My Life Stories

School Drop-Off, Instant Karma

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

I can’t bear to send my kids outside to the bus on bitter Minnesota mornings. Maybe it’s guilt, perhaps pity—probably both. Either way, if I decide it’s too cold, I announce I will take them to school, scoffing at the idea of forcing them to walk. 

You won’t catch me dishing out “back in my day” lectures about trudging uphill both ways in a blizzard. Truth is, I didn’t walk to school a day in my life—not in the snow, ice, or rain, not one way, not even once.

If I tried to preach a parenting platitude about how rough I had it, the worst I could come up with would be, “Oh yeah? You think you have it bad? I was forced to listen to NPR on the drive to school,” which I’ve been tempted to say whenever my kids can’t agree on what music to play on our four-minute commute.

Granted, being forced to listen to public radio doesn’t have the same cachet as frostbitten body parts. But my fellow ’90s NPR kids know it was its own form of psychological torture. When you’re twelve and looking forward to Car Talk and The Splendid Table, something’s off—and if you don’t see a problem… well, you’re part of it.

Listening to NPR was my version of trudging uphill in the snow. It didn’t cause frostbite, but it sure built character. 

Like most parents, I’m trying to improve on my own childhood experiences. They’re not massive overhauls–just subtle touch-ups, like saying yes to the things that would have been hard no’s when I was a kid. Sometimes, I overcorrect.

This is why, when I deem the weather too frigid for the bus, my kids’ ride-to-school soundtrack is whatever pop song they’re obsessed with–almost certainly picked for the swear word(s) they know I’ll let slide. Parenting is a pendulum, and listening to “Please, Please, Please” by Sabrina Carpenter is a long way from Morning Edition, so I may have swung a tad too far in the opposite direction.

Live and learn.

On a typical day, I have nowhere to be. So, when the weather forces me to drive my precious angels to school, I try to bring some positive energy to the school drop-off line.

I turn up the music and do my best to entertain them–anything to shield them from the foreboding feeling of being trapped in a car on the way to yet another day of school. 

If you’ve never had the privilege of braving an elementary school drop-off line, well, good for you. Whatever choices have kept you in that blissful ignorance, I respect them.

Picture a parking lot after a jam-packed event nobody wanted to attend. Everyone’s in a mad rush to get someplace they don’t want to go, convinced their daily tasks are more important than anyone else’s. That’s a morning drop-off.

Most days, though, I’m cool, calm, and collected. It’s a rare, fleeting window when my kids give me their undivided attention. I tell them stories from my school days if they occur to me, or we’ll chase down their fantastical “what if” scenarios. “Daddy, what if we lived in the school?” 

On the days they’re cranky, I shift my attention to the kindergarteners ahead falling out of the back of minivans in their snowsuits–colorful backpacks (the ones they had to have) bobbing behind them as they march to the main entrance. Waving goodbye to their parents over their shoulders. 

I’ve learned that if you focus, you can spot the moment the driver in the car ahead morphs from parent to ordinary adult–a glance at their phone, a change in posture, and they’re off in a hurry to prove they can still thrive in a “fast-paced environment.”

My role in all this is simple: keep the line moving for whoever’s behind me, just in case they’re having a tough morning.

Some days, it feels like one of those mornings for the entire drop-off line. The negative energy is palpable as it seeps through the cracks of my car along with the frozen air, no matter how hard I try to stay zen.

This happened on a morning in January. 

A few teachers—selfless souls impervious to subzero temperatures or the ones nobody likes–stand in the bitter cold to direct traffic. The designated drop-off lane was jammed on this morning, resulting in a complete standstill.

I said goodbye to my kids, hoping no teacher-turned-traffic cop would catch a glimpse of my car’s interior, which a six-year-old once dubbed “a trash can.” 

As I inched forward, it became clear the line wouldn’t move any time soon. The car in front of me hadn’t budged. A second line of vehicles was attempting to merge into the drop-off line of cars from the parking lot–a big no-no if you read the “What’s Up Wednesday” emails, which I pretend to do.

One teacher seemed determined to make an example of the driver who dared to attempt the illegal merge. He stood resolutely, directly in front of the merging car, arm waving continuously for the rest of us to keep the line moving—ignoring the fact that we couldn’t. Another teacher on the sidewalk side of my car waved her arm nonstop as if the effort she put into waving determined the speed at which the cars exited the parking lot.

I felt my blood pressure spike, yet I couldn’t help laughing out of frustration. Didn’t they realize a halt to traffic was their opportunity to rest those rotator cuffs? 

Yet as my kids presumably made their way to their lockers and classrooms, I remained parked in what felt like a broken car wash–arms spinning frantically like brushes on both sides never making contact with my car.

When there was finally enough room for me to inch forward a car length—at last obeying the never-ending command to ‘move forward’—I found myself whispering, “Stop fucking waving, stop fucking waving, stop fucking waving.” 

