My Life Stories

Unexpected Adventures in Boulder

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint (see: jog). 

“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner. 

They were too late. I was off on my own in a neighborhood in Boulder, CO. 

In September 2021, I traveled with some friends to Boulder, CO, to watch the University of Minnesota Gopher football team play against the University of Colorado. 

Few things match the energy of traveling to a college town to watch your team play. It opens up a sense of community in people. People you see wearing your team’s colors from the airport to the stadium are no longer strangers. They are your friends, if only for 72 hours. 

From smiles and head nods to “Go Gophers,” “Row the Boat,” and “Ski-U-Mah,” said in passing, a strange city starts to feel much more inviting. If you choose the right hotel, all the other guests are fans of your team. 

Come game day, the excitement in the air is palpable. You know you are in enemy territory when you leave your hotel. Usually, the opposing fans greet you with good-natured jeers; a “boo” is shouted with a good-natured smile, for example. 

Unless you are in Wisconsin or Iowa, those people are savages that take out their frustration of living in the worst two states in the country on opposing fans. Some of the worst things I’ve heard from opposing fans have come from the mouths of sixty-year-old women wearing Wisconsin red. 

In Colorado, we heard the same thing repeated all weekend leading up to the game from the female Colorado students, “Sko buuuhfs!”

The first time we heard it, my friends and I looked at each other in confusion and simultaneously asked, “What did she say?”

By the third time we heard it, we realized it was a shorthand for “Let’s Go Buffs.” For those of you not up on your college team names, the University of Colorado team name is the Buffaloes.

As it turns out, shouting, “Sko buuuhfs!” at an unsuspecting group of Colorado fans as they pass by is massively entertaining. Watching the excitement melt from their faces as they realized the cheer came from three men in their late thirties from Minnesota made for endless fun. 

What completes a road trip to watch your team is a win. The Gophers delivered on that front blowing Colorado out 30-0. The ten thousand Gopher fans that made the trip were ecstatic. 

When your team wins a road game you traveled to see, it makes money spent on travel, hotel, food, and massive amounts of beverages feel like an excellent investment. 

Before I tell you about the post-game celebration, I must tell you about the day before the game. 

My friends and I set out in the morning to visit the campus sites and find a bar. That bar led to a brewery, which led to a wine bar. By 4:00 PM, we were having a great time. 

We connected with a couple of other friends who made the trip and made plans to meet them for a drink and some appetizers. 

We went to a restaurant on Pearl St. in downtown Boulder to grab cocktails. We sat at a table on the sidewalk, sharing laughs and cheering with every Gopher fan that passed by. After a few beers and fireball shots, my friends needed to return to the hotel around 6:00 PM.

This is the responsible thing to do. However, I have spent twenty years training for marathon day-drinking days. I knew returning to my hotel room could lead to an abrupt end of the day. 

 No, thank you.

As we got up from the table, my friends mentioned getting an Uber. 

“Our hotel is a mile away. Let’s walk,” I said.

My friends saw through my plan. They knew my strategy would lead to me convincing them to stop at another bar. They explained that the night wasn’t ending and needed to “reset.” I probably would have submitted until I heard the word “nap” uttered. 

I have never started a good story with, “So I laid down to take a nap.” 

“Let’s just take an Uber to the hotel and find a bar to go…” 

“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint. 

“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner. 

I sprinted for a few blocks until my limited energy ran out. I found myself in a residential neighborhood walking down the street with the sun setting behind the mountains. 

I knew if I walked a couple of blocks south, I’d be back where the action was. However, I understood a walk and a break from cocktails were necessary, so I continued down the quiet street. 

I wasn’t sloppy by any means. I was in the day-drinking sweet spot. I had my wits about me and found humor in almost everything I saw. Like this gnome carved into an old tree. 

After a few blocks, I stumbled upon a park with a basketball court. Eight guys were playing a game of 4-on-4. I stopped to watch because, well, I had nothing better to do. 

One of the guys playing clearly had the lion’s share of talent. I watched silently as his teammates took terrible shots and turned the ball over. Eventually, their ineptitude became too much to handle.

