, I could actually feel one of them in my mouth. Manipulated by my tongue, every taste bud experiencing sensory ecstasy. The mouthfeel a marvel of modern science, knowing that millions of dollars of research had been invested in that one delectable moment. Just like a Dorito’s crunch. An experience. The distinct flavour of green, washing over my taste buds as explosions of flavour cascaded, first around the border of my Homunculus’ exaggerated tongue, then in my psyche.

Sweet and sour.

It was electric. That connection.

This was a dangerous game I played. But I resisted, and let me tell you, I don’t know where I was able to summon that inner strength and discipline from. That incredible ability to just walk away.

I carefully hung the package back up on it’s metal hook. And walked away.

Fine. Since it’s just us, I’ll tell you my secret.

I had left my Amex Black card at home, and there was no way the limit on my regular Visa would have allowed me to put down that level of credit for such a small package. Airport candy is not cheap. And it’s worse when I know how much I could have bought that exact same package for at the grocery store. Or even the corner convenience store.

So in the end, after my large Brazilian-Canadian Icon Tim Horton’s hot chocolate and two, toasted everything bagels with generous dollops of herb and garlic cream cheese, I settled into a surprisingly comfortable chair at my departure gate, with just my Coke Zero and broken dreams of sour patch kids that never were – I remained childless.

Within no time, or just under 2 hrs, boarding was called and my journey was set to begin.

The first leg of travel was uneventful. Exactly the way one would hope a flight would be. With minimal delay due to frigid conditions and a minor pit stop for some casual de-icing, we were on our way to Montreal, just a hop, skip and zoom away.

Touchdown. The first one.

After what seemed like a blink of an eye (barely over an hour in flight speak), we touched down in even more arctic conditions in Montreal’s Pierre Eliott Trudeau International Airport (YUL). The layover in Montreal was going to be about twice as long as the flight to get there.

Upon deplaning and then reviewing my boarding passes, I realized that my next departure gate wasn’t printed on them. Having never been to YUL, I wandered my arrivals areas for a few moments before I found what I was looking for. Obviously it was the bathroom. Clean and well appointed, it was conducive to facilitating the call of nature.

As you’ll come to realize shortly, my biggest challenge with long duration air travel is not the air travel itself (I’m not a nervous flyer, and have no travel anxiety), but my aversion for airplane bathrooms.

In reality, it’s not just an aversion to airplane loos, I have an aversion to virtually every stranger bathroom I’ve come across. It’s my version of stranger danger. It’s been like this since I was a kid. I know I’m not the only one. Many of you likely suffer from the same affliction, calling events short to head home to the comfort of the known.

I can count on one hand the number of times I was able to take respite in the loos of high school. It was zero times. So I don’t even need a hand.

But lucky for me, I just had to pee, and in virtually every case, I can make that happen with just a little bit of focus and effort. Remember, I was a large hot chocolate and a bottle of Coke Zero in at this point. The goal of hydration achieved.

As I saw my reflection in the speckled bathroom mirror while washing my hands, I gave myself a little nod. An affirmation. Acknowledgement for a job well done thus far both as it pertains to flying and as it pertains to the use of the public washroom.

Apparently the guy washing his hands next to me thought I was nodding to him because in that instant, our eyes met and he gave me a nod, too.

It’s also possible I was mistaken. Though rare, it does happen on occasion. Perhaps he had heard me whispering words of encouragement to myself just a few moments earlier at the urinals.

“You got this buddy!”

“You can do it”

He left and there I remained alone again with my reflection, contemplating what was to come ahead. I pulled out my now disheveled ponytail and re-tied it. It took me 3 attempts and it ended up looking identical to the starting point, stray hairs escaping, flyaways knowing I too was about to flyaway.

With that thought in mind, I pulled the elastic loose and tried one more time.

Success. This one had at least 86.8% of my hair neatly packaged. It was good enough. Sometimes that’s all that we need: to be good enough.

I returned to the boarding area to bide my time. Lucky I went back as early as I did as they soon called on those passengers with Air Canada boarding passes to come up to the help desk and have those passes reissued with Air China, the airline operating the international portion of the flight.

This did, however, cause a slight blip in my plan. Initially I was just going to sit and wait patiently in the boarding area until the second flight was boarded. But because I was already up and moving, I noticed another Relay station just barely in the distance.

It called. And I answered.

Another Coke Zero. For fighting the raisining. And a package of Original flavour Jack Links beef jerky. Because we all know how important protein is for gains. I was still bulking.

After about another half hour or so, they called our flight and off we went to board.

Not a bad first leg for a novice flyer on a big adventure to China, I thought.

Therein lay my error. The mistake of ages. This was to be an epic adventure…

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash

Some of you may recognize it from a past year, say, perhaps, 2017, but the words still hold true. If not truer still.

As 2018 draws to its inexorable denouement, dear reader, I leave you with this…

Thank you.