My windows were rolled up, and music was playing. I was counting on the teacher to read my lips–passive aggression being my second language, and all.

Before I pulled forward, I imagined what I would feel like if I were the minivan’s driver, publicly punished for a minor lapse in judgment on an unmerciful morning: crying kids, spilled coffee, a critical appointment hanging heavy over the morning. Add “car trouble,” and you’ve got the ingredients for a psychotic break. One bad call, and now someone’s standing in front of my van, holding me hostage in a small slice of hell. 

The parents in the van could be brazen rule-breakers or repeat offenders.

Could be, but I didn’t care. 

Their behavior was irrelevant next to the fifty-odd cars behind me, waiting as the clock ticked down to the start of the school day. If this was the worst violation in drop-off line history, fine—take their information and call them to the principal’s office.

All I could see was a teacher reveling in a sliver of power, and, for some reason, I felt compelled to even the field. So, I waited until he noticed I had no intention of removing my foot from the brake.

“Let them go,” I said, furrowing my brow into a plea for mercy and gesturing at the minivan, window still up.

He stopped waving for the first time—spoiler alert, the world didn’t end as a result—he glanced at the driver in the minivan and faltered.

Holy shit, it worked, I thought, and then, it never works, what do I do now? I focused on covering my surprise with a stone-faced stare that said this interaction wouldn’t crack my top ten events of the day. Meanwhile, my heart rate had reached triple digits. 

The teacher stepped out of the minivan’s path and began waving again, now at the short line of cars merging with the main drop-off line.

Just then, a truck rumbled past me on the left after breaking free from the stalled line behind me. A legal move, no matter how much it irritated me. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, I suppose. 

The truck filled the gap between my car and the one ahead, utterly oblivious to our silent stand-off that had been taking place—that, or they are an inconsiderate asshole.

Either way, my progress vanished under a lifted Ford F150. The minivan was blocked once again. As the line began rolling forward, I lost my only backup: the traffic jam—my sole crutch for my act of kindness. Stopping would’ve felt like pulling the lever in a trolley dilemma, and I don’t have the stomach for that. 

As I rolled past the teacher, I received a look that said, I think we know who’s in charge here; keep on movin’.

I checked out the scene in my review mirror when the line stalled again. The principal was marching toward the car in a threatening way, but it only looked threatening. The way he pinched his jacket under his chin showed his brisk pace had more to do with the windchill than his duties.

Seems excessive.

Next, a police officer approached the incident on the sidewalk from the opposite direction.

Definitely excessive.

My legs tingled with adrenaline as I weighed the pros and cons of walking out into the cold and offering my oh-so-rational account of what had happened.

I snapped out of my imaginary confrontation—one I was winning, obviously–surprised to see the line of cars ahead had disappeared. I was the source of the traffic jam.

The situation must have been sorted out. That is to say, there was no reference to it on my city’s Facebook page; if there was, I missed it between the posts from people asking, “I heard police sirens, what is going on?”

I slumped into my seat at Starbucks, book in hand, replaying the scene in my mind. I’d almost hopped out of my running car into the freezing cold to give my account of what I thought might be happening—desperate to be a knight in shining armor. Here’s the thing: the only story I had was a silent movie playing through my windshield to a Kendrick Lamar soundtrack, and I narrated it.

Even if I were right—which, c’mon, we all know I was—getting involved rarely makes anything better, I cringed as I switched reels in my mind, watching the embarrassing imaginary film of what would’ve happened in “reality” had I gotten out of my car. 

Maybe I was closer to right than wrong, but sometimes, being right is irrelevant. All we can do is take the role we’re given, act with the best intentions, and trust that even the most minor contributions keep the line moving.

Life, am I right?

In an attempt to shift gears, I scrolled on my phone as I waited for my vanilla latte. A video came across my screen once known as “instant Karma,” but lately they are referred to as FAFO—Fuck Around Find Out. 

A security camera showed a woman skidding to a stop on a snow-dusted street, jumping out of her car, and yelling for the driver behind her to do the same. Then a man in blue pajama pants and slippers—the outfit of someone with little to lose—stepped from the passenger seat, asking her to stop. As he walked around the car, the enraged woman shifted her attention to him and told him not to touch her. As she walked toward him, she directed her rage toward him like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. 

The pair argued for a few seconds. She threatened violence from “her man,” who never appeared. She continued to scream in Pajama Pants’s face. He stepped back, and she closed the distance while shouting for him to get out of her face. He said one last thing before he turned to go, and as he did, she threw a flailing right hook at his jaw.

His reaction, primal and swift, was to throw a right hook of his own before body-slamming her down on the frozen street. 

Searching for context, I found an extended clip that shows the woman crawling back to her car as the other sped away—still no sign of her man who was meant to defend her; he either was imaginary or knew better than to get out of his car in the cold.

An SUV pulled up just as she tried to climb into her open door. A guy hopped out, took one look at her, and said, “What are you getting out of your car for? Go home.”

