Category: Other Shit NEC

I was an almanac-carrying member of the nerd club for many years.

I wasn’t always a nerd, only since I learned math. I thought math and numbers were sorta fun. Numbers made sense to me. They were useful, they were objective facts. Obviously, a lot of other nonnumerical things are facts, too, just boring facts.

The World Almanac and Book of Facts included both types. It contained current and historical statistics and facts on government elections, education, economics, entertainment, sports, and…I need a cold shower.

The almanac was (and still is) a very handy reference book: one single, dense, handheld book, 1,000 pages long, with tons of information at one’s non-digital fingertips. A new updated edition was published every year. The almanac provided a convenient, affordable, and space-efficient way to stay up-to-date with current information and recent events, year-to-year. 

The almanac existed long before the internet, Google, and Wikipedia. I kept buying it after the advent of those things. That’s something a nerd would do. In December, soon after it was published, I would purchase the almanac for the upcoming year, because I couldn’t restrain myself until January. Why wait needlessly for the good stuff?

Adding to the anticipation, the color of the cover varied each year among three or four basic colors. I was always curious about the color for the upcoming edition. White! Oh my God, that’s amazing! Who can I tell that will also be excited? Umm, no one. So what? I’m going to tell everyone, anyway!

One particular December, I walked into our local, independent bookstore while the owner was working. She was engaged in a conversation with another customer. 

Upon seeing me enter, she said, excusing herself, “Wait a minute. I know exactly what book he wants.” Mind you, I had not uttered a word up to this point. She then walked over to the Reference shelf (which no longer exists), picked out, and handed to me the current copy of The World Almanac and Book of Facts. Sadly, she was 100% right. That’s what I’m known for. That’s my profile–Almanac Guy. I took the book and said, “Thanks.” 

She returned to her previous conversation and said, “Do I know my customers or what?” Yes, you do, at least the nerds.

Alas, at some point I had to make practical decisions about my slowly, but perpetually expanding collection of almanacs. The old editions were stored in boxes or desk drawers at work. I checked eBay to see if they carried any monetary value, but they didn’t. That was dispiriting to find, but the almanac was a mass-produced book, reasonable in price, updated and published each year, with each edition soon becoming out-of-date and less useful.

So, over the course of two emotional donations, I reluctantly bequeathed my collection of almanacs to our local trash and recycling company. 

For a few years thereafter, I would buy and retain just the current edition, on a desk, at home. But eventually, I would ask myself, Do I really need to repeat this cycle of buying a new copy and recycling it, after just one year? No. So, I finally weaned myself from the almanac.

Almanac Guy, you had a good run. You’ll have to find other ways to fulfill and define yourself. I don’t know what that will involve, just promise not to subject other people to your writing.

My wife has always been supportive of my running hobby. She has provided encouragement and crowd support for each long distance race I’ve run, even when it involved traveling out-of-town. She has endured bad sleep at a noisy two-star hotel room as well as at a nice hotel room with our restless dog.

In December 2013, we traveled to Sacramento for a race. There are four things I still remember vividly about it. 

First, at the 7:00 am start, it was 28°. Granted, the race was in Sacramento, California in December, which is undoubtedly much warmer than Sac City, Iowa in December, but that’s still cold. Due to the cold conditions, the first water station unexpectedly turned into a safety hazard. As runners grab and dispose of cups at water stations, water gets spilled and falls to the pavement. This happens at every water station at every race. But it was below 32°, so the water on the ground froze into a sheet of ice, which required runners to quickly react and adjust their footing.

Second, at around mile 20, I intentionally and stupidly made two high back kicks (heel-to-butt), to see how my legs were doing, and instantly injured the piriformis muscle and sciatic nerve in my left leg. I felt decent enough to finish the race, but my pace dropped over the last six miles. Over the next few weeks I could feel that something wasn’t right–it turned out I had injured my piriformis muscle.

Third, despite that, my finish time was decent enough that I first entertained the idea of making a serious attempt to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

However, all of this is just backstory. The most enduring and entertaining thing I remember about the race involved a pair of spectators, one of them being my supportive wife.

