My Life Stories

My Business Trip

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

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Watching business travelers is one of my favorite things about going to the airport. Those who never need to tell what their airline membership status is because they are the embodiment of Platinum. 

Meanwhile, I bragged to everyone I could find when I hit Delta’s “Silver Medallion” status a year ago, hoping no one would ask the obvious next question, “What does that get you?”

“Unlimited Complimentary Upgrades.”

“So you fly First Class a lot?”

“I’ve never flown First Class,” I respond, avoiding eye contact and hoping the topic of conversation changes.

The truth is it makes me feel like I’m one of those elite people who travel for business consistently. One of those who navigate a chaotic airport effortlessly while rolling their matching carry-on and laptop bag behind in their C-Suite attire. 

I find that aesthetic far superior to that of the twenty-something who has jammed all of their clothing into an enormous backpack while dressed as a Bohemian fever dream come to life. If you’ve been to the airport, you know the outfit: Birkenstocks, pajama pants, tie-dye shirt, and a blue bandana covering their ratty dreadlocks traveling back home to Omaha. 

This preference applies exclusively within the confines of an airport. I’m hanging with twenty-something anywhere else in the world, mainly for the free weed.

It will come as no surprise that I was thrilled when presented with an opportunity to attend a three-day conference at the Georgia International Convention Center, located roughly two hundred yards from the Atlanta Airport. A fine venue to learn about the latest and greatest updates in the credit card processing industry. 

While it wasn’t glamorous, it made me feel like a grown-up. One of those moments that remind me I am, in fact, an adult, like not asking permission to buy candy at the store or buying porn at a sex shop mid-morning on a Tuesday. You know, adult stuff.

I bought a new carry-on for the trip and planned my travel outfit to be optimized for TSA. Shoes that I could easily slip on and off, jeans that fit just right without a belt, and a sports jacket to elevate it all a little bit, all in the hope I would pass as a Platinum Medallion member on a pure travel day. A look that let everyone know I wasn’t on my way to a multi-million dollar meeting today but tomorrow possibly. I even took out my laptop on the plane so that people around me would be impressed by my work ethic. At the same time, I clicked around a fake spreadsheet rather than doing any actual work. 

Now you have to wonder, who else is doing that?

The thrill of the business trip ended when I stepped off the airport tram at my hotel a mere forty-five seconds after leaving the airport.

For the next seventy-two hours, I would be forced to wear a lanyard, go to classes about the credit card processing industry, and talk to some of the biggest slime-ball salesmen the world has seen while pretending to give a shit about any of it.

On the second night of my business trip, cocktails were the solution to allow me to have a good time. I went to the hotel restaurant, sat at the bar, and watched in silent frustration as the bartender ruined the Manhattan I ordered by muddling an orange slice and two maraschino cherries in my glass. Nevertheless, I smiled when she set it on a coaster in front of me and responded with an overly enthusiastic, “Thank you, looks amazing.” 

I sat at the bar alone. People on either side of me were talking shop and introducing themselves while I hoped the liquid courage would kick in and allow me to join in. I handed my credit card to the bartender to pay for my drink. 

“I saw that,” the woman in her mid to late twenties sitting beside me said with a smirk. 

I glance at the crowded bar to either side of me to ensure this is directed at me. “You saw what?”

“Your credit card.”

Why is this woman interested in my credit card?

“Oh, yeah, I used it to pay for my drink.”

She laughed as she spun her stool to face me, taking a drink of her gin and tonic. “It’s black.”

“What is?”

“Your credit card.”

My card was black in color only. It was not the exclusive American Express Black Card she assumed it to be. Not that my US Bank-issued Visa Flex Perks Reward Card didn’t give me a pretty solid 1% cash back on my purchases. 

“Yes, it is.”

I didn’t lie. I would have probably told the truth if Ms. Credit Report had asked me if it was a Black Card specifically.

I stood up from my stool, deciding to try my luck at the bar on the other side of the hotel lobby. As I did so, the woman obsessed with my credit card introduced herself. We talked briefly about where we were from and what companies we worked for, and I retreated to the other bar. 

Fortunately, I found a few familiar faces. I had a decent enough time meeting new people and reveling in cocktails. 

Near the end of the night, I found myself stuck at a high-top table with a man who had spent his entire adult life in the credit card processing industry. If you’ve been to a professional conference, you know this guy. No matter the time of day or setting, he is talking shop. No attention is paid to your attempts to change the topic as he continues to talk about the most boring subjects while nursing a light beer for far too long. 

I gave an exaggerated stretch, preparing to deliver my excuse for needing to head back to my hotel room, when I heard a voice over my shoulder. “You owe me a drink.”

I turned, puzzled, to see the same woman from the first bar standing behind me with an empty wine glass.

“I do?”

She stared back at me, telepathically telling me to catch the hint. After a beat, I realized she was attempting to save me.

“I do,” I said, turning to the man, “Sorry. Thanks for all the information about the upcoming rate changes to Visa Corporate Cards; it will really help me out.”

I lied. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know, and none of the information would help me.

“Thanks, that dude was never going to stop talking. What are you drinking?”

I took her order and went to the bar to get a couple of drinks. When I returned, I found her at a high top with a couple of the familiar faces I had seen earlier. 

As the night wore on, the crowd slowly dissipated to ten people. We stood in the lobby talking.

I felt like an actual adult at a business conference in Atlanta, having cocktails at an airport Marriott with a lanyard around my neck. This was a scene I had witnessed as a kid when I would travel to conferences with my Dad. 

The bartender was counting the minutes until closing time while cleaning glasses. “Last call.” 

Hearing that, I took the last swallow of my third Manhattan. I began checking my pockets for my belongings in preparation for getting back to my room. Undoubtedly, the other adults I was gathered with were ready to call it a night.

“Anyone want another beer?”

There was a pause. The pause. This was an end-of-the-night stand-off that would be settled by the sole brave enough to answer first. 

I stare at my empty glass, hoping someone will break the silence. “Why not?”

I am not good with awkward silence, but I am good at drinking cocktails. 

Two guys from the group went to the bar and returned with enough beer in their arms for everyone to have two more beers.

Most people are grown adolescents pretending to be adults, including myself.

The night continued, and we carried on having a boisterous conversation in the empty lobby, our laughs echoing off the tiled floor. By the night’s end, I was almost exclusively talking to the woman from the bar. It turned out we had quite a bit in common, she was an easy laugh, and I had a beer in my hand—the only three ingredients I needed to morph from an introvert into an extrovert.

I continued to enjoy the conversation until the beer ran out. I was ecstatic that I wasn’t in my room watching a movie and eating terrible food. 

When the beer ran out, we all agreed it was a good night, but it was time to end it. We walked to the elevators while continuing the conversation, squeezing every last drop of fun out of the night we could manage.

An elevator door dinged, and I entered the tiny elevator with the woman from the bar and four guys from the group. We went up one floor, and the elevator doors opened.

She bites her lip while looking at me with doe eyes. “This is my floor.”

“Oh, okay. It was great to meet you,” I said with the enthusiasm of a kid who made an unexpected friend at summer camp.

“Same. I have had so much fun talking to you tonight.”

She stepped off the elevator as one of the other passengers held the door from shutting. She turned around to face the five of us left in the elevator, her eyes trained on me expectantly.

“Have a good night,” I said as the elevator doors began to close.

I saw disappointment flash across her face just as the doors clanked shut and the elevator began its ascent to the next floor. The slight lurch when it started reminded me how many Manhattans I had consumed.

One of the guys in the elevator loudly blurted. “Dude, you’re getting off on the wrong fucking floor.” 

The elevator erupted into laughter. I laughed along despite not understanding what we were laughing at.

We stopped laughing when the elevator doors opened on the next floor, my floor.

I walked off the elevator and stopped. “Wait, why did I get off on the wrong floor?”

They all chuckled, and one responded, “She wanted you to go to her room. Are you serious right now?”

The doors closed, and I heard their laughter fade as they made their way to the next floor, leaving me alone in the hushed hotel hallway. 

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been hit on in my life by someone other than my wife. I’d have to take off my socks to count the number of times she’s hit on me, so I guess you can say things are going pretty well.

Since it is so infrequent for me, I am a little slow on the uptake.

I ran through the night’s events as I walked to my hotel room. 

She got interested because of my credit card. She came and saved me from the boring conversation. I bought her a drink. She was next to me all night, even when I talked about college football with that guy. She laughed at almost everything I said, even things that weren’t funny. And she put her hand on my arm every time she laughed.

I stood in my hotel bathroom, having a staring contest with the drunk in the mirror, when I finally realized the guys in the elevator were right. 

I went to the queen-sized bed I had arbitrarily chosen as my sleeping bed when I arrived and laid down, promising myself I’d take my clothes off when the room stopped spinning.

I wake up to a hotel maid attempting to enter my room at 10 AM. Panicked, I sat up, saying, “No, thank you. Please come back later.” 

The maid apologized as the door clicked shut. 

I’m lying in the same spot I closed my eyes. I’m fully clothed except for my left sock. I glanced at the alarm clock to see I had already missed the first session of the morning for the conference, but I needed a shower to shake the hangover. I exited my room before checkout time and went down to catch the last few hours of the conference.

I filled my computer bag with the complimentary snacks available at the breakfast bar for the conference attendees. Who passes up free candy bars?

I had one more class session on my agenda. As I made my way to the class, I saw her walking towards me. I lit up with a smile, excited to see my new friend. “Hey!”

She didn’t slow down or change her expression. “Good morning.”

I walked into the class about 10 minutes before it started to see the man who had made credit card processing his life sitting at a table by himself, reading through the packet we were all given with far too much interest.