His tone echoed how I’d felt in the parking lot: Once you decide to escalate, you’re in it; it doesn’t matter who started it. Your actions become the issue.

I watched the video at least ten times, letting the warm shower of dopamine flow over me every time her back hit the pavement. It feels good to imagine being Pajama Pants—free to do what seemed so satisfying in the heat of the moment.

I was sipping my latte, pretending to read, when it struck me that the inverse of that “FAFO” scenario wouldn’t be satisfying. Like, at all. Suppose Pajama Pants had turned the other cheek after taking a sucker punch. In that case, odds are the security footage would’ve stayed buried in someone’s hard drive. At best, a jury might’ve seen it. If he even bothered.

As I tried to figure out how to describe how I wish we got to see more moments of instant Karma showing people getting what they deserve (the good kind) rather than getting what they deserve (the body-slam kind), a barista emerged from behind the counter with a tray of pastries.

The only customers were a familiar barista at the table next to me on break and a couple of high school girls tucked at the far end of the cafe.

“Would anyone like a pastry?” she asked, looking at the labels on the pastries. “I’ve got a chocolate croissant, a cheese Danish, and a butter croissant.”

I didn’t give space for my regular polite beat to allow the other people in the room the first option. 

The universe made that chocolate croissant for me. This was my instant Karma. I was getting what I deserved for enduring the parent drop-off line and doing my best to be a good person.

“I’ll take the chocolate croissant,” I said, a sheepish grin on my face as my cheeks flushed as the four people in the room, also known as “everyone,” looked at me. 

The barista on break watched as I was handed the flimsy, light-brown pastry sleeve; she’s worked at my local Starbucks since I moved to town six years ago. She always has a sunny disposition that pairs beautifully with her maternal energy. 

“What’s a life if you’re not saying yes to free chocolate croissants?” I smiled at her.

“Not a good one. You deserve it.”

I do deserve it. 

Do you ever surprise yourself with your thoughts? I felt outside my body. I considered myself a whole person and determined I was worthy of a complimentary breakfast pastry destined for the trash if it didn’t find my mouth.

Not bad.

It caught me off guard as I munched on my croissant, typing notes into my phone about the morning. 

A flake of croissant broke free and landed on my phone. On my fifth attempt to flick it away, it turned… blue. 

I squinted, extended my arm, and craned my neck—a motion that’s becoming second nature to ’80s kids, thanks to tiny-print menus and dim lighting—hoping an extra ten inches would somehow bring that croissant flake into focus.

My cheeks flushed. My eyes darted at every living soul inside the Starbucks to see if they noticed I had just attempted to clean a croissant emoji from my screen.

The universe seeks balance.

Cheers.

Spilled Milk

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

I’ll never understand why I’m asked if I want my milk in a bag when the gallon jug has a built-in handle.

There’s a piece of me that would like to use this question as an example of how wasteful we are as a society. Unfortunately, the reason it irks me is far more petty.

While I’m conscious of the waste, it has nothing to do with plastics harming our Earth. 

It wastes time and makes me shut my eyes, inhale long through my nose, and say, “No, thanks.”

We all have at least one pre-programmed stupid question we blurt out when the appropriate situation presents itself. “Do you need a rag?” you might ask someone as you both watch the same water spill from the tipped-over glass, off the counter, and onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” is another common question people yell when they see someone lying on the ground after they crashed into an oak tree, which sent them, their bike, and their shoes in all different directions. They’re obviously not okay, Linda.

A friend of mine used to get worked up about what a waste of time it was to say “God bless you” to someone when they would sneeze. This wasn’t a secular issue; it was about how people waited for him to say “thank you” after they offered the “God bless you” and what a waste of time the entire interaction was.

We talked about it at length one night as I took my familiar post of Devil’s Advocate, maybe fifteen minutes in total. At some point, it occurred to me that the entire topic was an even greater waste of time. Naturally, I did my best to extend the conversation as long as I could.

I haven’t heard him speak on the topic since. I guess sometimes, we need to cut our losses and protect what precious time we have left.

As I looped more Target bags onto my forearm to limit my trips through the bitter January chill, I remembered my milk had been bagged without consent.

Ever the Renaissance man, I decided to use the bag to carry the milk—just to make sure I wasn’t missing out on something simple that could be making my life easier, as I’m apt to do.

The two bags already slung on my right forearm bunched down to my wrist, obscuring my view as I hooked my forefinger through the loops of the plastic milk bag. I used the remaining fingers of my right hand to grab a final bag, ensuring I would only need to make one more trip to my car.

“Whaat is this feeling?” I sang to the neighborhood, the Wicked soundtrack fresh in my mind from my car ride home.

For a brief moment, I was a believer in the milk bag concept, but then I felt a tug on my pointer finger before my arm sprang upward as the weight released.