“Kick it to short shorts in the corner,” I yelled through the fence. 

The best player was wearing running shorts. You know, the shorts you see those runners wear when they fly past running faster than you sprint, but they are on the seventh mile of their daily run. Then you think, show off, because you can’t remember the last time you ran more than a mile, let alone with your shirt off.

No? That’s just me? 

The guy with the ball threw a wild layup that gonged off the backboard. 

I shook my head in disgust. 

On their next possession, I figured they didn’t hear me and, with a little more gusto, yelled, “Feed shorts shorts!” 

The team again ignored their new inebriated coach, turning the ball over. “Come on,” I said in frustration, running my hands through my hair.

The sound of movement stopped. I looked at the court, and all the players stared at me.  

“Do we know you?” asked one of the players.

“No,” I said.

“Then shut the hell up,” he said.

“Sounds good,” I said, deciding to move on with my journey back to the hotel. 

I walked a couple of blocks trying to get my bearings, when a familiar aroma hit my nose. 

I’m in Colorado!

I scanned the area for a dispensary. I was slightly confused since I was still in a mostly residential neighborhood, but I was like a bloodhound on the scent. I spotted a blue and red neon sign that read, Open, illuminated in the window of what looked like a small house. 

I entered, learned some new things about marijuana from the lovely woman behind the counter, bought a souvenir, and continued my journey. 

I was confident I knew how to return to my hotel, but I checked my phone for directions. My phone died as the route pulled up on my Google Maps. 

If I can direct your attention to the graphic (below), I have highlighted (in case it needed to be clarified) where I got a little lost. Fortunately, after a few minutes of standing at the intersection of Pearl and 28th St., I remembered the Apple Watch on my wrist could lead me home. 

When I returned to my hotel room, I started texting my friends who took the Uber home. When they didn’t respond, I walked out the sliding glass door to the hotel courtyard and down to their room. 

In the courtyard, I noticed a glass pipe filled with marijuana. I looked up at the hotel and realized someone must’ve dropped it from their balcony. I continued on to the back patio of my friend’s room. They didn’t answer, so I started texting again.

Here’s what that looked like. 

Those are the texts from a man desperate for a good time. 

Eventually, they got up and going and appeased me by going out for a couple more drinks. 

The following morning, game day, we went to a bar near campus with a couple hundred other Gopher fans. 

It is hilarious watching Colorado fans walk away from a campus bar in disappointment when they realize it has been overrun by Gopher fans chanting, “M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A!” Which we did a lot. 

By the time the game ended, we had put in a full day’s worth of drinking. We opted to head back to the hotel to regroup, shower, and decide what the night would bring. 

Fortunately, we had the foresight to stock our hotel room with beer and snacks for just this occasion. 

We watched more college football and listened to music for a while, but I could feel the energy being sucked out of the room. I could feel the mood of the evening reverting to what I had encountered the night before. We needed to make decisions. 

“Where should we head?” I asked, hopping out of my chair. 

I didn’t receive the enthusiasm from my friends I was looking for. Then I got an idea. 

I walked out the sliding glass door to the courtyard. Walked into the grass and found the glass pipe I had seen the night before. I walked back to the patio of my hotel room with the pipe in hand.

“There’s no way you’re going to smoke that,” one of my friends said. 

I can’t remember my exact intentions when I walked out of the room, but that sounded like a challenge to my drunken brain. 

“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.

I had barely finished asking the question before a lighter sailed through the open sliding glass door. 

Without hesitation, I lit the remaining weed in the pipe and inhaled deeply. 

Look, I’m not proud of doing this. It wasn’t my finest decision. It was a calculated risk to get a rise out of my friends. And, yes, it was run-of-the-mill marijuana.

I’ve realized I am addicted to getting attention on my own terms. Hell, it’s why I write these stories. I don’t care if people are laughing at me as long as they are laughing.

Also, it worked. I don’t know if my friends were worried I would find other drugs in the courtyard or if they decided I needed an activity to keep me busy. We went out to a bar and got some pizza. 

We chatted with a guy at the bar who was nice enough, but I grew bored of his stories quickly.