I turned on my heel and went to the tram to take me to the airport. I sat at my gate, looking the woman up on social media, not because I was interested in connecting with her but because I was terrified she had heard the laughter from the elevator. When the elevator doors shut, I pictured her assuming I had made fun of her. Fortunately, I realized there was no message I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me looking like a jerk or, worse, a creep. I turned on some music and attempted to get comfortable in my chair. 

They called me to board the plane. I snapped into elite traveler mode and made my way to the plane via the steamy and crowded jetway. I found my aisle seat next to a man, already asleep against the window, and a woman sitting in the middle seat, looking nervous. 

I placed my carry-on under the seat in front of me and unraveled my earbuds to drown out the rest of the plane.

The woman next to me was nervously thumbing the pages of her romance novel. “What is that?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking that something about me and Atlanta must drive the women crazy.

She pointed to the airplane’s ceiling, “The smoke or the, umm, steam up there.”

I looked to the ceiling to see what she was talking about. The cold air from the airplane’s air conditioning, mixed with the hot and humid Atlanta spring air, was causing a steaming effect, which was amplified by the blue ambient lights on the plane.

“There must be turbulence on our flight path.”

“What?”

“The pilot must be expecting a rough ride. When they expect a rough ride, they release a little laughing gas, like what you get at the dentist, into the cabin to keep us calm,” I said, pretending this is common knowledge amongst elite business travelers.

Her face shifted from nervous to terrified.

Why the hell did I say that? I thought before saying, “I’m kidding. The pilots have the air conditioner running to try and keep it comfortable in here while people finish boarding.”

It’s the sort of joke I try to sneak past my wife, not one I tell to nervous strangers on a plane. She muttered a thanks as she opened her novel. I put my earbuds in and turned on some music. As I rested the back of my head on the uncomfortable headrest of my seat, I realized why I said what I said.

I really missed my wife.

When I got to my car at the Minneapolis airport, I resolved to leave the business trips to the experts.

Cheers. 

Holding Doors

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

You can find Ally here.

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I am a big fan of small acts of kindness – gestures that may appear insignificant but potentially alter a stranger’s day.

One of my favorites is holding doors open for people. I live for the moment when a stranger’s eyes light up at an act that takes so little effort. I like to think the light I see in their eyes will, at the very least, carry them through whatever they might be going through. They may be more patient with their children or significant other or find their own small gesture that allows them to pass the light to someone else.

Because I have chosen door-holding as one of my favorite hobbies, I often find myself separated from my wife, Jenni, when we enter restaurants when I am out with her. 

I do my best to beat my wife to the door so that I can hold it for her. This gesture rarely brings a light to her eyes or even a ‘thank you,’ for that matter. Sometimes, I worry Jenni walks into doors when she is alone because she assumes all doors will open for her. 

Once, I opened her car door for her, thinking it would be an unexpected romantic gesture sure to score me big points. Jenni stopped short of the door and glared at me when she said, “Don’t do that.” 

“I thought women find it romantic?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“K,” I said, retreating to the other side of the car.

My point is, if she’s out there walking into doors when I’m not around, she deserves it. 

When we get separated entering a restaurant or bar, it typically leads to an interaction inside the building with the strangers I have already held the door for as they want to aid me in reuniting with the person I arrived with. 

As with so many things in life, these interactions have a pattern. I hold the door for my wife to see another person or people following her to the door; I continue to hold the door for them. They act as though they can’t believe the sacrifice I have made for them. When we are safely inside, they will say some variation of, “I suppose you want to be with her,” as they make room for me to rejoin my wife. 

We are never as unique as we think we are, are we?

Whether they speak or not, there is always a look of realization that I am not with the person I arrived with. 

Historically, this would be my cue to make a joke at my own expense (my favorite kind). I agree it is hard to believe a knockout like my wife is in public with me. And historically, I would get a laugh from strangers and an eye-roll from my wife.

Jenni and I recently went out on a date, just the two of us. This is a rare occurrence with a seven-year-old and five-year-old at home.

As I held the door for her to enter the cocktail bar, two women were approaching behind her. They thanked me profusely as they hurried inside to escape the below-zero temperature outside. I followed them in as my wife asked the hostess for a table for two. The women for whom I held the door were momentarily distracted as they took in the live music from the piano man right inside the main entrance. 

They both looked at me when the hostess said, “Please, follow me,” to Jenni. 

“Ope, you probably want to go with her,” one of them said as they split apart, allowing me to pass between them.

If you’re not from the Midwest, “Ope” is a colloquial term used to merge “oops” and an apology. If you need help remembering this, an excellent mnemonic device is Oops, Please Excuse me. 

“I know, I know, it’s hard to believe she’s with me,” I said with a smile. 

There wasn’t a laugh, smile, or even the patronizing sound of air being forcibly exhaled through the nose. Instead, I was met with two looks of confusion bordering on contempt. 

I followed my wife and hostess to our table, trying to sort out what had gone wrong on the short journey. 

Did I not say what I thought I said? Did I misunderstand what they said to me?

“You can’t get away with that anymore,” Jenni said, reading my mind as we sat at our table in the dimly lit bar. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely curious about what she picked up on that I didn’t.

“Your joke. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because you sound like a dick.” 

“Thank you. How so?”

“You can’t say that anymore,” Jenni began, with the patience of a mathematical savant being forced to explain arithmetic, “because it doesn’t work when you look the way you do now.”

“The way I look now?” I asked, attempting to seem genuinely confused so she would continue to turn the explanation into a compliment.

“Look at you in that sweater with the jacket and man-bun looking all handsome. When you look like you do now, those jokes don’t work because it sounds like you’re suggesting I’m the lucky one for being with you.”

“So, they think I’m a douchebag?”

“Probably.” 

At that moment, I felt my reality tilt slightly. It was like noticing a small detail in a painting that has hung on your wall for years that you can’t unsee but changes the way you view forever.

My entire personality is based on a version of myself that no longer exists. I have spent my life building a sense of humor based on making fun of how I appear to the outside world, or at least how I believe I appear. 

When I look in the mirror, I still see this guy: 

Picture from Holding Doors showing Tim in taking a photo in his bathroom mirror during his weight loss journey

I took this exquisite photo on May 19, 2021, about a month after I started my journey to lose weight and look the way I do now. I didn’t have the guts to take one on the first day of my journey, so believe it or not, this is me after losing twenty-six pounds. 

After looking at it that morning, I immediately saved it into my iPhone’s password-protected, hidden album. An album I assumed was for attractive people to safely store the nudes they are sent from other attractive people.

I swore to myself no one would ever see it.

I had hallucinations of what the reactions would look like on other people’s faces, ranging from outright laughter to complete disgust. I considered deleting it because I didn’t want someone to find it if I ended up dying in a car accident that day. 

Clearly, there was no fatal car crash that day. Instead, I looked at that picture at least a dozen times during the day with a continuous loop of the most hateful, nasty criticisms running through my head. 

I considered reverting to the lifestyle that led to that… physique. I was riding high when I grabbed my phone to snap the photo. The scale showed 239.2, the first time I had been in the two-thirties since eight years prior. I felt attractive, proud, and like I was making progress. One look at the picture left me devastated. 

I hated the guy in the picture. I despised him and every shitty lifestyle decision he had made since October 8, 1984. I wanted to hide. I wanted to be cast away and left alone to live my remaining days in the misery I deserved. 

In the past few months, I have discovered that the guy in that picture is not someone to hate. 

I now see a guy desperate to feel good about his appearance, even just once. He wants to put on a shirt without closing his eyes, terrified to see and be disgusted by how the shirt fits his body when he looks in the mirror. He wants to eat a meal in front of someone else without trying to calculate exactly how much he can consume before people start to think to themselves; no wonder he is so big. 

Now, that picture is on the Internet. 

Strangers worldwide can stumble across it; their reactions will run the entire spectrum of possible responses. 

I’m okay with that. Not because I had a glow-up but because I now love the guy in that picture. He worked his ass off, literally. 

He believes that he is on the path to a better existence. 

His only error is assuming that losing weight is where the work stops. God, how I wish he was right about that one.

It turns out reinventing ourselves is a lot of work, and I am still a work in progress. 

I may not know everything about who my authentic self is, but I do know a few things:

If you see me jammin’ in my car on a Tuesday morning, singing at the top of my lungs, know that I am trying to turn that Tuesday morning into a Friday morning vibe with the likes of Taylor Swift, Sia, or Ariana Grande. 

I like the idea that strangers might think I’m an attractive douchebag, as Jenni suggested. Still, I will do everything in my power to let my kindness be why people are drawn to me. 

I will never stop making fun of myself. I am far too easy of a target.

I have found my place in this universe where I previously thought there might not be one for me. I have discovered what life can look and feel like when you are happy, and I will not give it up for anything. 

I want to spread that feeling. I want to provide a break, whether through my writing, podcasting, or ridiculous videos, for anyone who needs a Friday morning vibe.

Like so many others, I have been conditioned to believe life must be a slow, miserable grind five days a week to earn two days of happiness. If you feel duped the same way I do, I would love for you to join me in staring that notion directly in the eye while enthusiastically encouraging it to get fucked.

While it doesn’t always feel like it, we are in control of how our lives play out. If there is something in your life, whether it be big or small, that you don’t like, change it. Turns out you are allowed to do that.

It won’t be easy, but the things in life worth doing rarely are.

Well, aside from holding doors.

Cheers.

Red Bull, Vodka, and Regret: My First Blackout

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

One night, during my Sophomore year of college, I was talking with a couple of roommates about “blacking out.” 

That is, drinking so much alcohol you cannot remember a portion of the evening despite walking around like a semi-functional human.