The jug made a thudding splat on the sloped asphalt, the top side split from the force of the impact. Shloshing glorp sounds came from the jug as the milk seemed to run down the driveway, away from the below-freezing temperature.

“Loathing. Unadulterated loathing,” I continued to sing in my best theatric voice, watching the white river freeze to a stop six feet from the scene of the crime.

Not long ago, I would have followed an unfortunate yet trivial event like this by saying, “Of course, the milk jug broke open because I am a worthless piece of fucking shit.” That isn’t paraphrasing. The last eight words became a mantra by accident after I developed a staccato rhythm that made it fun to say.

I would’ve repeated it to myself as I struggled to open the front door with too many bags in my hands. And again, when I set the bags on the counter and the contents spilled out. And again. And again.

And so I’d flog myself all over the place the rest of the day. That’s not a euphemism—get your mind out of the gutter.

I, the holder of the prestigious B.A. in Psychology, one who would list the benefits of therapy ad nauseam, started seeing an actual therapist for the first time this fall.

There are so many reasons I delayed booking a therapist.

Shame. ’Nuff said.

Too expensive. Therapy is costly and doesn’t work (so says TV and movies, giving my confirmation bias a place to rest its weary head).

I’d have to search for the right fit. What if I can’t stand looking at their face? What if they’re stupid? Sounds stressful to me…

The excuses were endless, but the real reason I kept myself away was that it felt like the last line of defense. I couldn’t bear to think of what awaited me on the other side.

I could see the path. It runs parallel, some distance from the addiction path. The habit of thinking terrible things about myself can stay hidden easily. The destruction it caused didn’t result in dangerous behaviors that drained the bank account or got me locked up; it stayed inside my mind.

I sent a meme to one of my best and oldest friends that had the caption:


“Dudes will have the worst day of their lives and casually keep sending memes to their homies like nothing happened.”

I couldn’t sum it up better. 

The sentiment is why the solution, “smile more, it will make you feel happy,” is condescending. 

When you’re in it, the smile that gets painted on becomes part of the ritual. Cold, dark thoughts spread through all parts of you, like the harsh January air turning the milk into frosty crystals molecule by molecule. 

The smile is nothing more than a reminder of what used to be, like remembering the first buzz or high. It hangs there, so close you could reach out and touch it. When you try, your fingers pass through the apparition.

Smiling to cheer yourself up works when you drop your ice cream cone, not when dropping a gallon of milk leaves you thinking you are a failure who adds no value to the infinite universe for the remainder of your day.

So, I would smile and say, “I’m fine.” I’d hide the war happening between my ears, my chest burning with anxiety from the shrapnel sprayed in the destruction.

Until it became too much, it was like yo-yo dieting with my mental health. I couldn’t hide the destruction anymore. It was getting harder to function in a way that didn’t negatively affect my family.

That’s something I truly couldn’t bear. Cue therapy.

Like adopting a new diet, the changes weren’t evident in the first couple of weeks. I felt worse after sessions rather than better.

After three months of therapy, I am thrilled to report that the filter through which I saw and  see the world has started to shift.

I felt adrift at sea in a rudderless boat for a long time. Powerless in any attempt to navigate the ever-changing seas. I would shout at the black storm clouds overhead, demanding they make way for sunlight and calm water, believing it would make a difference, like a fool. 

I can’t change the wind, no one can. 

All there is to do is adjust my sails and do my best to make my voyage as smooth as possible.

So, I tipped the jug upright with my foot when I guessed enough had drained out to be below the gash in its side. I laughed at what the scene looked like to my neighbor in the passing car.

After I brought the remaining groceries into the house, I found a container to store the remaining milk safely in the refrigerator.

Because there isn’t any use crying over spilled milk.

Cheers.

Milk Mustache Cheers! from Spilled Milk by Tim Severson | www.timtalks.net

Unaccompanied Minor, Lifelong Friend

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment
Click the play button above to listen to the audio. Images and a video enhance the story below.

“At this time, we’d like to welcome customers needing assistance or additional assistance to board.”

That announcement was my least favorite part of traveling alone as a child for various reasons—primarily because of how singled out it made me.

I could feel strangers’ eyes on me as an airline employee walked me to the gate, ensuring I wasn’t lost in transit. I wondered what stories they concocted about a thirteen-year-old traveling alone from Syracuse, NY, to Minneapolis, MN.

The freedom that comes along with a trip alone halfway across the country—with a layover in Detroit—gives a teenager in the throes of puberty a high unlike any other.

Decked out in K-Swiss kicks, baggy Tommy Hilfiger carpenter shorts with a braided belt, a matching Hilfiger tee, a puka shell necklace, an overwhelming amount of Hilfiger cologne, and a Discman clutched in my hand—I did my best to look important. I was oblivious to the fact that each attempt to mask my teenage awkwardness only highlighted it further.

I spent my first seven years in upstate New York, where I met my oldest friend. He lived two blocks away in the small town of Ogdensburg, on the shore of the St. Lawrence River—a river that became our playground.