“I smoked yard drugs!” I shouted in a mostly empty pizza restaurant. 

That put a quick ending to our conversation. 

It’s a fine line between being a gainfully employed husband and father of two and a bum smoking things you find on the ground and yelling about it to strangers. I, for one, think that is an important lesson to take away here. 

Although it should go without saying, don’t do what I did. There are much wiser ways to entice your friends to hit the town on a Saturday night.

That said, I regret nothing. 

Cheers.

What Are The Odds?

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Introverted-extrovert.

It sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s what I am. On top of being your standard, run-of-the-mill moron. 

If you’re unfamiliar, it works like this: I gather my social energy like a bear consuming calories before hibernation. When that energy runs out, I need alone time, or as my wife and I call it, Tim Time.

When I have a full tank of social energy and find myself at a social function with cocktails, those cocktails are like adding nitrous oxide to a car engine.

For my wife, ever the extrovert, this is madness. She is eager for socializing and action.

I often find myself in trouble entertaining future plans with people in social settings.

Over the holidays, my wife’s brother told me about his plans to visit the UK in the spring for an extended stay due to a work obligation. We were having a beer, and I was filling him in on some things we did when we traveled to London a few years back.

The nostalgia overcame me. “Want to go to London in April?” I shouted to my wife in the next room. 

“Absolutely!” she shouted back.

I was enjoying the fantasy of being able to make such decisions on a whim. Pretending we have the means and time to say, “Sure, we are traveling to Tennessee in the middle of April and Cabo San Lucas two weeks later. But what the hell?! Let’s book a flight to London in between.” Knowing full well we are not those people. Not yet, at least.

A week later, my wife informed me she had found a relatively cheap flight to London. 

As a woman of action, my wife doesn’t understand why I would pretend to entertain plans to keep the conversation going, whether it be international vacations or getting dinner in a few months. 

I despise small talk. The only topic of conversation I detest more than weather and work is people telling me about a dream they had last night. Nothing could be more boring. Instead, I drive my conversations to more fun topics, leading me to make plans I do not intend to follow through on. Drinks, dinner, concerts, and international travel (to name a few).

Despite her extroverted nature, sometimes I surpass my wife’s enthusiasm in social situations leading her to ask, “What is wrong with you?”

This question means a good conversation is, or has, taken place.

A prime example of one such instance is when we went to her company’s holiday party in December 2021.

Usually, the introvert in me would despise going to an office party with people I do not work with. 

However, some working with my wife are thrilled to see me when I come around. They are happier than my family has ever been to see me.

Why? Couldn’t tell you. Do I love it? Yes.

I love it so much that I went to a Twins game for a company function a year ago without my wife. If my social energy tank is full, and I know people who find my particular brand of nonsense entertaining will be present at an event, I’ll be there. 

I walked into the holiday party excited to have a fun night. 

After a few cocktails, I started a conversation with a couple of guys who work on the sales side of the company. They are fun, dynamic people, and I was eager to win their approval.

They were discussing a game they played at a conference. I listened and laughed but needed clarification about the game when the story ended.

“The game is called ‘What are the odds’?” I asked, “How do you play?”

They explained. The rules are simple. Someone asks another person what the odds are they would do something. Depending on the nature of that “something,” the person will respond with “one out of X.” Once the odds are set, you count backward from three and say a number that is between one and X. If you both say the same number, the person who placed the odds needs to do the “something.”

If you need clarification, hang with me. I am confident that you will understand the game and be entertained when you finish reading.

“I want to play,” I said.

Their faces lit up like long-term prisoners seeing fresh fish entering their cell block. 

“Okay, let’s see,” one said, pondering the options. 

The lightbulb turned on behind his eyes as he said, “What are the odds you will grab the CEO’s ass as hard as you can?”

My wife joined our circle as he asked this. She asked what we were talking about. I informed her that I was learning a new game. Her eye roll indicated she was familiar with the game.

“One out of three,” I said, knowing fully what I was doing. 

“He doesn’t understand the rules!” shouted my wife.

“I understand the rules just fine,” I told my wife. “One out of three,” I repeated.