As a twenty-year-old from rural Minnesota, I had done my fair share of drinking. I had been around people claiming not to remember things from the night before. Still, I had been with them and consumed roughly the same amount of alcohol, yet I could remember the night’s details clearly.

This led me to feel as though there were two options:

  1. I am not capable of blacking out due to a superhuman liver.
  2. People claim to blackout because they can’t own the embarrassment of their actions.

I gladly played devil’s advocate against my roommates in this discussion as they crafted theories opposing my viewpoints on blackouts. 

Heated debates were taking place in other houses and apartments around the University of Minnesota campus. However, those debates covered high-brow academic hypotheses. Future brilliant minds were discussing philosophy, politics, or mathematic proofs. 

All the while, I had split my roommates on the question of whether or not a blackout could happen by drinking beer alone since I almost exclusively drank beer at the time.

Our debate was as vigorous as the others throughout campus, but our subject matter was sophomoric. 

When the dust settled, it was agreed that blackouts are real. We decided to conduct an experiment to determine whether or not I could achieve a blackout, an investigation for which I was happy to be a guinea pig. 

Our group of scholars determined Red Bull mixed with vodka would be the best catalyst for a blackout if it were going to happen. 

Since I was only twenty, I gave money to one of my roommates, who was of legal age, to purchase a liter of Karkov vodka. 

I went to retrieve the Red Bull. 

My sophomore year of college was the first year I had my car on campus. My parents gave me a Mobil credit card to ensure I always had a full gas tank. 

Having a Mobil credit card meant I bought gas exclusively at Mobil gas stations. Fortunately for me, Bobby & Steve’s Auto World was a short, 7-minute drive away. It was the sole Mobil station in the immediate area and the best gas station in the area. If they gave awards for gas station cuisine, this gas station would be highly decorated.

While filling up my gas tank one day, someone came walking out with a slice of pizza that caught my eye. I decided to treat myself to a slice as a twenty-year-old with little impulse control. 

When I approached the register and reached for my wallet, I realized I had come without it. Massive panic took over my body.

“I, uh, I forgot my wallet, so I’ll just take this back where I found it,” I said, holding my Mobil credit card in my hand.

“You can use the card in your hand to pay for the pizza,” the employee behind the counter said flatly.

“I thought this was only for gas?” I said.

“Umm, no,” he said. The look on his face showed he was trying to figure out if I was messing with him or just a run-of-the-mill half-wit. He quickly realized I was a half-wit by looking at my face, so he slowed his cadence down when he continued, “You can use your credit card to buy anything in this store.” He gestured to the store floor in case I needed help understanding what constituted a store.

The cashier had no idea what he had set in motion. I looked at the store floor through the lens of unlimited possibilities. Frozen pizza, ice cream, sandwiches, chips, cigarettes, and beer were now at my fingertips. At that moment, I promised myself I would not abuse this newfound power, a promise I would quickly break.

“In that case, I’ll be right back,” I said, turning on my heel to walk back through the store for a little extra grocery shopping.

Mom wouldn’t want me to go without Coke this week, I thought, as I reached into the cooler for a twelve-pack. 

Fortunately, my diet in college didn’t require anything I couldn’t buy from a gas station.

Every convenience store on campus (including the convenience store down the street) also sold Red Bull, but it was expensive. I went to Bobby & Steve’s to buy a four-pack of Red Bull. Not wanting to waste a trip, I also got some “essentials. ” 

I got home, put my frozen pizza and a pint of Phish Food Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (see: essentials) in the freezer, and grabbed a giant cup from the kitchen. 

I poured my first stiff Red Bull vodka of the night and drank it in short order, grimacing after every gulp. If you’ve never had Red Bull vodka, it tastes like a sweet, tart lollipop dipped in hand sanitizer. 

Before long, a half liter of vodka was gone, along with two Red Bulls. 

The plan for the evening was to go to a Gopher men’s hockey game. Before going anywhere, our tradition was playing a few foosball rounds in the living room at a foosball table surrounded by old student newspaper pages that had been used to clean up previous spills. 

The last thing I remember is taking the final gulp of my third Red Bull vodka and everyone agreeing to play one more game before we left to go to the hockey game. 

I open my eyes to find myself lying in my bed, on top of a mostly broken bed frame from Ikea due to a scuffle between two of my roommates spilling into my bedroom a couple of weeks into the school year.

Where am I? Is the first thought that runs through my head. 

What happened? Is a very close second. 

I remember playing foosball, then… what happened? I must have passed out before we went to the hockey game.

After I got my sorry ass out of bed, I went to find my roommates to find out what happened the night before. 

I did make it to the hockey game. The conversation could have ended there. Blackouts are real, and I did not have a superhuman liver. 

The conversation did not end there, however. My roommates insisted on filling me in on the details, as we all like to do when talking to the person who over-indulged the night before. 

Allegedly, I asked Goldy if he was interested in my girlfriend… sexually. 

As it turned out, he was not interested. It’s a good thing, too, because I married that girl, and Gopher games would be mighty awkward these days if he had taken me up on the offer. 

The season ticket holders in the seats in front of us had a tradition of wearing firefighter helmets to the game. Allegedly, I decided to test their effectiveness by treating the tops of their helmets as drums at various times during the game. 

Tim at Gopher hockey game
This picture is not from the night featured, but it gives the right idea.

Outside of making an indecent proposal to a mascot and annoying the people in front of us at the game, my roommates filled me in on what else happened the remainder of the night. Luckily, there wasn’t much else to be embarrassed about.

My consciousness traveled through time, leaving my vacant, meat puppet of a body behind to walk around unsupervised. Few feelings are worse than the first moments after waking after a blackout.

It was the last time I drank a Red Bull vodka.

I wish I could tell you it was the first and final time that I experienced a blackout, but it would be a lie. 

Viewing this story as another binge-drinking college story is short-sighted.

I took full advantage of the resources college afforded me. I made an observation, asked a question based on that observation, formulated a hypothesis, developed a method, and recorded my results while allowing my peers to review those results. 

In academia, they call that the scientific method.

The other times I have blacked out? 

Those are stories about an idiot binge drinking. 

Cheers.

Ice Cold – Revised

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

We all have one mistake from our youth, which stands head and shoulders above the rest. The crown jewel of screw-ups. The kind of memory that shows up while showering, forcing you to decide whether or not it’d be best to go back to bed.

Click the play button to make Tim Talk

Mine happened in January 2003 when I was a senior in high school. 

In the days leading up to the faithful moment, word began to spread around the school about a party: where it was, who was going, and who couldn’t go. Those details never concerned me much. What did concern me was the anxiety of coming up with and delivering a believable lie to my parents regarding my whereabouts. I would carry the anxiety with me for days after the party until I was sure there wouldn’t be any fallout if the person hosting the party were caught by their parents. 

I found, with my parents, that it was best to keep the story short and simple.

“I’m staying at {BELIEVABLE FRIEND’S NAME} ‘s house tonight,” was all I needed to say to get my pass to go out on the town to risk my life whichever way I chose.

I preferred to be the driver whenever I went anywhere with my friends. Have you ridden in a car with a teenager? It’s the worst. They’re so irresponsible.

My girlfriend, Jenni, four friends, and I piled into my Jeep Grand Cherokee. We made our way to the party at a lakeside cabin belonging to somebody’s grandparents. There would be no grandparents present at the party. 

I’ll never understand how people had the guts to host parties in their family’s homes. Never in my life did I even consider throwing a big party when my parents were out of town. Not because I was such an outstanding child but because there was no way I could’ve had a good time due to the crushing anxiety of getting caught.

We found the cabin and pulled down a long, narrow driveway that had recently been snow-plowed. There was enough room for a single vehicle to make it down the narrow gap between snowbanks about four feet high on either side. Since we were some of the first people to arrive that evening, we could drive to the end, where the driveway opened up in front of the cabin and a detached garage.

The frigid January air greeted us as we got out of the Jeep. It was the kind of cold that hung heavy in the still air and stung every bit of bare skin it touched. The low hum of the bass line to the music playing in the garage was the only sound to be heard. We hustled to get into the garage, safe from the cold. 

The side door to the garage opened, and the low hum of the music was amplified into the bitter night air mixed in with the sounds of happy chatter and laughter from thirty drunken teenagers. The noise was so jarring that I was sure at least one neighbor within a five-mile radius had heard and was alerting the authorities. We hustled into the cigarette-smoke-filled garage to get the night started. 

This was the kind of party I was ready to leave almost as soon as we walked in. While there were going to be friends of mine at this party, most people in the garage gave me a look that said, “What are you doing here?” 

I was handed a Busch Light, the official beer of Crow Wing County and the Millennial generation. As the designated driver, I resolved to make it my only beer for the night. A few moments later, I was invited to take my turn with the most giant beer bong I had seen in my life to that point. I declined but had a great time watching the show from the corner of the garage as others took turns funneling beer down their throats with varied success.

It wasn’t long until we were stuffed into the garage like sardines as more people arrived at the party. It’s funny how much more fun atmospheres like those are when drunk. Sober, the stories aren’t funny. People are constantly bumping into you and spilling beer on your shoes. Everything is so loud. It is hell on Earth. When my patience ran out, I told my friends it was time to leave. 

Fortunately, they were all ready to leave as well. I went out to start the Jeep and warm it up before we left. When I looked down the driveway, I realized we had a problem. 

As people arrived at the party behind us, they began to park in a straight line down the narrow driveway, leaving no room for cars to exit. Parking on the side of the road would have drawn attention, while turning a long driveway into a parking lot kept the party hidden. That is teenage logic at its finest.

I went into the garage and broke the news to my friends, convinced we would be forced to stay until the middle of the night. 