Thank you for having been here with me. In this space. My space. But not Myspace. In my small little corner of the web, inspired by Charlotte, but wholly by me. A budding wordonist practicing wordonism, deriving simple pleasures from letters affixed just so beside each other.

Thank you for having read those very words that I sometimes struggled to put down. That came out jumbled from my brain, defying the synaptic gymnastics that worked against their liberation. The resistance within.

For consuming the words that I used to try to give you an honest, forthright glimpse into my uncurated life. Unfettered. My real life. My simple life. Basically, my real simple life.

The words that I wrote for the voices in my head. For the voices in my bed. The soft, quiet ones. The loud, brash ones. Those that were stoic. Those that were staid. The ones that cajoled, and creeped, and cackled at all hours. Keeping me awake. Keeping me asleep. Simply keeping me. A kept man.

These words of mine that belie the inglorious battles I have faced this past year. And years before then. Big and small. Mountains and molehills. With one commonality. They are always epic in nature. Against nature. Au natural. Just like the way I sleep.

Battles against my own inner daemons. Even the fancy ones with the extra a. The ones I know we all have. That we are sometimes too afraid to share. Too afraid to give voice, and with that voice, life and power.

We are the same, dear reader, you and I.

Ashamed of the judgements, the hushed whispers in the shadows, in the dark. Or worse, in the light. That harsh white light that washes out my smoove chocolate skin tone. Muting me. Silencing me. While putting me in the spot light. The pointing and laughing, which we all know are sometimes acceptable independently, rarely acceptable together, and never together in the bedroom.

And the memories of 2017, not repeated in 2018, of losing inches. And that was just after losing 4 inches. Which doesn’t seem like much, but apparently people notice. People talk. People can be so cruel. Apparently every inch matters. See if I decide to cut my hair ever again…and I didn’t this year.

Then there are the legendary battles against the equally terrifying external daemons, both big and small, and sometimes smaller, like that time on Halloween, when we should all be so fortunate to amass great fortune in free candy…I would have won too, and been richer in those little Snickers and Mars bars, if that little fucker hadn’t called his mom over to save him…

In any case, the details don’t matter.

Isn’t that what we’ve learned again this year? Along with the past few years? That facts aren’t important? That we can make them up along the way, or ignore the truth as we see fit? Bending it to our will as a farrier forges the golden horseshoes for that lucky horse.

But what does matter is you. All that matters is you. You matter. And not just because you’re made up of atoms and molecules, or electrons, neutrons, and protons. It’s much deeper than that.

You being there for me. Sharing your time. Your precious time. The time you’ll never get back. And your precious attention. Of which I want it all. Every last bit. My Precious.

And I don’t know if I can express my gratitude clearly or plainly in a way that you’d understand how much it means to me. How much you mean to me.

Every one of you. Especially you.

Yes, you.

That we were given this chance to connect. To intertwine our lives and beings. Gorilla glued in place. To bondage in such a way that we couldn’t escape those precious moments that tied us together as we shared my words, my lessons, and sometimes my pictures in 2018.

Here’s to you and yours. And now ours.

I raise a toast. Slightly burnt, but generously coated in hypoallergenic nut butter to conceal the faint essence of stroke so as not to alarm you.

To our continued adventures. You and me.

To always learning lessons from life, loves, and libations.

To You.

Photo by Steven VanDesande Jr on Unsplash

A year ago today I took a gamble.

When playing the odds, especially in cases like the ones I’ve been playing, coming up ahead 2 out of 3 times is actually a very good thing.

Especially when playing with insurance companies.

The first.

There I was, on my way to work as I do. Seated comfortably upright, spine in neutral, bolstered by the surprisingly comfy economy seats of my very economy ride. My trusty Little Blue Belle. My mirrors, side and rear view, were checked and re-checked. Affixed at the best vantage to afford me the greatest visual capacity with the slightest of cervical migrations.

The gas tank, while less thirsty than its predecessor, was still amply replete with the lowest priced regular unleaded (who says that anymore these days, right?) gasoline ($1.17/L, CAD, circa Dec 2017) to fuel my 17 km journey, knowing that this time, with lessons learned from running on empty, I would not be stuck and facing certain death.

My mind was clear and free. My heart, still the barren wasteland it has always been.

And I drove, knowing that this was the second last day of my work week before a New Year. Before a fresh start. Before the imagined greatness of New Years Eve Eve was upon me.

As I came upon my usual right turn at my usual intersection to head North, I slowed down to stop for the red light, as is the law. While doing so, I noticed that the car ahead had decelerated a bit more rapidly than I would have expected, and I would soon learn why.

The roads were slick, gently adorned by a coating of soft, grimy slush-like snow, unfit for human consumption, much like the yellow variety we’ve all been warned against eating from our youth.