When they asked the question, I knew immediately my odds would be one out of three, and my number would be one.

“Three, two, one,” one of them counted down.

“One!” We both said simultaneously. Laughter erupted. 

I could have made my odds one in a million and said one-hundred-twenty-seven. Making it almost sure I would not have to sexually harass my wife’s CEO at the office holiday party in front of the entire company.

What fun is that?

Did I mention that my wife is in Human Resources?

“You do not have to do it,” she told me.

“Yes, he does,” the guys said in unison. 

I scanned the office to find the CEO talking to an employee in a cubicle. He was standing in the corner of the cubicle, half sitting on the desk. 

“Does it have to happen, right…”

“Yes,” they said in unison once again.

“Can I wait until his ass is more accessible?” I asked.

They informed me it must happen immediately. 

“What is wrong with you?” my wife asked. 

I walked to the cubicle, forming my plan. 

I stepped into the cubicle and pretended to be looking for something.

“Are you looking for something, Tim?” the CEO asked me. 

“Yeah, I think I left my phone over here,” I said. 

I would like to thank The Academy…

He went back to his conversation. 

I began searching behind him. He didn’t step forward like I needed him to. Instead, he just slid down the desk away from me. 

Time to get aggressive, I thought. 

“Sorry,” I said, placing my hand firmly on his back and moving him away from the desk. I was now positioned directly behind him. 

I turned around. Reached for the CEO of my wife’s company’s right butt cheek with my right hand. I quickly grabbed and squeezed as hard as I could. 

A noise of shock and horror flew from his mouth, “oooh-aaaaah-whaa?”

I let go and began my escape. I looked to the guys who had put me up to it. They were in hysterics.

As was the rest of the company, aside from my wife.

See, while I was putting on my Oscar-worthy performance looking for my “lost phone,” they decided it would be selfish to enjoy the show alone.

Word spread fast, and there were now fifty people watching and laughing. 

“What are the odds?!” the CEO yelled over my head at the two who put me up to the task.

They could only nod and give a thumbs-up as they laughed. 

I knew I was in the clear. 

Most don’t see my introverted side. I enjoy being the person to make others laugh, especially if it is at my expense. 

I have a knack for living right on the line. I enjoy taking calculated risks and keeping my toes on the line of offensive, inappropriate humor in social situations. 

It’s not a place for most, and it could get me into serious trouble someday.

But…

What are the odds?

Cheers.

My SATs

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

“Timmy!”

Confused and disoriented, I blinked my eyes open. My mouth tasted terrible.

“Timmy! Time to get up!” my mom shouted again. 

I thought, What is she talking about? It’s Saturday, and there is nothing that I need to do today. I allowed my eyes to close again.

I heard footsteps approaching, and my bedroom door opened as my mom said, “You need to get going; you’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” I asked.

“You’re taking the SATs today.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Knowing it wasn’t an argument I would win, I dressed while mumbling obscenities. 

I wasn’t tired because I stayed up late getting one last study session in before my big test. I had been out participating in a popular rural Minnesotan teenager pastime of drinking Busch Lights next to a pallet fire in a field.

I had known that I was going to the University of Minnesota from a young age. Well, aside from that few-month period in 1993 when I announced that I would be carried off the Notre Dame football field after seeing Rudy for the first time.

I also knew I could be accepted into the University of Minnesota without an SAT score. 

Regardless, I drove to my high school to take the SAT. The rising sun made my eyeballs throb, my mouth was dry, and anxiety weighed heavy on my chest. 

When I took the ACT, we were in the high school gym to accommodate all students taking the exam since Midwest colleges require an ACT score. I was expecting the same for the SAT, so I felt relieved when I pulled into the high school parking lot with a handful of cars parked there. 

The test must not be today, I thought. 

My anxiety came slamming back as I walked to the door and saw a paper taped to the glass with “SAT ←” written on it.

“Dammit,” I said under my breath.

I made my way to the classroom.

I saw 25 familiar faces when I walked through the door to the classroom, and it is hard to say who was more shocked. 