They looked at me like I was crazy and impatiently gave me the solution, “Just drive out on the lake and go to the public access.” 

Indeed, there was a plowed path to the lake for ice fishermen. I felt uneasy about the plan but shrugged it off. After all, I had driven on lakes many times before without issue. Plus, one of my friends claimed to know the lake and exactly how to get to the public access. 

Thanks to the beer bong, we got in the Jeep down a passenger. Jenni sat shotgun, and my friends Fred, Andy, and Mark sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the back seat. I slowly made my way toward the lake. 

There was a ridge on the plowed path as it approached the lake. As the front wheels of my Jeep went over, there wasn’t enough clearance, and it came to a grinding halt as it bottomed out on the icy snow. 

It was as though the universe was trying to keep me from driving out on the lake.

When I got out, my Jeep looked like a teeter-totter at rest. My mind scrambled to come up with worst-case scenarios. Since I knew little about cars, I resorted to convincing myself that whatever I’d done would be expensive. 

My friends jumped out of the back, took a look, and all agreed it was not a big deal. A few onlookers from the party saw me get stuck and made their way over to help. I returned to the driver’s seat and followed the instructions being shouted at me by the drunks pushing. After about half an hour of rocking and pushing, the Jeep lurched toward the ice-covered lake as the cheers of drunken teenage boys echoed into the wintry night air. 

My friends piled into the backseat, desperate to get relief from the cold. I slowly drove out on the ice.

“Where do I go?”

“Just head out on the lake, then turn right and follow the shore. The public access is right after the point you can see over there,” Mark said.

“No, it’s further than that. The access is around the next point,” Andy corrected him.

“No, it’s not, dude. I was just fishing out here a month ago. The Lake Edward public access is right around that point.”

“This is Pelican, not Edward.”

“Oookay, Andy. This is definitely Edward.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked, interrupting the disagreement, “I’ll keep following the shore until we find the access and get off the lake.”

“It’s Pelican…” Andy said, getting the last word in, per usual.

I turned up the music, which was, ironically, “Hot In Herre” by Nelly. After a couple of minutes, Mark started giving instructions again. 

“Just go past this point and drive into the bay. That’s where the public access is.”

I followed his direction, and we started driving toward the bay. As I approached the channel leading into the bay, the argument over the lake started again in the back seat. 

I was laughing at the banter when Mark said, “Wait, this don’t look right…”

At the same time, we hit what felt like a speed bump, sending the front of the Jeep upward. When it came down, it plowed through the ice. Icy water splashed up the hood and onto the windshield before receding. 

We broke through at a forty-five-degree angle. I was stunned by the odd look of the Jeep’s headlights illuminating the water under the ice as panic set in; time seemed to stand still as I watched, in amazement, as water poured out of the vent at my feet. 

Jenni’s screams next to me and my friends yelling, “Get out, get out, get out,” from the back seat snapped me back to reality. 

Because we broke through the ice nose first, my friends in the back could open their doors and exit the Jeep quickly and mostly dry. Jenni and I couldn’t open the front doors as the ice was too thick, and they wouldn’t budge more than an inch. 

Jenni’s screams were those of a girl certain she was in her last moments alive and it was all my fault. I told her she needed to go out the back, but panic made it difficult. I yelled to the guys standing on the ice to get her out. 

Andy jumped into the back seat, grabbed Jenni by the back of her jacket, pulled her between the front seats, and out the back door onto the ice. 

In my mind, he saved her life.

With everyone out of the Jeep, I could focus on my situation. I sat in the driver’s seat as the frigid water rose to my chest. Watching Jenni struggle to get to the back seat was enough to convince me that was not an option. 

I slammed my shoulder into the door as I attempted to open it again, hoping to break the ice enough to make room to slide out. No luck.

If you ever find yourself in a car on top of a frozen lake, please have your window down and your seatbelt off. Here’s why:

After trying the door, I realized I could see everything clearly because the dome lights were on. The Jeep still had power. I tried pushing the button to roll down the window, and it worked. 

As the window went down, it went below the surface of the ice, and water began to pour through fast. The down window also let me hear my friends yelling, “Get out of the car,” in unison.

You think I remember thinking to myself as I reached through the open window to pull myself out. I made it a few inches before I was stopped by something holding me back.

My seatbelt. 

I sat back in the driver’s seat and looked at the buckle under the clear, freezing water. I plunged my hand down and, miraculously, unhooked the seatbelt. Quickly, I reached out of the window and pulled myself onto the surface of the ice, soaking wet. 

We moved about a hundred feet from the Jeep and watched it descend through the ice. After a long forty-five seconds, we watched the lights turn off when it lost power. 

The lights turning off highlighted the black sky spackled white with thousands of twinkling stars. I was dazzled at the beauty when Mark leaned close and said in my ear:

“Just tell the cops it was stolen, dude.”

I almost laughed. I didn’t care about trouble or consequences just then. Everyone was alive. The only thing more important to me then was getting back to the cabin so we could dry off and warm up. We made the half-mile trek back to the party, and by the time we arrived, my once-soaking-wet sweatshirt had frozen into a wearable piece of plywood. I could knock on my chest, which sounded like a door.

My blood boiled as people made jokes at my expense, daft to the fact we all could have been trapped inside a Jeep under the ice. 

Luckily, there were people at the party who were both sober and willing to give us rides home. I sat in the back seat, running through the night’s events, thankful to be on my way home.

We made it back to my house, where I had to do that fun thing of waking my Mom (my Dad was out of town for work) to tell her how I had messed up. The good news is, when you almost kill yourself and your best friends, the punishment is pretty light. 

The next day, we drove out to see the damage in the sunlight. 

As it turned out, my Jeep was a mere fifteen feet from shore in about six feet of water. The bump we felt before breaking through was a slight pressure ridge formed at the mouth of the small channel I drove into. Ninety-five percent of the Jeep was under ice. A few feet of the roof and the rear window were all you could see. Well, that and scattered Busch Light cans frozen into the ice surrounding the Jeep. Neither my mom nor the tow truck driver believed me when I told them they weren’t mine.  When I tried to explain this fact, the response I got was a skeptical, “Uh-huh…”

Fortunately, and much to my surprise, the police didn’t even care to look at the site of the accident as long as we got the Jeep out of the water within the week. Plus, insurance covered removing it from the lake even though it required a SCUBA diver to get it hooked to the tow truck. 

Everything feels like a win immediately after a close brush with death. 

A couple of days later, Andy called me to see if I had been to look at the Jeep in the body shop. When I told him I hadn’t, he offered to come and help me get my things out of it. I explained he didn’t have to come, but he insisted.

We went to the body shop, and I started to collect my things. Of course, my backpack with all my textbooks and notebooks was ruined. My Samsung flip phone was still plugged into the charger, and after a couple of days of drying out, it worked like it was brand new. The book that held my CDs was ruined, but all the CDs survived. 

Andy sprang into action when I opened the rear hatch, collecting what was left of his Busch Lights, about eighteen beers. 

I thought he was being a supportive friend because of his bravery the night of the accident, but his sole mission was to retrieve his beer. 

The next night, I got a text message from Andy: 

These Busch Lights are ice-cold. 

Of course, the Jeep was a total loss, which was fine with me. It had this ugly visor over the windshield with orange lights. The prospect of spending my last few months as a Senior without a car was a nightmare. 

That anxiety was short-lived, as about a week later, I was forced to tag along with my parents on a trip to Miami. My parents bought me a new Jeep first thing when we returned to Minnesota. The new Jeep had a V8 engine, leather interior, heated seats, a sunroof, and, most importantly, no visor. 

It was a harsh lesson, but I learned from it. 

Rarely does a week go by that I don’t think about how devastatingly different things could have ended up. I’m thankful to be able to look back now and laugh.

Above all, I’m thankful for Andy’s quick action that night to save the most wonderful girl I’ve ever known.

Bravery like that deserves an ice cold beer. 

Cheers.

See the original version from Tumblr in 2012, here.

My Leap

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments
     Click play to listen!

You know the old saying: If you agree to officiate one wedding, be prepared to officiate more.

That’s not a saying, but it doesn’t make it untrue. 

This past September, I officiated my brother’s wedding. You’ll be disappointed to know I wasn’t sobbing alone the morning of like I did for the last, well, first, wedding I officiated. 

I wasn’t void of emotion. Instead, I was mistaken for someone who knows how to plan a wedding ceremony. I don’t know how that happened, but I was willing to take on the task despite not knowing what I was doing. It was a welcomed distraction, one I hoped would prevent me from turning into a sobbing mess on the day of the wedding.

The previous wedding I officiated had a wedding planner who told everybody what to do. Someone who organizes hundreds of weddings a year. All I needed to do was go where I was told and read the ceremony I wrote. 

Unfortunately for my brother and his bride-to-be, I was the wedding planner. To make matters worse, the weather was gloomy and rainy, leading to a last-minute change in venue from a lakeside wedding to inside a restaurant that wasn’t built with wedding ceremonies in mind. 

Before the rehearsal, the bride told me she would like my help making sure everyone knew where they should be and when. I agreed, confident that when the day came, she would make all of the decisions, and I would play the part of emotional support officiant. 

I was wrong. 

She was overwhelmed on the day of the rehearsal, so I decided to take charge and pretended as though I had officiated thousands of weddings. 

I pulled her aside to get a clear picture of what her vision was for her big day. I decided to start simple.

“What side are you going to be standing on?” I asked. 

She stared back at me, eyes wide. 

“What side am I supposed to stand on?” She asked. 

Is there a right side for her to stand on? Is one side a faux paux? Is this like one ear being the “gay ear” people talked about back in high school?

