The wife and I have been doing yoga for the past few months. I enjoy the workout and stretching my aging, longshoreman-like back. I do not enjoy the overuse of an obscure language from antiquity, the smug flexible students that can pull their youthful ankles up through the back of their assholes and the music. Especially the music. It is a combination of Indian restaurant waiting room, New Age spirituality and Yanni Live At The Acropolis. I know the goal of the soundtrack is to relax the soul into peaceful reflection, but it has the quite opposite effect on me. I spend much of my meditative experience fantasizing about tracking down whoever recorded the music and kicking their head through a plate glass window. Then a sense of calm washes over me and I feel alright with the world and my place in it. So I guess in a roundabout way, mission accomplished.
- My pregnant wife has not taken her crazy hormonal levels out on me. Yet.
- My pregnant wife and unborn child are in good health.
- The 20 stupidest GI Joe vehicles ever.
- I am living the pants-free dream again and no longer working in Design Purgatory.
- My lower back is no longer destroyed.
- Learning about this before the wife dragged me to see Twilight tonight (yes, the crowd was rife with loser-tastic Emo kids. And for the love of God, Edward, just turn Bella into a vampire).
- Rachel Ray and Ann Coulter with be silenced through the month of December.
Americans all have their own traditions for the Thanksgiving holiday. The wife and I are usually run in the Turkey Trot pre-gluttony, but in lieu of her being with child, we are skipping this year and instead I am skating in an early morning ice hockey game at Denver University. We will then partake in two Thanksgiving meals; one at my parent’s house in the afternoon and one at the wife’s parents house in the evening. Sarah Palin, on the other hand, will have a quiet holiday at home, cooking a turkey for her husband and her children named after English towns. This will occur, of course, after some guy slaughters a turkey during her interview with a local television network. We are all different, yet we are all the same.
About a month and half ago, the wife decided to get off birth control to, “See what happens?” Three weeks later, the wife excitedly woke me up by waving a positive pregnancy test in my face. My immediate response was, “Did you just pee on that?” I spent the rest of the day like I think most men do upon finding out their woman is with child; praising my sperm and a youth spent rubbering up and then planning all the chores my child will perform once it is potty-trained. For the past few weeks I have been running the gamut of emotions; happiness, excitement and the crippling fear that I will soon be responsible for another human life. Later today we have our first doctor’s appointment where a man twice my age will familiarize himself with my wife’s lady parts while I watch helplessly. Operation Baby Thunder and nine months of a personal designated driver has officially begun!
Friday. The wife and I attend a homemade rib bonanza at Team Muff’s house where we drain shitty Mexican beer and play a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit 90s Edition. Proof that we have all turned into our parents: we began questioning the “correctness” of card answers and commenting on how staying up until 11:30 seemed “late.”
Saturday. The wife and I attend a barbecue at DJs which we learn upon walking into his house is actually his birthday party. The wife gets angry at me for not knowing it was his birthday (even though it was on the Evite) and I explain to her that knowing when your guy friends birthday is is totally gay, and if I bought a gift for him we would have to move in together and begin re-decorating his house in the finest tapestries and velvets. I down a homemade chili beer that I regret four hours later, eat some swine and watch some UFC fighting. The wife and I decided to duck out early to get some sleep. When we arrive back at home, Team Hofkamp stops over with a twelve pack of shitty Mexican beer and cigarettes. We hang out in our backyard for an hour until my neighbor invites us over the fence to share in his raging backyard chimenea fire and more shitty Mexican beers and cigarettes. Four hours and eight beers later, we go to bed.
Sunday. The wife and I walk over to the movie multiplex to catch the new Indiana Jones joint. On the way, we stop to view the recently dedicated (but unfinished) Armed Forces Tribute Garden. We grab a burger and some Lumpy Dogs at the Rock Bottom Brewery before watching yet another abortion written by George Lucas. Why do you hate me George Lucas? Aliens and UFOs? Shia LaBeouf as some sort of 1950s hood with a Pompadour and switchblade swinging on vines with monkeys? Next thing you know, you will be telling me that the force is some kind of blood disorder. Oh. Right.