Years ago, my parents in their all knowing wisdom, the kind only parents possess, had put me in ‘extra defensive’ driving classes. The lesson: leave room between yourself and the car ahead. Many chevrons. A lesson I had taken to heart, whether consciously or subconsciously, it bode well for me in that moment.

I hit that same slick, icy patch and felt the ABS kick in.

As further taught in that same driving class, I kept steady pressure, confident in technological advances over the past 25 years, trusting Little Blue Belle to do the needful. The patch was overcome, to be clear, not just due to technology, but also due to our protagonist’s incredible, mad driving skills. The tires, compelled by the brakes caught purchase.

The car came to a stop.

I had avoided sliding, in an unbecoming fashion, into the car stopped ahead. With room to spare.

At that same instant, as I was braking, my eyes were trained on the previously described, properly adjusted, rear-view mirror.

An involuntary smile escaped my pursed, lush lips. I shook my head. Time, in all its magnificence, slowed. A VHS cassette played in slow motion. Grainy. Frame by frame. It was quite an experience.

The guy behind me had hit the same icy patch. He, perhaps, had not done the same driving course because unfortunately, for both he and I, there wasn’t enough space for his car to stop. That is, until his bumper kissed mine.

Without consent.

And as we know, that never turns out well.

The second.

Driving to work the week before on the Thursday, taking the same route as always, something different happened.

A rock flung by a semi truck careened from the ground and sped at incredible speed, possibly light speed, towards my Little Blue Belle.

That sound. That sound. It can never be unheard. Echoing. Reverberating. That siren call of what was to happen.

An audible gasp escaped my pursed, lush lips. Pain, which I don’t believe in, welled up inside me. One word encapsulating that experience, softly emitted, like air escaping an opened valve. Low and drawn out.

Ooooooooouch.

Fortunately, no crack was seen on inspection. No damage was done.

Until that night. That cold, frigid night.

Knowing that a winter storm was brewing and would wreak havoc in the early morrow, we decided to head towards the far North that evening.

Setting off for the roughly 400 km trek, supplies were packed and we set off. The same tank was filled up, leaving nothing to chance like years before as written about in the recent past.

That glint. That soul crushing glint.

It came just mere moments after turning on the defogger to full blast to keep the growing internal fog away.

The growth.

That heart breaking growth.

Like a newly emerging root, seeking new space, new sustenance, it grew. From what started off as what I can only imagine a virtually invisible chip, in the matter of just a few moments, became an incredible rift, one to rival even the magnificent Great Rift Valley.

The windshield would need to be replaced. It was beyond saving. All in just moments.

A year ago today.

Calling my insurance company after submitting an online claim from the rear-ending, I discussed my windshield coverage which I hadn’t had a chance to discuss as yet. I was in luck. I could get both repairs done at the same time, using their preferred vendor without losing any further time. Because as we all know, time is our most valuable currency, and when you can save any of it to invest in more enjoyable pursuits, that is success.

So that’s the two out of three.

The third.

Having experienced such great luck with my insurer that day, I was overjoyed. Happiness beyond belief. This never happens. It’s never this easy. No fault. Deductible – waived. Ahhh, luck.

But, with any luck, it soon runs out.

Opening an envelope, I sliced my finger. Blood. Blood everywhere. Bright crimson. Erupting with the anger of Vesuvius awoken from deep slumber.

It was like a murder scene, for ants.

Reflecting back on all the insurance success I had today, I called my disability insurance provider.

This was my chance. My third claim.

Denied.

Photo by Jilbert Ebrahimi on Unsplash

There are times when I truly believe that Mr Charles Darwin is trying to channel himself directly through me, to hand out his prestigious award to those most deserving.

While driving home in the shadow enshrouded rain today, it reminded me of a time where I almost bestowed it, in such a manner, upon a man a few short years back.

I can recall clearly how he was clad in a stylish, full track suit, emanating the loveliest shade of midnight black, perfectly suited to help him be at one with dark and dusk, like long-lost, then found, lovers firmly entangled in each others arms in a pit of tarry molasses.

His outfit was brilliantly accompanied by an oversized matte black umbrella which was surely helpful in maintaining the dryness of his perfectly appointed clothing, in the heavy, tumbling rain.

The problem was that in his well-dressed stupor, he was walking with his back to traffic, which in and of itself, isn’t often an issue, unless one chooses to do so in a live traffic lane, besides the perfectly empty sidewalk.

Yes, he was actually in the lane.

The lane I happened to be driving in.

All I can say is he should be happy that I had recently sold a kidney and had completed all my automotive servicing, including advanced brake maintenance, on my well appointed 1998 Honda Civic.

And that I have heavy-footed, yet cat-like reflexes.

For the record, dear reader, my brakes worked awesomely. As did my horn.

He, on the other hand, likely had to invest in some new underpants.

Photo by Konstantin Planinski on Unsplash