“You decide,” I said, gesturing to where the ceremony would take place, “when you look there, where do you see yourself standing?”

“Right,” she said.

“There you go! Now we’re making decisions.”

I could tell she needed confidence, so I faked having a clue as to what I was doing. Fortunately for both of us, I spend my life faking as though I know what I am doing. I put together a wedding ceremony on the fly. 

When I spoke, people listened. When I told them where to go and where to stand, they listened. 

You can get drunk power like that.

I woke up the morning of the wedding less concerned with officiating and more concerned that I had put together a terrible ceremony. Instead of focusing on that, I spent my morning reading over the words I wrote repeatedly. I resolved to knock it out of the park on that front in case there were questions about who planned the particulars of the wedding. 

The wedding wasn’t without its hiccups, but I’d venture it went as well as it could have, given the limitations of our space and my limitations as a wedding planner.

If you need an operational definition of hiccup, here’s a quick rundown: both flower girls left their baskets at home, forcing us to turn around when we were halfway to the wedding to get them. The bride lost her vows, leading to a last-minute ceremony re-write. My brother, the groom, forgot to bring the rings, forcing them to use mine and my wife’s wedding rings during the ceremony.

You know, hiccups. 

Fortunately for me, the change in venue, the space, and the hiccups tied in perfectly to the theme I chose to base my officiant speech around. As the bride entered the aisle, my nerves shifted to excitement. 

The theme? Chaos. 

I knew what I had printed in my hands would murder. 

When I got my first laugh, I glanced up from my binder to see my brother weeping like a child who dropped his ice cream cone. At that moment, I knew it was going to go well. 

Come to think of it, he cried almost through the entire ceremony, and he really lost it when he gave his speech during dinner. 

For the record, I didn’t cry a single time that day. I cried the next day and the day after that, but not the day of the wedding. 

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call a victory.

After the first laugh, it’s a blur of euphoria. 

Following the ceremony, I knew I had done well. I was proud of myself, which is rare for me. It felt amazing. Is this how normal people feel all the time?

I wasn’t prepared, however, for the compliments people threw my way following the ceremony. 

I’ve never been good at receiving praise or compliments. And following a wedding, people are obliged to tell me good job. So, while the compliments were terrific, they couldn’t match the buzz coursing through my body. Something new was set in motion.

Indecision is a mainstay in my life.

Question: What do you want for dinner? Response: I don’t care.

Question: What movie should we watch? Response: You pick.

Question: What book will you read next? Response: I have no idea. 

Following the wedding, I was struck with the most significant certainty I’ve had in my 39 years on this planet. 

I need to do more of that, I thought. 

To be clear, the “that” I am referring to is reading the words I have written in front of people.

So be it if it takes officiating a few weddings to do that. However, if you consider asking me to officiate your wedding, you should know I am done officiating pro bono.

Unless you ask nicely, that is. I’m a pushover. 

The day after the wedding, I decided it was time to stop talking and thinking about my dream and finally pursue it. I knew exactly what I needed to do…

Quit the job I have had for the past sixteen years. 

Easier said than done. 

On my first day back to work following the long wedding weekend, I found myself alone in my office at 3:00 PM (a common occurrence that aided my decision to leave, but that’s a story for another day). 

The morning prior, I had resolved to give my CEO notice I would be leaving. At that moment, I knew it was the correct decision. It needed to happen. 

As time moved forward, anxious doubt slowly flooded my body and mind. Those old, familiar thoughts came crashing down on me. 

Are you going to give up your income and benefits? What kind of husband and father does that to his family? Who exactly do you think you are, some undiscovered talent the world is waiting to find? You don’t have any talent. People who say they like what you write are just being friendly. You are going to disappoint everyone who cares about you. You are going to fail and end up in another job you hate. You are going to be forced to give up fun. Well, at least as a starving artist, you’ll drop a little more weight.

It’s pretty neat between my ears, don’t you think? I especially enjoy how I can still add a skosh of body shaming on top. 

The weight was more than I could bear. Hands shaking and short of breath, I sobbed for 45 minutes. At least I’m consistent, right?

“I don’t know what to do,” I said to my empty office. 

A softer, gentler voice responded from a deep corner of my brain: you know what to do. It’s time to leap. 

I sat staring at my CEO’s contact on my phone screen, working up the strength and courage to press the ‘Call’ button. 

Finally, I pulled myself together enough to press the button. I explained that I would stay on as long as necessary to fill my position and that I was leaving to pursue my dream. 

“Congratulations,” my CEO said to me earnestly.

I viewed quitting my job to pursue writing as taking a leap with nothing but hope that a net would appear to save me from slamming into the ground. 

Currently, I am still in a free fall with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the net to catch me. 

Over the past couple of months, I have learned that incredible people surround me. Not a single person has expressed doubts or worry. Well, at least not to me. 

The support the people I love have given me is stunning. 

I wish I could say the same for myself, but as I write this in a coffee shop down the road from my house with tears rolling down my cheeks, I can assure you I am terrified. 

I’m doing this for my children. I want them to know nothing ismore important than going after what will make them the happiest version of themselves. 

I’m doing this for my wife, Jenni, who supports and encourages me daily. 

I’m doing this for my family and friends because I’d like to introduce them to the Tim who is truly happy and fulfilled. 

Above all, I am doing this for me. I am doing it for Timmy, writing a short story about a basketball player in 5th grade falling in love with the feeling when the words cascade from brain to fingertips. I am doing it for Tim, who heard, “You have a real writing talent,” from a professor during his first year of college but ignored it because writing as a career isn’t practical. 

Driving home from work one afternoon this summer, I knew I needed to make a change. I also knew myself and figured I’d never work up the courage to do it when “Shake It Out” by Florence + The Machine started playing. I sang along to it five times in a row with tears streaming down my face because the lyrics hit different that day. 

I am done with being terrified of what other people might think or say about me. From here on out, I am going to do what makes me happy.

This.

In the incomparable words of Florence and The Machine, “And I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t, so here’s to drinks in the dark at the end of my rope.”

Cheers.

The NIT, AITA?

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

“You’re an asshole,” my wife, Jenni, said to me walking into our townhouse in Maple Grove, MN, upon returning home from work. 

A smirk was fighting through her incensed facial expression, letting me know she meant it lovingly.

If a happy marriage means not regularly calling your spouse vulgar names out of love, I don’t want it. 

“What did I do?” I asked.

I suppose I could have made some guesses, but that only would have reminded her of the dozens of other reasons I am an actual asshole rather than a loveable asshole.

“N, I, T,” she said.

“What about it?”

“Not in tournament, tournament,” she said, impersonating me.

After a moment, a smile slowly began to form on my face as a distant memory jumped to the front of my brain.

About a decade earlier, when we were teenagers, Jenni asked, “What’s the NIT?”

“It’s another end-of-season basketball tournament. It’s like a consolation tournament.”

“What does NIT stand for?”

Without hesitation, I said, “The tournament has been around for a long time. At first, the tournament board tried to compete with the March Madness tournament we know today. Still, good teams would choose the other tournament invite for whatever reason. So they’ve always gotten teams not invited to the big tournament. I can’t remember what it was initially named, but people used that tournament to make fun of rival schools by saying they were playing in the “Not In Tournament” tournament. People quickly abbreviated it to NIT, and the tournament board decided to lean into it.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Isn’t it? I’m surprised you’d never heard that before.”

I laughed to myself at the time. We moved on from the topic and never talked about it again. 

“I had a lunch meeting at work today. I was the only girl at the table, and everyone was talking about basketball. The NIT came up, and someone asked what NIT stood for,” Jenni said, face flushing as she recalled the embarrassment. “I was so excited to contribute to the conversation and told the whole story about how it stands for ‘Not In Tournament.'”

“No, you didn’t,” I said, laughing.

“I did. I thought I was sooo smart until someone else at the table told me it wasn’t true.”

Doing this is a habit of mine. I will provide reasonable-sounding answers to questions based on my pre-existing knowledge and an educated guess. I am surprised by my own answers from time to time. 

I don’t do it with malicious intent. There are two reasons I will do this.

One: If I’m talking to someone I care for, I will do it as a private joke for myself. If that person catches it, we both laugh. If they don’t catch it, I laugh. I laugh again if they embarrass themselves by re-telling my fabricated fact and then tell me it happened. 

Two: If I’m talking to strangers or acquaintances, I will do it to prevent an awkward silence in the conversation. If there is one thing I hate more than hearing about other people’s dreams, it’s an awkward silence during a conversation with someone I don’t know. 

This may be a learned behavior. 

When playing golf with my brother, PJ, recently, he tried it on me. 

“Killer whales won’t eat humans,” PJ said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yep. Don’t like the taste of ’em,” PJ said. 

“You are so full of shit,” I said, laughing.

He could’ve had me with a little more explanation.

If the roles were reversed, I would have gone into a detailed explanation of why they don’t eat humans.

Something like: Marine biologists have varying theories as to why instances of killer whales eating humans are so rare. The most common explanation is that the humans they encounter wear SCUBA suits since killer whales are primarily found in colder ocean water. They may be intelligent enough to know the suits are not digestible. Still, it may be as simple as not liking the clothing texture. 

I’ve learned that the more detail you provide and the more technical jargon you use, the better your chance of avoiding follow-up questions. 

Some may have moral qualms about doing this. Granted, it is inherently deceptive, but is it better from a social standpoint to say, “I don’t know,” and reach for your phone to Google the answer?

It’s not as though the information on the internet is much more reliable. I am not attempting to sway people’s political opinions, take money from them, or provide medical advice that could endanger their lives. 

