The week thus far has been nothing but adulting and slack. And if you know me, you know that me and adulting go together like oil and water. There is a school of thought among many that I mentally plateaued in about 7th grade, possibly 6th, but that is a discussion for another post.
When not adulting, I was balls deep in various forms of slack that included such activities as happily sitting on the back porch blindly staring into the empty void of life or trying to remember my 8th-grade math teacher’s name. The one that was a former Pitt cheerleader and fueled many a fantasy for me between the ages of 13 and 49. That might be a discussion that is best not had left for another post.
Somewhere amid the flooded basement rooms, insurance agents, restoration crews, Pandemicing, slack, and long-lost fantasies about Ms. Whatshername, I worked a few hours at the shop.
Those hours helped me get a few badge shots of an old Schwinn in for repair and witness one of the most unlikely friendships ever when a 40-something man wearing a Hawaiin shirt and flip flops came in the shop with his buddy, a 250 pound 20-something Amish guy. It had a future Hulu sitcom written all over it.
I assume that Hawaiin Shirt Dude was the Amish guy’s driver, but who knows? All I know is that the Amish guy ordered some fenders about a year ago and just now came into pick them up (they were sold ages ago) and that Hawaiin Shirt Dude bought a mountain bike even after I told him that it was too big for him and he needed a size smaller. The customer is always right, even when they are wrong.
Speaking of the shop, I’m running late to be late for my Thursday hours of gimping.
Later.