When I moved to Minnesota, staying in touch with him wasn’t easy. We were learning to read and write then, and long-distance phone calls in the ’90s were more expensive than a plane ticket—or so my parents insisted.

A summer trip became a tradition.

Often, I would fly out with my parents. They would stay for a week and then head back to Minnesota, while I remained in New York, halfway across the country (you’ve gotta love the nineties), for an additional week and then flew home as an unaccompanied minor.

I much preferred the latter since my parents turned into different people when they got within five miles of an airport—and this was pre-9/11.

We would spend our days swimming in the frigid, crystal-clear blue water of the St. Lawrence River until we were too exhausted to fight the current.

We would shove peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into our mouths in wet swimsuits, forming wet spots on the carpet as we rewatched our favorite movies from the limited selection of VHS tapes at camp, with the distant sound of boats coming from the river.

For my Midwestern friends: camp = cabin.

One summer, we watched Forrest Gump at least once a day for two weeks. It turns out that this does little for a person. Well, aside from making them irritating to servers at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. when you suggest their trivia questions aren’t challenging enough by throwing trivia questions back at them.

On rainy days, we played board games whose boxes were disintegrating due to humidity and years of use.

We skipped rocks, perfected ’N Sync dances, roasted marshmallows, and memorized the lyrics to “Summer Girls” by LFO.

As LFO would say, “I think about that summer, and I bug ’cause I miss it.”

As we grew up, he began taking trips to Minnesota.

Impossibly, we both found our footing immediately within each other’s friend groups. These microbursts of time allowed us to be a better version of ourselves, free from the insecurities that plagued us in school with our day-to-day friends.

I felt exotic. Girls giggled when a Minnesota “oh” would come through in words like “boat.” People were interested in me instantly, so the most challenging part of making friends—breaking the ice—was eliminated.

The distance didn’t stop me from crushing on girls from both states, adding hormone-fueled excitement to my trips.

Year after year, we would pack the best summer we could imagine into less than two weeks.

That’s another reason I despised hearing that boarding call at the gate.

It was then that a lump formed in my throat, and tears stung my eyes—another perfect summer vacation had ended.

I began questioning how long our friendship would last as I got older. The question was undoubtedly brought on by jealousy, as solid friendships formed with others over the fifty weeks we weren’t together each year.

“Singing in My Sleep” by Semisonic played through my headphones as I took my seat on the plane. The melody of that song brings me back to that tarmac every time I hear it.

For that, I have my best friend’s mom to thank. She always sent me home with a gift, often hidden in my suitcase. This year, she gave me Feeling Strangely Fine by Semisonic, an album I adore to this day.

I was thumbing through coins in my hand when my seatmate, a white-haired woman who smelled like peppermint, sat down next to me. I smiled and went back to examining a Canadian toonie.

Yes, the two-dollar coin is actually called a “toonie.” Oh, Canada—never change.

“Do you know how many animals are on that coin?” she said, buckling her seat belt.

“One?” I studied the scenery around the polar bear on the back of the coin, thinking I’d find a bird flying in the background.

“Six.” She raised her eyebrows as her red lipstick formed a smirk.

I gave her a skeptical smile back. She held out her hand for the coin.

Canadian Toonie Friend
Canadian Toonie

“Everyone can see the polar bear, but if you turn the coin upside down”—she spun the coin in her hand and covered the bottom half with her thumb—“cover the bear’s body… There. The bear’s legs turn into four seals.”

Canadian toonie modified to show 4 seals Friend
Hidden Seals

“That’s pretty cool.” I adjusted in my seat, interested in where the sixth animal would come from.

She held the coin back in her palm and gave it a quarter turn. She picked it up, covering the bear’s head and forelegs with her thumb.

“And the tyrannosaurus rex makes six. Some people think it looks like the T-Rex is eating a seal, and that makes seven, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

Canadian Toonie modified to show T-Rex - Friend
Hidden T-Rex

She was a gift from the universe. I shudder to think what that plane ride would’ve been like if I’d been left alone to brood in my teenage angst.

We talked to each other most of the flight, and she distracted me from wondering if the next trip would be the one when it didn’t click—if it would be the meeting when we discovered that the ember that kept our friendship going had been extinguished. I would catalog new things I liked or new hobbies I’d developed and wonder if those would be the things that would fracture our friendship.

On the second leg of my trip, it was clear the universe wasn’t done with me. My seatmate turned out to be a twenty-something woman traveling the world on her way to California. She had a worn backpack adorned with patches and keychains. Her chocolate hair was wrapped up in a messy bun. She told me about her globe-trotting adventures in her French accent.

Our conversation began when I showed her the number of animals on the back of a toonie.

A real toonie, for one.

Of course, that trip was not the last good one. The tradition of making sure we see each other at least once a year has continued through middle school, junior high, high school, college, jobs, and kids from halfway across the country.