Often, I will read headlines or hear facts on TikTok that are too good for me to research further. I don’t pass these things off as facts. Rather, I provide a disclaimer either at the beginning or end of the anecdote: “I don’t know if it’s true, but I saw/read it and am choosing to believe it is.”

If the idea of doing this has piqued your interest, and you have children, you have a perfect place to practice. 

I don’t look at it as lying. It’s an excellent way to slow the flow of questions being hurled from the car’s back seat in rapid succession. 

Questions like: Daddy, how many cars are there in the world? 

Daddy, what if the road was made of water? 

Daddy, why are there traffic lights? 

Daddy, was everything black and white in the world when you were a kid? You know, in the olden days?

“The olden days,” the nerve… as if I needed a reason to fill them with misinformation. 

There is one story I am determined to make both of my kids believe and repeat. 

There is a power plant in Becker, MN. We drive by frequently on our trips up to Brainerd, MN. When the temperatures get frigid in the winter, the stacks’ steam makes it look like a cloud factory rather than a power plant. 

And that is precisely what I tell my children it is: a cloud factory. 

On cold, clear days when no steam comes from the stacks, I’ll say, “Oh, no wonder it’s so sunny; the cloud factory has the day off.”

I hope a day will come for my children when someone says, “There isn’t a cloud in the sky today.”

And they’ll respond, without hesitation or irony, “The cloud factory in Becker must have the day off.”

Maybe that day will be the first day my children will come through the front door and call me an asshole. 

A Dad can dream…

As the years have passed, Jenni has gotten brazen in her attempts to fact-check me when she believes I am up to my old tricks. 

“You’re just making that up,” she says. 

“Look it up,” I’ll say. 

What happens next has turned into a good way for me to gauge her mood towards me on a given day. 

I know she is really in love with me when she responds, “You know a lot of things.”

Conversely, when she’s irritated with me, she quickly picks up her phone to search for the answer, or if we’re at home, she’ll shout, “Alexa!”

It works out in my favor almost every time. When Jenni decides to be a fact-checker, I am often surprised to find out my answer is either correct or at least accurate enough that it is brushed away because I missed the mark on minor details. 

What keeps me at it and what makes it worth the mental energy are the times my answers go unchecked. Those answers are usually those I am confident would expose me as a liar. 

It makes me feel like Timmy Appleseed scattering jokes down the path of life, which will grow into future laughs. Never knowing when one will sprout and force my wife to start a conversation with, “You’re an asshole,” in a loving way rather than filled with contempt like how all of our other conversations start.

Cheers.

Airport Anxiety

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

I am a “get to the airport 2 hours early” type of guy. 

I grew up traveling with my parents, who are get to the airport a week before your flight kind of people. 

As an adult, having done quite a bit of travel with two children under seven, I get it now. You have to be prepared for the bathroom breaks, the frustrations, and teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown at all times. And we are in the age of iPhones, tablets, and screens on the plane with a suite of movies, shows, and games.

The travel I did as a child pre-dates those things. 

This isn’t an “it was different back in my day” rant. 

Getting to the airport early in the nineties as a kid meant you were in for some next-level boredom. There are only so many connect-the-dots you can do. I’d inhale the treats my Mom packed in my backpack to help with the pressure change (gum, orange Tic-Tacs, LifeSavers, etc.) before we boarded the plane. I had no interest in watching CNN on the silent airport TVs.

Things got better when I leveled up to bringing a Gameboy and Discman.

However, having a Discman meant you must bring CDs along as well. 

One year, a friend gave me a hand-me-down case that could hold up to 120 CDs. I had less than half that amount, but I can’t describe how cool I felt the first time I brought that CD holder through the airport. 

On the inside, the CDs were held in plastic trays, like the cases they were sold in. It made the most satisfying noise when you paged through, deciding whether to listen to Ace of Base, Alanis Morisett, or Jock Jams Vol 1. Click-clack, click-clack.

The outside of the case was a hard plastic that closed with a plastic locking mechanism rather than a zipper. 

You must know that when I entered the airport with my parents, hours before the flight, it was time to move like we would miss our flight. The idea was to avoid being any sort of inconvenience to the other travelers around us. Whether we were waiting to get boarding passes, going through security, or walking to the gate, any misstep was met with one of the top punishments my Dad doled out. “The Look,” as it has been named in our family, was a sudden change in my Dad’s facial expression. He used it to let us know that he would go to extreme lengths to teach us a lesson if we weren’t in public.

Of course, I cannot remember when my Dad got even close to laying a hand on me in the name of punishment. However, that fact didn’t matter as “the look” drilled into your brain and let you imagine a profanity-laced trip behind the proverbial wood shed. 

The pressure turned up when it was time to board the plane. The stress would turn up a notch. Something about a line behind my Dad spiked his anxiety. Knowing this, I did my best to go unnoticed by all around me. 

When it came time to board the plane my first time with my new CD carrying case, I switched to a new CD as we got up to get in line. 

Everything went smoothly until my arm snagged on my headphone cord, pulling it out of the Discman. I was walking behind my parents, so I took a moment to plug my headphones back in. After a bit of fumbling, music started playing again. I put a little hop in my step to close the gap between myself and my parents. My increased pace was more than the plastic lock on my CD case could handle. Halfway down the jetway, the case opened, and twenty CDs fell out, scattering in all different directions. 

I dropped to my knees, scrambling to pick up the CDs from the course-thin carpet as quickly as I could without smudging or, God forbid, scratching the discs. I could see the feet of the line forming behind me. I felt the blood rush to my face. My heart pounded in my ears. It was time to face the music after all the CDs were back in the case. I stood and turned to see “the look.” 

I deserved it.

We all have moments as adults when we catch ourselves behaving like our parents. The combination of genetics and learned behavior is sometimes impossible to overcome. 

Because of this, I have spent most of my life anxiously arriving at airports too early and rushing for no reason. 

My wife, Jenni, usually has enormous patience for me. 

I am confident I am given this grace because she has also traveled with my parents and witnessed the controlled chaos firsthand. 

In high school, she joined us on a trip to visit my sister in Maryland and spend a day in New York City. On that trip, it didn’t take more than a hundred yards for the stress level to rise to an unreasonable level. 

My parents started, err, discussing correctly navigating the route from the parking ramp to the baggage check.

We followed along, quietly laughing at their back-and-forth while naively thinking we would never be like that. 

Ah, to be young. 

We reached the boiling point heading up an escalator. My Dad was confident he was doing the correct thing by going up. My Mom wasn’t so sure, although she only voiced this once we headed up the escalator. This led to a loud, umm, debate being volleyed from the top to the bottom of the escalator.

Stuck in the middle, Jenni and I decided to match the pace of the escalator, waiting to see who would be the victor. We did our best to stay halfway between the two so as not to show allegiance to either of the parties involved inadvertently. 

I cannot recall which direction was correct, but we did make it to the flight in plenty of time.

Despite bearing witness to this early in our relationship, we are not immune to our airport debates. 

As a matter of fact, on July 19, 2019, we came as close to a divorce as we ever have in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. 

We were headed to upstate New York for our summer vacation. 

Sweat poured from my forehead in the Park’ N Fly parking lot as I worked to get both car seats out of the car in time to catch the shuttle. The shuttle parked directly behind my vehicle. A shuttle filled with people waiting to get to the airport, watching me. Suddenly, it was as if I had never taken a car seat out of a car. Panic started to rise.

“Take your time; we’re fine,” my wife said as I swore at the car seats under my breath.

We’re fine. We’re fiiiine. Easy to say that when you’re not taking the car seats out in an oven, I thought to myself.

Eventually, the car seats were removed from the car, and we got on the shuttle and made it to the terminal. Of course, the kiosks allowing you to print your bag tags were not working. We were forced to get in a ridiculously long bag check line with our 3-year-old and 7-month-old—somehow, it was more hot and humid inside than outside. 

When traveling with two children under three, checking bags doesn’t lighten the load as much as you might think. We got through security with four carry-ons, a car seat, a stroller, and a diaper bag. 

You should know that when Jenni announces she is hungry, it means she needs to eat immediately. 

I knew this at the time. I knew I had mere minutes before Jenni became “hangry.”

There is a grab-and-go-style restaurant as you enter the G concourse in the MSP airport. 

“Let’s get some food before we go to the gate,” Jenni said.

“Why don’t we go to the gate first? Then we can come back and get some food,” I said, thinking gathering food without two children, four carry-on bags, a car seat, a stroller, and a diaper bag would be easier. 

Logic is ineffective against Jenni’s “hanger.”

If we could survive without food, Jenni and I would never fight. 

We whisper-fought in the busy airport concourse. Neither of us wanted to become a spectacle to people passing while simultaneously wanting to win the fight. I’m sure we were simultaneously recalling the escalator battle of 2002 somewhere in the deep recesses of our minds.

We got the food before going to the gate, of course. We walked to the gate separately. Jenni didn’t allow us to get within thirty feet of each other. All of the seats were taken when we got to the gate, so we were forced to sit on the floor of the hot concourse. Jenni wouldn’t look at me or talk to me. When I tried to talk to her, she behaved as though I didn’t exist.

There was a brief moment I thought my marriage was over. 

It wasn’t until we were flying over Michigan that she acknowledged my existence. I’m confident the sole reason was so I could take this picture of our daughter on her first flight.

Since then, we I have become much more relaxed when entering an airport. Though, thanks to the Delta Sky Club, I will always be the guy who gets to the airport way too early. 

I also have inherited “the look” from my Dad. I do it often, especially to my son in public places. It feels like I look like my Dad when I do it, but I’ll never know because the kid in me doesn’t dare to look in the mirror and see it. 

Cheers.