As a participant, I had done my planning for the race. As a spectator, my wife had also done some planning for the race, with some input from me. The general plan was for my wife to meet up with an old high school friend and watch the race and cheer on runners together. They would be stationed at a specific street corner along the race route, very close to the friend’s house, around mile 22.5. 

I was familiar with the route, I knew where to look for her.

She knew where to look for me, but I also wanted to let her know when to look for me.

So, given her precise location and its point along the route, I did the math, factoring in the start time for my corral, my target pace, the total number and duration of water stops, etc. I came up with a specific five-minute time window within which she could expect me to pass by: 10:10-10:15 am. 

The field of 6,000 would be spread out by that point, so I should be easy to pick out of the moving crowd. In retrospect, however, I should have taken a picture of myself in my running gear to visually show her and her friend exactly what to watch for.

For my part, I had run the race according to plan (with one huge exception, noted above), maintained my target pace, and was about to pass my two dedicated spectators within the calculated time window.

As I approached, I saw my wife and her friend. However, I also saw they weren’t actively watching the runners, and they clearly didn’t see me approaching. Rather, they were swept up in conversation, busy chatting away, which wasn’t entirely surprising since they are both good talkers.

In order not to be missed, I had no choice but to interrupt their verbal marathon. To get their attention, I waved an arm above my head and shouted, “Here I am! Cheer for me!” which they did, so the plan worked out, with only a small piece of impromptu directing.

For her part, all my wife had to do was watch the clock, and at 10:10 am, pay attention for five minutes. That’s it. I delivered on my part of the bargain–I ran continuously and steadily for 20+ miles, to be on time, at the pre-arranged location, as planned.

To be fair and truthful, that’s not all my wife had to do. She also had to give up her weekend, wake up early Sunday morning, check out of the hotel, scrape ice off my back car window, and drive 25 miles to meet me, at the rendezvous point, at the designated time. 

And for what? To stand outside in the cold and see her husband, whom she sees all the time anyway, for 20 fleeting but shining seconds. That is support.

On the eve of Christmas Eve, many years ago, my mom and I took a short trip to Charleston, South Carolina. While in town, my mom asked to visit a local antique shop. 

While inside, casually perusing, I came across an expensive, but otherwise nondescript wooden coffee table. Is that really the price? Why so expensive?

Granted, I didn’t know anything about the maker, wood, style, vintage, or history of the table. Did The Honorable John C. Calhoun stack his “gentlemen’s magazines” on it? I don’t know. All I saw, directly in front of me, was an old coffee table. 

“Hey Mom, did you see the price on this coffee table?”

“No. What is it?”

“Eight.”

“Hundred?”

I gave a quick head shake, to imply the presence of another zero.

My mom quickly reevaluated our presence in the shop: “We need to leave. We don’t belong in here.”

No, we don’t, and that we did–we left. No discussion, no hesitation, just legs moving. We didn’t need to buy anything in that shop and we sure as hell didn’t need to break anything.

One of my simple pleasures in life: honesty. I love honesty. Thankfully, my mom and I both understand and speak honesty fluently.

After graduating college, I worked briefly as a low-level filing clerk at a law firm. During my exit interview, my supervisor (a very professional, conservatively-dressed, 50-year-old woman) and I were discussing my experience working there, feedback from co-workers, my future plans, etc. At some point during the conversation, in this professional work setting, she asks me in all seriousness and with a straight face, “Are you a playboy?”

WHAAAAAAAAAT? 

Where did that come from? Look at me. What would even make you think that I have that option? There is absolutely nothing to indicate that. If anything, quite the opposite.

A few weeks later, I was relaying this interaction to my sister while she was driving us somewhere on the freeway. Her historic knowledge of me and the sheer absurdity of the question made her laugh hysterically and for a prolonged time. So much so that she almost had to pull over to maintain bodily control and vehicular control.

After the continuous laughter had gone on for quite some time, it became a little embarrassing.

Is it really THAT funny? Am I that much of a nerd that it is that ridiculous to even fathom? Actually, come to think of it, I am and it is. I see your point. Thank you for not crashing. Explaining the incident and the backstory to the cops and to the insurance company would have introduced additional rounds of laughter and humiliation.

“She asked what? To that guy? BAHAHAHAHA!!”