This year has been hectic with life changes for both of us, so it seemed that meeting wasn’t in the cards.

On a chilly, sun-filled Friday morning in October in Minnesota, I was forcing my wife to watch videos my friend and I had filmed of ourselves and texted to each other earlier that week. She stood in our entryway, confused as she tried to identify the humor in the videos.

We were getting ready to walk out the door to get a coffee as I talked about how much I loved that he and I recorded goofy videos for each other.

Then the doorbell rang.

A man with a beard, camo hat, and Spirit Halloween bag stood on my front deck as my wife flattened herself against the wall to avoid being seen.

I would have been up against the wall nine times out of ten with her, but this looked like nothing more than a delivery—not someone trying to sell me a Kirby vacuum.

I greeted the man, who was distracted by his phone. I regretted opening the door, but he finally looked up, pulled down his fake beard, and revealed a familiar grin.

The Surprise

Not many people can honestly say they have had a friend their entire life.

I can.

He was there when I was born and has remained a constant—a source of laughter and advice.

Some friendships endure because both people work at it, and others just are.

I’ve sat at the end of a dock—listening to the water of the St. Lawrence River flow by, drinking beer and talking until the sun starts to come up—long enough to know our friendship is the latter.

As I watched the hours tick down on the final day of his most recent visit, dreading every passing minute, I tried to reframe the situation.

I always thought of the boarding announcements at the airport as the end of a good time.

I spun that thought around, just like the woman had shown me with the toonie, and looked at it from a new perspective. The announcements did not ask me to board a flight traveling away from a good time; they were taking me to the next one.

So I wait, never wholly rid of the fear that the next meeting will be when things don’t click—until we meet again, and they do.

And all is well.

Cheers.

Next Stop 40: The Train of Life

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment
Click Play Above to Listen

Good, but not great; decent, but not bad. If my life were a train ride, I’d say I’ve spent forty years rumbling along the tracks, unsure of where I’m headed but always moving forward. My journey has been filled with missed stops, unexpected detours, and many freight cars packed with regrets trailing behind me.

As a tween and teenager, I found myself at Spencer’s Gifts in every mall that had one, always eager for an escape from that train ride. Spencer’s was the store equivalent of jumping off the tracks and sneaking into an R-rated movie before you were of legal age. They were famous for their posters, graphic T-shirts, blacklight-themed decor, and cashiers who sported their best Goth look while being irritated with every customer’s audacity to breathe the same oxygen.

Old habits die hard, of course, so this past spring, when I came across a Spencer’s, I had no choice but to check out how the store has evolved since the late twentieth century.

One of the first graphic tees I saw hanging on the wall was bright red with white lettering, which read: “Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum.” It may be the best shirt I’ve seen in my forty years.

I was there to find a specific section I remember from my teenage years, so I browsed the store while “Believe” by Disturbed played over the speakers. I paused momentarily to confirm that my jeans hadn’t turned into the baggy, carpenter jeans designed by Tommy Hilfiger I wore in the late nineties.

As I wandered through Spencer’s, it felt like I had stopped the train for a moment, stepping back into a time when I was blissfully unaware of how fast that train would start picking up speed. I came across the posters, which, to my pleasant surprise, have yet to be updated since the early 2000s. There were posters of the Playboy logo, Scarface, Pulp Fiction, 2Pac, Sublime, The Smashing Pumpkins, and the timeless Pink Floyd “Back Catalogue.”

The blacklight section is still adorned with blacklight mushroom candles and sculptures positioned directly next to the lava lamps.

As I continued searching for the section I was looking for, I came to the store’s back wall, and I froze as I took it all in, mouth and eyes both open wide.

“Do you want me to get something down for you?”

“What? No. No. No, thank you. Just lookin’,” I said to the twenty-year-old sales associate as she glared at me with a look aimed at informing me I had indeed been breathing too much of her oxygen.

The back wall of Spencer’s was adorned with hundreds of sex toys ranging in sizes from beginner to, err, expert(?).

I turned my back to the wall of sex and was faced with the novelty bachelor/bachelorette party gifts. While turning to stare at gummies and straws in the shape of penises wasn’t the exact escape I was looking for, it was an improvement from having a twenty-year-old offer to get a giant dildo down from the top row of the sex wall.

I found the remnants of the section I was looking for next to the “Pin the Junk on the Hunk” poster game.

There was a tiara with “Birthday Bitch” on it, a shot glass with the words “Birthday Bitch” printed on it, and a glitter-colored wine glass that read “Birthday Bitch.”

In high school, the birthday section was stocked with “over-the-hill” gag gifts full of sophomoric humor. I remember seeing a cane with a horn attached to the handle and emergency adult diapers packaged behind a thin piece of plastic with “In Case Of Emergency, Break Glass.” These products were not as sophisticated as adding “Birthday Bitch” to drinkware, but they can’t all be winners.