Embracing the Speedo

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

“I don’t understand you,” my wife said as we were getting ready for the day when I put my last story on my site.

She was referencing the fact that minor embarrassments cause me so much anxiety. Yet, I choose to relive them by writing about them and posting them for everyone to read.  

I must confess, it’s confusing to me as well. 

I enjoy being the butt of a joke, as long as it’s on my own terms. The idea of people laughing at me without my knowing causes me irrational distress. Sharing these stories through my eyes allows me to take control of the situation and laugh at myself with everyone else. 

Think Eminem’s character, B-Rabbit, in the final rap battle in the movie 8 Mile. 

I can insult myself better than anyone can. I promise that what I bring will be a hell of a lot more entertaining than anyone else will come up with. 

I was forced to wear a Speedo at a young age. 

Okay, that doesn’t read well. 

I was forced to wear a Speedo at a young age at the YMCA.

Nope. Not better.

I was a member of the YMCA swim team as a second and third grader; we wore Speedos when we swam. 

There we go.

It doesn’t matter what age we are. We all have blind spots to things we didn’t know we needed to concern ourselves with. 

My brother-in-law brought this idea to my attention years ago when we saw a Hanes commercial with Michael Jordan on an airplane donning an unfortunate mustache. The commercial is for undershirts with a collar that will stay flat and not turn into “bacon neck.”

“Well,” my brother-in-law said, turning to me, “I didn’t know I needed to worry about that.”

One, it never occurred to me that people didn’t always worry about every aspect of their appearance. Two, it made me question how many of my insecurities were manufactured by marketing executives who bought their second house based on preying on our sensitivities. 

Sometimes, though, our insecurities are born through good old-fashioned childhood embarrassment. 

When I wore a Speedo during my first swimming season, it never occurred to me that I had anything to be insecure about. The Speedo was the uniform. Everyone in the pool was wearing the same thing. 

It wasn’t until the team picture from that season was displayed in the YMCA lobby that I was made aware I had something to be embarrassed about.

I walked past a group of kids waiting for their parents to pick them up and were passing the time by looking at the team picture. 

I was sitting in the front row on the pool deck in the picture.

“Tim looks like he’s naked because his rolls cover his Speedo,” said one of the kids. 

Of course, this was met with laughter by the other kids. 

I made myself disappear. There is at least one universe in the infinite number of them, with a version of Tim that speaks up. However, in this universe, Tim would never confront those kids because that might embarrass them, which is too much embarrassment for a single interaction. 

I couldn’t unhear it. I loved to swim. Swimming is one of the few natural talents I’ve known in this life; however, I dreaded putting on my Speedo every practice and swim meet. It gave me a competitive advantage in getting off the starting block faster because I despised being isolated up there in a Speedo, convinced everyone was laughing at my body. I have my insecurities to thank for my 1st place ribbon for the 50-meter freestyle at the state championship swim meet that year.

I gave up swimming for basketball the following year, not because of the Speedo. Not entirely, at least.

I assumed my Speedo days were over. 

And they were until I found out in the fall of 2012 that there would be a “Speedo Day” with many friends during our upcoming trip to Mexico in February. 

I was initially excited. I went to Dick’s Sporting Goods and bought a black Speedo the same day. The excitement disappeared when I got home, tried it on, and looked in the mirror. 

I promised myself that I would lose weight before the trip. *SPOILER ALERT* I broke that promise.

I did, however, take action to try to get some color on my pasty, white skin by making an appointment at a tanning salon. Everything went well getting to the booth; no awkward interactions. 

It wasn’t until minute eight of my twelve-minute session that I realized I was wearing boxer briefs. Panicked, I reached down and pulled both legs of the boxer briefs up to match the coverage of a Speedo. Of course, it was too little too late. 

As I looked in the mirror the following day, I had a white V across my thighs. I decided to roll with it. While the tan line was ridiculous, it would draw attention away from the mess above the Speedo. 

When the day came in Mexico, I didn’t have a self-conscious thought most of the day, thanks to tequila. We spent most of the day in the pool, but as the day began to end, a few of us decided to take our Speedos to the ocean. 

The surf was relatively rough that day; that, combined with alcohol, made it hard to keep my balance walking onto the beach. I fell over and was rolled around in the surf like a bloated seal carcass. 

Finally, I got to my feet and noticed a couple of girls pointing and looking in my direction with displeasure. I walked directly to them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, “and no, I’m not Daniel Craig.”

As years passed and I gained weight, my Speedo fell slowly to the bottom of my swimsuit drawer. At some point, I forgot I even had it anymore. 

Fast forward to July 31, 2022. I was heading to my brother’s house for his birthday party. I had been invited, but he didn’t know I was coming. I scrambled to pack a bag and head out the door to drive to his place, but I couldn’t find my swimsuit. As I rummaged through my swimsuit drawer, cursing my wife’s name because she had no doubt put my swimsuit somewhere it didn’t belong, I stumbled across my old Speedo at the bottom of the drawer. 

I was excited to try it on because I had lost 70 pounds. Surely, I would finally look natural in a Speedo. 

Nope. 

It was a mess. I stood in the mirror, trying to decide if I would do it. It would be a birthday present for my brother, something to make him laugh. I would be the butt of the joke all day, but in the end, it would be my joke.

Fuck it.

I threw some shorts over the Speedo and went to the party. 

I was the first person to arrive. I got out of the car. Took off my shirt and shorts and walked around the side of the house to the pool. 

When you don’t wear Speedos, walking around in them is odd. I looked down multiple times to make sure I wasn’t actually naked.

My brother was finishing organizing the furniture on the pool deck. He looked up, widened his eyes, and started to laugh hysterically. At that moment, I decided that no matter what happened over the course of the day, I would wear nothing but the Speedo. 

When I sat in a chair by the pool later in the day with my legs crossed, I was reminded of my eight-year-old self as I looked down at myself. 

I look naked, I thought with a little laugh. 

A few minutes later, my brother’s future father-in-law, who had stopped by for a beer, turned to me and said, “Man, you’re not embarrassed by nothin’, are ya?”

He is a sweet guy, and I love talking to him, so I didn’t take offense to this. Instead, I took it as a compliment. Because, of course, I was embarrassed. I thought about my appearance constantly that day. 

What do I look like playing bags? I should wear a shirt now; it’s getting weird for everyone else. Are people making fun of me when I’m not around?

I stuck to my guns. I wore nothing but that black Speedo until almost midnight until the day’s heat disappeared, and I started shivering so much that I had to go inside. 

This is the only picture I have from that day. As you can see, there is a lot going on to be embarrassed about.

I didn’t do it to prove a point. I didn’t do it because I thought I looked good. I certainly didn’t do it because it was comfortable, although it wasn’t so uncomfortable when it got hot. 

I did it for the little boy hiding around the corner in the Brainerd YMCA lobby, ashamed. I write all of these embarrassing stories for him too. 

I can’t get back the years I spent worrying incessantly about what others thought of me, but I will spend my upcoming years not caring. I suggest you do the same.

Cheers.

P.S. If you are reading this and have a picture of me from Mexico in that Speedo, please send it to me. 

4th of July Embarrassment

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

A decade ago, on the 4th of July, I found myself in an embarrassing situation that still haunts me.

My wife and I were invited to hang out at our friend’s Minneapolis apartment pool. 

You should know that, for this particular friend, rules are made to be followed. As he read his apartment’s rules, he discovered he was allowed only three guests to the pool. No exceptions. This made for a short guest list poolside, but more friends were invited for a barbeque later in the day. 

Next to the pool, they were not invited to. 

My wife and I arrived at the pool party early to accompany the host of the party on a couple of errands to get some food and drink. 

You should know that we went to Winnipeg the weekend prior for our 5th wedding anniversary (another story for another day). 

“Are you sure you want to wear that today?” I asked my wife as she came downstairs before we went to downtown Minneapolis.

“Why, what’s wrong with this?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said with a smile, “it looks great.”

As we went to Kramarczuk’s Sausage Co. in the St. Anthony neighborhood to buy food to grill later, a guy on a road bike came speeding past. He asked a straightforward question as he flew by:

“Canada?”

My wife decided to wear a red shirt with a white maple leaf and Canada on the front on the 4th of July.

My wife seemed genuinely baffled at the passer-by’s comment.

“What did you think was going to happen?” We asked her through laughter as we made our way back to the apartment. 

The weather was perfect that day. The kind of heat that only a day by the pool can cure. We had a blast drinking beer and swimming (like our forefathers would have wanted). 

When it came time for the barbeque, we realized we were highly ill-prepared. We had no grilling utensils. We didn’t even have paper plates. 

I ate a brat using a small chip bag as a makeshift bun. 

You appreciate the invention of the bun when you eat a hot stick of meat out of a bag made of multiple layers of polymer materials. The bun is critical to the process. It protects your hand while you wait for the inside of the meat stick to cool from its magma-like state. Without the bun, you must decide if you want a burned hand or mouth. 

After eating, we decided to head to Saint Anthony Main to continue the celebration, drink beer, and watch fireworks. 

Our party had grown from four people to ten people. 

We took the elevator to my friend’s 600-square-foot studio apartment to change clothes before heading out. On the journey up, my stomach started to feel a bit funny. 

“Is it cool if I take a quick shower?” I asked as we entered the apartment. 

“I don’t care,” he answered with a tone I didn’t quite care for.

Of course, I didn’t really need a shower. 

If you’d like more detail, I wrote about this strategy here, but I needed to announce that I was taking a shower so no one asked questions when they heard the water running. 

Why? 

Because the sole purpose of the water was to mask any other possible noises that may come from the bathroom, as nine people essentially huddled outside the bathroom door due to the size of the apartment. 

