Thursday, September 10, 2009

There I was, on a brightly lit tennis court a few evenings ago, huffing and puffing and trying to will my leaden legs into motion, when it dawned on me that no help was coming. I had brought this state of affairs upon myself, believing in recent months that infrequent rounds of golf and a good attitude were all I needed to approximate exercise. Boy, was I wrong. Within three minutes of warming up, I was completely winded, drenched, head pounding, a living, cautionary tale for why you should purchase a membership at the Y. Imagine a walrus, if you will, being forcibly taken out of cold storage–cold, yes, even for a walrus.

What hasn’t been cold is my townhouse in the past week, since my HVAC has been on the fritz again. With a couple repairs under my belt now, I’m that much closer to becoming a certified serviceman, and sure enough my diagnosis–Freon leak–was confirmed earlier tonight. Are central air systems usually this shoddy? I’ve begun to suspect the builders, ironically named Superior Construction, may have unearthed a rich quarry of shit when they were prospecting for raw materials. Think a Bluth-quality home from Arrested Development, only made of poop.

I don’t think a coherent flow is achievable at this point, so! Urban Dictionary. I’ve heard it mentioned aloud twice in just two weeks, and such a frequency warms what’s left of my heart. Some recent favorites, if you’ll indulge me: “manther,” “hiking in Appalachia,” “douchebaguette,” and “afterclap.” These are the words I learned in class today. This is the frontier of our language, where English is made and consumed as it pulses to its own secret music. And to hear of others partaking in it? It gives me hope.