As I laughed at jokes built from the lowest common denominator with my friends, I would also imagine my life when I turned forty.

Where will I be living? Will I have any of the same friends? Will I have children? What will my hair look like? These are the thoughts that would run through my mind as I rode along the train tracks of youth, oblivious to the steep hills and sharp turns ahead.

I would never have a specific goal in mind because my perception of life has been that I am on a train driven by an unknown conductor headed to an unknown destination. If I am kind, polite, and well-behaved, the conductor will give me a little extra time at stops along the way and, at minimum, will keep the bar cart sufficiently stocked.

Regrets? They fill the freight cars added to the end of my train, trailing behind as I ride the iron rails of this journey through life. Those cars are heavy and without brakes. They make the climb up hills taxing and the trips down perilous. The heaviest car among them is filled with the realization that I could’ve taken the highway.

When the tracks run parallel, I often find myself in my observation car, face pressed to the glass in awe at the freedom people in their vehicles have to stop at roadside attractions or take an exit they hadn’t planned.

If only someone would have written a song in the early nineties informing me that life is, in fact, a highway.

As I imagined my forty-year-old self in a dimly lit store reading gag birthday cards about impotence, I felt desperation for the confidence and knowledge that comes with being that old. I longed for a “boring” life as an adult filled with more certainty than uncertainty.

I wish so desperately that I was writing to inform you that I have finally made it. I would tell you this piece was written from a place of certainty and peace about the man I have become. I’d say to you that those silly self-conscious thoughts were due to the hormones racing through my body, and I am comfortable with myself.

I might make fun of myself for caring so deeply about what people thought of me, both in appearance and as a person. Or, I’d write out prolific life lessons I’ve gotten along the way that would provide you with an unexpected “aha” moment, leading to the last change you needed to round out your already wonderful life.

Instead, while my body has not escaped the effects of the passage of time, my brain hasn’t aged a day.

I know this because I am desperate for your approval, literally. All I want to do right now is give up and leave the words I have written saved in a document as “Untitled 11.” As a forty-year-old, I live my life desperate for a like or share on social media or even a minor compliment as a clue I haven’t completely fucked up my entire life by believing I could make a career from writing.

When those feelings bubble up, my train can become a lonely place. The dark outside makes it difficult to believe I am heading in the right direction. My instincts tell me to pull the emergency brake and get off before the entire thing derails.

Every time I reach for the brake, I am stopped.

The one thing my teenage self was sure of was that my train ride would be much more fun if I had someone on board with me.

Her name is Jenni, and I asked her aboard at 8:05 AM on October 8, 1999.

I couldn’t believe she got on then, and every day, I am equally astonished that she is still here. Because, of course, she doesn’t belong here. She should be on the highway or up in the air on one of those jets I see soaring in all directions.

Yet, no matter how many times I have pointed out these superior options to her over the past twenty-five years, she tells me she loves our train.

She stokes the burners when those cars full of regret start to slow us down. When we sit beside each other in the observation car, she points out the beautiful scenery past the highway. And when we head to the bar car, she makes the people on the road wish they were on our train.

Regardless of how many cars full of regret I have acquired over the years, I would still walk back down the mountains and valleys, through storms and sunshine, and across the two-and-a-half decades to find my fifteen-year-old self and hug him.

I’d hug him because having the courage to ask Jenni aboard this train feels like the most crucial decision of my life.

Tim & Jenni: Prom 2003, Wedding 2008, TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards 2024 | Next Stop 40: The Train of Life by Tim Severson
Tim & Jenni: Prom 2003, Wedding 2008, TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards 2024

Over the past twenty-five years, she has brought me our two wonderful children, millions of smiles and laughs, and got me through some of the darkest times of my life.

I apologize if you came here looking for the answers about being an adult I was starving to find inside Spencer’s gifts all those years ago. I wish I had a manual or even the hubris to pretend I have the wisdom to write one, but I don’t.

All I’ve got is this:

However, you choose to travel through this life, whether by plane, train, or automobile, don’t do it alone.

Do it with someone who laughs with you. Do it with someone who cries with you. Do it with the person who knows moving forward is just as important, if not more so, than moving in the exact right direction.

My beard has white hair now, I think hard before doing any physical activity, and I have started to squint while trying to read a menu in a dimly lit restaurant.

But when I look into Jenni’s eyes and she smiles at me, I am a fifteen-year-old again whispering, “Will you go out with me?” into her ear.

Twenty-five years later, if I shut my eyes and listen hard, I can still hear the echo of her whispering, “Yes.”

New trains with faster engines and modern accommodations leave the station every day. It’s easy to watch them zip by and think the trip would be better on a new train.

However, if I do have a bit of wisdom from these forty years, it’s that each time I have taken an opportunity to tour these trains to see what I’m missing, I walk away muttering a phrase only an old guy would coin:

“They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

So, if you need us, we’ll be in the bar car dancing to and singing our favorite songs. We won’t know where we’re headed, but everyone is welcome, and Jenni will make sure it’s the ride of your life.