Let me tell you, there is no panic quite like watching the water in a toilet bowl rise due to a clog from your own bowel movement whilst in the only bathroom in a small apartment packed with people. 

There should be support groups for those who have gone through this. 

Please don’t overflow. Please don’t overflow, I thought as sweat poured from my head.

The water mercifully stopped about an inch below the rim of the bowl. 

I got in the shower to buy myself a little time.

The water will go down, and you can flush again. What if it doesn’t? Or what if it does, and the water overflows this time? That won’t happen. You are panicking for no reason. No reason?! Nine people on the other side of this door will know that not only did you poop, but you clogged the toilet like an animal. There is no coming back from this.

Isn’t my inner dialogue neat? 

When I got out of the shower, a much too long shower, I couldn’t help but notice that the water level had not changed. 

I cracked the door to the bathroom and looked out to see my wife just finishing getting dressed in the closet just outside the bathroom door. 

“Are you done?” She asked.

“Not exactly,” I said, “I need a plunger, and there isn’t one in here. I don’t know what to do.” 

“I’m sure he has one. It will all be okay. Just go ask him,” my wife said, attempting to reduce the panic splashed all over my face. 

I dried off, dressed, and walked four steps to talk to my friend, who was making a cocktail in the kitchen. 

“Hey, can I use your plunger?” I asked.

“Oh my God, did you clog the toilet?” He asked in a voice far too loud for the size of the apartment.

“Yeah,” I admitted in a hushed voice, then asked again, “Can I use your plunger?”

“I don’t have a plunger,” he said with little concern for my predicament. 

“Why don’t you have a plunger,” I asked in a quiet rage.

“I don’t make a habit of clogging toilets,” he responded.

I thought, who the fuck makes clogging toilets a habit?

“Is there someone we can call to get one?” I asked, trying to find a solution.

“This isn’t a hotel,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“Well, what the fuck should I do?” I asked in a whisper yell.

“I don’t know,” he yelled. 

With that, the only female aside from my wife in the apartment approached as I glanced toward the windows remembering that they didn’t open. I started doing some quick mental calculations, wondering if I would run as fast as I could if the glass would break so I could end the living nightmare I had found myself in.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Tim clogged the toilet,” my friend informed her.

I don’t know what I could have done to deserve this, I thought.

I didn’t hear the rest of their exchange due to the volume of the blood pumping through my ears. However, the next thing I knew, I was being handed a garbage bag. 

I looked at the garbage bag in my hand with complete confusion. 

“Just put your hand inside, and roll it up your arm. It will be gross, but you can unclog the toilet with your hand,” she said.

“O-okay,” I said, walking back to the bathroom in shame.

“I hate my life,” I said to my wife as I passed her going back to the scene of the crime.

She did her best not to laugh, and I love her for that.

I rolled the bag up my arm like I was Laura fucking Dern preparing to inspect a giant pile of dinosaur shit in Jurassic Park and reached into the cool water of the toilet. I don’t think I cried while unclogging the toilet, but I could have. 

I’d rather eat a thousand consecutive hot brats out of mini chip bags burning my hands and mouth before touching my excrement through the thin protection of a garbage bag again.

When the water starts to rush downward, the relief is the same as when you pop a limb back into a joint. 

That relief was short-lived when I remembered I needed to leave the bathroom to an apartment full of people who knew exactly what I just did. 

I walked out. Everyone was looking at me with smirks on their faces but silent.

“I can’t believe you clogged the toilet,” my friend yelled as the room erupted in laughter. 

I put the inverted garbage bag inside another garbage bag, threw it away, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and drank every drop as fast as I could. 

I genuinely hope you never have to experience a horrific situation like this. However, you now know what to do should you find yourself in such a predicament. 

You might want to know what happened to my relationship with the “friend” who handled that situation with little discretion. You might think I don’t have much of a relationship with him anymore. 

I officiated his wedding in May. How he handled that situation is why I love him so damn much. 

Cheers.

Unexpected Adventure in Chicago

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

It may surprise you to find out it is still possible to get lost in a major city in the United States in 2023.

It’s possible for me, anyway.

I traveled to my friend’s bachelor party in Chicago at the end of March.

Before you conjure up images of a stereotypical bachelor party that lead to us all saying, “What happens in Chicago, stays in Chicago,” this was a relatively relaxed weekend for men in their mid-to-late thirties. 

Mid-to-late thirties is not how I think of myself. Mentally, I am twenty years old. This means when I am presented with a weekend away from my family, I don’t necessarily behave like a thirty-eight-year-old father of two should behave.

I refuse to say things like, “I can’t drink like I used to and function the next day,” or, “I can’t sleep on a couch. Otherwise, my week will be ruined.”

You know, things old people say.

For better or worse, I drink like I’m twenty and will sleep wherever is convenient. Let’s call it “mind over maturity.”

On top of this mindset, my excitement is maxed out when I can socialize with adults. Also, my tolerance for alcohol has seen a significant decrease over the past couple of years.

All of this, put together, occasionally leads to less than sound-decision-making. It also leads to me repeating the same stories multiple times a night, as my brother, sister, and wife discovered in mid-April when my sister visited. I re-told this same tale many times in the same evening.

Our day started around 11:30 AM at Butch McGuires. Chicago dog and cocktails. We all commented to each other around the table about the importance of keeping food in your stomach to drink all day and still feel decent the following morning. The food we ate would be the last for that Saturday. 

From there, we hopped to a different bar to meet with the rest of the party. Then we headed to a golf simulator. 

When we walked out of the golf simulator, night had fallen. I’m confident you could have convinced everyone at the party that it was midnight (the shots of Malört may have helped). In actuality, it was 8:00 PM.

If this were a “choose your own adventure” story, this would be the spot for a choice.

Timmy walks to the street outside the golf simulator after consuming too much alcohol and taking a quick “power nap” on the couch inside. What should Timmy do?

Call an Uber and head back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep like a responsible adult, husband, and father? – END OF STORY

Or,

Head to the next bar and keep the night going? – CONTINUE READING

I have yet to become the mature adult who picks door number one. 

The four of us left standing ventured on to The Lodge Tavern; this would be the last bar of the night. We sat in that classic Chicago bar, drank beer, and talked about… well, I’m not sure what we talked about. I know I got sentimental at some point, which led to tears. It’s just who I am. I can’t help it. 

Four people turned to two. The bachelor and I were the last two standing.

It’s important to note when we called it a night, it was 10:30 PM. It is not as though we were walking out onto the street at four in the morning.

The bachelor lives roughly ten blocks from The Lodge Tavern in the Old Town neighborhood of Chicago. The Courtyard hotel that I was staying in was about twenty blocks in the opposite direction in River North.

I have been informed that, when we were saying our goodbyes at the end of the night, my friend did his best to convince me to call an Uber.

Timmy is standing outside a bar in Chicago, and his friend insists he takes an Uber. Still, Timmy knows the hotel is within walking distance and would like to get a few more steps in before the night ends.

What should Timmy do?

Call an Uber and return to the hotel in less than ten minutes? – END OF STORY

Or,

Walk home to get some exercise and see the sites of the big city? – CONTINUE READING

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” I said with a smile. 

My friend gave me a refresher on the directions. They were pretty straightforward. Walk half a block, turn right on State St., take a left on Hubbard, and there’s the hotel. Almost literally straightforward. 

Easy peasy.

It had been about twelve hours since I last ate. So, it shouldn’t be a shock that a block and a half down State St. that I was drawn like a moth to a flame by the neon glow from the sign for Velvet Taco. I definitely didn’t go in because the name has made me laugh every time I’ve passed that restaurant. I’m thirty-eight years old, and such sophomoric humor is of little interest. 

I bought and ate tacos. I don’t know what kind of tacos. I don’t know if they were good. I only knew that I needed them. They must’ve been good since I decided to take this picture mid-taco.

I finished up, ready for the rest of my journey back to the hotel. I walked out with the confidence of a lifelong Chicagoan. Little did I know that my drunken hubris was leading me in the wrong direction.

As I write this, I have been putting the pieces together, and everything has fallen into place. Thanks to this picture and a video I recorded.

As you can see, I ended up walking down Rush St. rather than State St. I know this because I took this lovely shot of the Chicago Water Tower. I recognized that I had deviated from the path shortly after as I recorded a video of myself around the corner of Wabash and Ontario.

The green route on the map is the route I should’ve taken, and the red route is the route I actually took.

Around this time, it occurred to me that the phone in my hand could be used as a navigation tool via the Maps application that comes standard on the phone.

My phone died as I spun on a corner for the third or fourth time, trying to get the arrow on the map to point the way I thought it should be pointing. I had no choice but to go the old-fashioned route of asking other human beings for directions. Which led to multiple interactions that went like this:

“Excuse me, do you know where the Courtyard is?” I asked complete strangers passing by.

“No,” the strangers said, not slowing as they walked past.

“Me neither,” I said to the back of their heads as they walked away.

It’s worth noting I was looking up at buildings to help me navigate. I did this because I had spent a significant amount of time that morning looking out my hotel window at the hotel across the street. You never know when you might see something interesting through the open curtains of a stranger’s hotel room. 

I finally spotted the neighboring hotel shortly after midnight.

A few days after returning home from Chicago, I stumbled on a TikTok of a man explaining why he believes an active serial killer exists in Chicago. He had created a map similar to the one above. His map had flags where bodies were found, people had gone missing, and attempted abductions were reported. I matched the age and description of people who appeared to be victims or prospective victims. Many of those flags were in the River North neighborhood.

Some might say that I risked my life to bring you this story. I’m not saying that, but some might say that.

What good is life without a bit of adventure, right?

Cheers.