I drove to the Bruegger's Bagels at Mission Valley, and with a cup of coffee and a pumpernickel bagel with light plain cream cheese, I worked there until about 10:15, as it's right across the street from the AFTC.
After my meeting, which ended at noon, I was walking to my car, which was still parked at the Bruegger's and a man glanced at my t-shirt, and then looked back at it again. He started laughing, and the lady with him looked over, too.
"I like your shirt," he said.
I laughed back, and said, "Thank you, it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."
To which the lady yelled, as we were pretty far apart in the parking lot by this time, "My mother did it for 30 years!"
At first, I got the impression that she meant her mother was an English teacher or something.
Then she added, with a slightly bitter laugh, potentially verging on Mommie Dearest, "Even my personal letters. Sent 'em back marked up."
I drove home, where I had a quick lunch and quickly packed a bag with gym stuff to head to Planet Fitness right after work. I felt rushed and like I was forgetting something, but headed to the bus stop anyway, where I caught the Wolfline #9 Greek Village bus to work for the afternoon.
I had no other meetings this afternoon, which is always a welcomed thing.
I used Google today to once again try and get in touch with my cousin, this time in order to find out her parents' (my aunt and uncle's) anniversary for my mom. In the process, I came upon a follow-up article about the Gay-Straight Alliance that she started in Tiverton High School, and it had a curious short paragraph in it:
|Things became clearer in middle school. “That’s when I found out my cousin was gay so I thought, ‘Oh, maybe I am, too.’ It clicked.”|
I found this very interesting, as it seems as if this would have been about the time that her family and mine met in Vancouver to embark on our Alaskan cruise together.
Since I had no luck finding any email address for her through search, I decided to post a comment on that article saying it was me and asking her to get in touch with me at an email address I provided.
She eventually got back to me, and we had a nice electronic exchange, both via email and then instant message, ending in successfully securing my aunt and uncle's anniversary date of June 20, 1970.
On the way home, with the definition of "intimacy" still on my mind from yesterday, someone once again "touched" me on the bus.
A guy sitting next to me, cocking his thumb and middle finger into a weapon and flicking at my shoulder said, "You have a bug on you."
While I appreciated getting the bug off me, my first thought in the moment was, "Would I have done that? Or would I have said, 'You have a bug on you,' and waited to see if the other person said, "Please get it off me."
I got off the bus, got out of my dreams and into my car, and I drove out to Jen's in Cary, where I placed her car keys—carefully wrapped in tin foil and in a plastic container to look like food, don't ask me why—inside her front storm door.
I stopped at the gym, which was on the way back and planned that way, and as soon as I started changing into my workout clothes, I realized what I forgot to pack at lunch time. My boxer-briefs. I then had a choice—either going commando or leaving my boxers on, neither of which appealed to me.
Being as practical as I am and figuring that it wasn't going to be pretty either way, if I went commando, as that way I would at least not get my boxers drenched with sweat. So that's what I did.
I skipped the ab crunches, as it was already crowded in there and the elliptical machine that I like was available. I set the workout time for 30 minutes, but at 22 minutes my junk started chafing my thigh in such a way that I knew, even for just 8 more minutes, it wouldn't be a pretty picture tomorrow, so I stopped. Not worth it.
At a little after 8:30, I napped and when I woke up after 10:00, I had an instant message from Joe that he was actually going to Trailer Park Prize Night. I took a quick shower and headed out to meet him.
Joe and Chris were there when I arrived at a little after 11:00, and shortly after that Bob arrived. At one point, I told my bug-flicking story, which led to a discussion about not asking first to reach and tuck in someone's—what Joe and Bob both called—tag on their shirt when it's sticking out.
That term, tag, caught me off guard as it's not one I use. I call them "labels." I associate tags with two things: skin tags and metadata. However, they both pointed out, and I concede, that these days, sometimes the "label" is imprinted on the shirt instead of attached to it.
Bob and I both left at the same time, where outside he returned Bossypants to me, and I returned his Tupperware deviled egg container to him.