Cheers.

Team Woman

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

There are the nights you anticipate, knowing it will be unforgettable. Then, there are the nights that surpass your expectations. On the latter of those nights, the gravity of the experience steals your breath as you realize you are living one of those nights. 

In that moment of realization, time slows down. Everything sharpens: the features on the faces around you are more vivid, and their chatter and laughter are more melodic.

I had a night like this at the TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards. 

My wife, Jenni, has been a member of TeamWomen since 2018. 

“TeamWomen is a non-profit that helps women and girls connect with their inner confidence and realize a career potential they may not have thought possible.”

Since 2018, I have observed a marked shift in Jenni’s attitude and drive. I might have attributed this growth to the wisdom and experience that come along with years of hard work, but after attending the WaveMaker Awards, I realized there was more to it.

I nominated Jenni for the Community Impact Award, given to women who make giving back to the community and/or youth a top priority in ways that promote the development of others, either through their work or through volunteer efforts. I nominated her because it is astonishing how much of her time Jenni dedicates to various organizations while caring for our family. 

When I opened my email on July 12th and saw Jenni had won, my reaction was more relief than shock. 

Whenever I tell her, “You are absolutely stunning,” or, “You are so talented,” her response is always the same.

“You have to say that because you love me.”

My desperation for acknowledgment of her hard work had been growing as I watched her excel professionally, complete her Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Minnesota, serve on multiple boards, all while dazzling everyone she meets. 

In other words, it was about damn time.

Having never attended a TeamWomen event before the awards ceremony, I didn’t know what to expect. All I knew was that Jenni would receive an award and have a minute on the stage to dazzle the crowd with her charm and intelligence – and I couldn’t wait.

As we entered the elegant ballroom adorned with ornate furniture and gorgeous chandeliers, the buzz of the attendees was palpable. Everyone I spoke with was kind and inviting. 

We sat down for the ceremony honoring twenty-two women who would be awarded awards across various categories throughout the evening. Each was given a minute to answer a pre-selected question on stage. 

Throughout the ceremony, I was in awe of the women who walked across the stage. Each came from vastly different backgrounds and shared unique stories, yet they were all impressive. Entrepreneurs, C-Suite Executives, volunteers, and even a high school senior all shared valuable insights about their journeys. However, it wasn’t their accomplishments that made them impressive; instead, it is the thing every honoree had in common: their spirit and drive. 

At some point, all of these incredible women have been given the message (directly or indirectly) that they didn’t belong because they were women.

And yet, they persisted.

My heart swelled as I sat with our 5-year-old daughter, listening to the empowering stories of women who got what they wanted because they didn’t quit and found a supportive community to give them the help they needed when they needed it most. 

“Two more women, then it’s Mommy’s turn,” she whispered to me as she followed along with the ceremony program in her hand.

She beamed at me when her mother graced the stage in her elegant floral patterned dress, looking the part of an award winner. The emcee asked her the pre-selected question…

And Jenni absolutely killed it.

It would be easy to assume she always accepts awards if you didn’t know her. She spoke with poise and drew everyone in. She told a joke that not only got laughs but got an applause break as well. Tears welled in my eyes as she spoke. 

Fortunately for my ego, they started to play her off as she began to mention me. 

Now, if she had been talking about anything else, I would have gone to the sound booth and clarified to the person running the controls that my wife would get as much time on stage as she needed. 

However, it felt merciful when the music started, just as she began to mention me. There is only so much public crying a guy can make it through, you know?

It’s something special to watch someone in their element. It’s even more remarkable when that person is your spouse. 

Watching Jenni work a networking room is like watching a prolific artist paint.  Her tools become extensions of herself, and every interaction seems effortless.

On these nights, I watch her from across the room. No matter the distance, I see the sparkle in her eye, hear the pitch of her laughter amid the crowd, and fall in love all over again as she makes others fall in love with her. 

Thank you, TeamWomen, for providing a place for Jenni to thrive. Thank you for offering a place for our daughter to see that all options are on the table for her in this life. Whether she wants to open and run a brewery, become a professional wakeboarder, lead a company as CEO, or anything in between, she’ll grow up knowing that she can and doesn’t need to do it alone.

Thank you, Clementine, for being your mother’s daughter. As a Kindergartener, you recognized the importance of the night and never wavered in your decision to attend an event with a bunch of boring adults. As I’ve written recently, I love you for that and a million other reasons.

Jenni and Clementine watching the TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards
Jenni and Clementine watching the TeamWomen WaveMaker Awards

Thank you, Jenni, for attacking every day, taking risks, and giving our daughter a front-row seat to learn from the best. 

Maybe Jenni is right; maybe I have to say these things because I love her.

I do.

But that doesn’t mean they aren’t aren’t true.

Cheers.