Monday. The wife, myself and 52,000 other people run the Bolder Boulder under the cover of cool mist and fog. My back (almost fully healed from the bulged disc) feels great and I finish in just over an hour. We retire to the homestead for a much needed shower and nap. Later we attend two more Memorial Day barbecues that feel like autumn barbecues due to the inclement weather. I play ping pong. I play foosball. I play 3-square with a beer in my hand. I go to sleep wishing I celebrated three day weekends more often.
After two months of waiting/suffering, I finally got in to see the neurosurgeon to go over my MRI results. Why did it take two months, you ask? Welcome to the magical land of Kaiser Health Insurance. I was lucky that the technicians did not start throwing silverware and change near the magnetic field to see if something would stick during the scan. While the three weeks after my MRI in early December were brutal (my pain was easily a 9 out of 10), the beginning of January saw my body healing itself naturally. I was no longer popping anti-inflammatories like candy and I could actually get off the couch to participate in physical activities without being leveled for days afterwards. The neurosurgeon was a genial older woman with years of experience dealing with crippling injuries and miserable people. When going over my results, she said, “Wow. You do not do anything half way, do you?” She then called in another neurosurgeon to concur that my irritable L5 was one of the worst bulged discs she had ever seen. Luckily my back will require no surgery or painkillers going forward as my body has the super healing capabilities of Wolverine.
Now that the bulged disc is mostly healed, the sciatic nerve is growing less annoying by the day and my stupid injury is tolerating two league nights of ice hockey again, the wife and I decided to get back on the fitness train. For Xmas we bought ourselves a treadmill and are looking into a bench and dumbbell set (I am hoping some recently divorced father of three will be unloading a joint cheap on Craigslist because he is moving into a crappy one bedroom apartment due to crushing monthly alimony and child support payments). These fitness items all fit nicely into our unfinished basement. My goal is to be back in pristine condition for the 2008 Runnin’ Of The Green in the middle of March (Runnin’ Of The Green is a 7K road race through downtown Denver which features free beer and corned beef upon crossing the finish line. The Irish finally got something right).
On Monday we started a high-fiber, high-vitamin cleansing that has shaved four pounds off my middle and has seen feces flying from my ass faster than a midget being fired from a cannon (I tallied a lifetime record ten bowel movements today that were both refreshing and enjoyable). We finish said cleansing this Saturday when I will start eating solid food again in lieu of fitness shakes and health bars.
The wife and I celebrated our annual Thanksgiving tradition and ran in the Denver Turkey Trot this morning. The weather was beautiful and my legs and lungs felt good. My iPod crapped out on me during mile 3 and after numerous attempts to reboot the device, I am now faced with retiring the old girl for one of those new fangled jimmys. Soon we will be off to gorge on basted fowl and curse Jake Plummer as he fumble fucks around on the gridiron and causes our beloved Broncos lose two in a row to division rivals. Happy Thanksgiving.
I just got back from an appointment with the oral surgeon for an errant wisdom tooth that was going the way of the cavity. The tooth in question was tucked behind a mass of muscle and bone next to another wisdom tooth. The tooth was impossible to reach with a brush and even more difficult to put a filling in so the obvious solution was to yank it out of my head. Being as my health care benefits run out at the end of September, the time was nigh to do so. Even under happy gas and Novocain, I felt extreme pressure, a violent tug and impressive agony as Doctor Mengele extracted the diseased tooth with his medieval dentistry devices. As I post this, my mouth is packed full of gauze, I theorize to having swallowed a shot glass of blood and I am sitting on a prescription of Percosets in case I go all Mary and cannot handle the pain. It could have been worse, I suppose.
A doctor gets in trouble for calling a patient obese. Does the truth hurt, you sloppy bitch? If you can get off your ass to file a complaint then you can get off your ass to get on an elliptical machine.