I have never had that stereotypical dream of attending school naked, but that moment is all I need to relate.

Those 25 familiar faces belonged to the top 25 students in my graduating class. People that would eventually matriculate to schools like Duke, Notre Dame, and Yale. 

If there was a soundtrack to my life, this is the moment where the Sesame Street classic “One of These Things Is Not Like The Other” would be featured. 

I walked to an open desk with a (this is not a joke) empty backpack.

I knew it was empty when I took it out of the house. I knew it was empty when I parked. I brought it anyway. 

Fake it ’til you make it, right?

The proctor explained that we would start with the critical reading portion of the exam, take a break, and then complete the math portion. Then, they began to pass out the tests. 

Despite not wanting to be there, I focused and got to work. When we finished the critical reading section, I felt motivated. I fantasized about getting a good score as I gulped water from the fountain. I walked back into the classroom with a bounce in my step.

The proctor announced that we would begin the math portion of the exam and were permitted to have a calculator out. A chorus of zippers broke out as the other test takers took out their calculators.

Do you ever have those moments when you inexplicably believe you will be on the receiving end of magic only seen in movies? Unzipping my backpack, I felt my calculator would just materialize inside.

And guess what?

It didn’t.

My forehead began to sweat. My heart rate sped up. I looked around the room, hoping to find someone else in the same situation I had found myself in, as if somehow seeing someone else panic-stricken would improve my situation. 

I raised my hand and asked, “Can I have a calculator?”

The proctor informed me that I could not.

The student at the desk next to me put his extra calculator on my desk. The relief that flooded my body must be what heroin feels like.

However, the high was short-lived as the proctor informed me that I could not use another test taker’s calculator. 

Let’s be honest; a calculator would have made me feel better. However, I didn’t (and still don’t) have it in me to solve math problems like:

If (ax + 2)(bx + 7) = 15x2 + cx + 14 for all values of x, and a + b = 8, what are the two possible values for c?

I hope reading that problem gives you the same anxiety as it gives me. 

If it doesn’t, I am honored to have you as a reader, but you probably have more important things to do with your time. 

I can’t recall if there was a single question I answered confidently on the math portion of the test. It did occur to me that I would probably be better off just randomly filling in the bubbles on the answer sheet, but I didn’t. I read through the questions and used every mathematical brain cell to come up with correct answers. 

Those brain cells, much like most high school students in the country, had that Saturday off.

When the test was done. I didn’t think about the SATs again until my results came. 

And then they came.

700 – Critical Reading

200 – Math

That’s how you get a 900 on the SAT, folks. 

It will be no shock that I did not submit that score with my college application. I let my ACT score do the heavy lifting.

You may be wondering what score I got on my ACT.

The answer? Good enough. 

Cheers.

The Restroom Cottage

/ Tim Severson / 6 Comments

I go to extremes to avoid letting my wife know I have bowel movements.

First, I’m unsure I can explain how difficult it was to type that sentence out, knowing that I will eventually post it for tens of people to read. In my effort to conquer my self-conscious tendencies, it seems that sharing this story will be cathartic for me and entertaining for those who read it.

A classic win-win.

Here we go.

Before I tell you the story leading to my writing this, I must explain what I mean when I say that I go to extremes to avoid letting my wife know I poop. 

When we are home, and I need to use the bathroom, I will go to the bathroom where I believe my wife will have no reason to enter. No matter what I choose, she will come looking for me, stand outside the door, and say, “Tim?”

The panic that rises within me is illogical. I respond with a rushed, “I’m in the bathroom,” as I contemplate what I will do if the door knob starts to move.

I prefer this situation to when she is in a silly mood and jiggles the door knob unannounced. My panic maxes out when she does this, and I say, “Someone’s in here!”

I say this to my wife in my home. 

I don’t say, “I’m in here.” I say “someone” as though I could preserve some imaginary anonymity in my home with my wife.

I know couples that openly talk about what goes on in the bathroom. I know couples that use the bathroom while their partner is in the bathroom.

We will use the bathroom in front of each other for number one but for the other one?! I cannot think of many things I would rather do less. 

The story I am here to tell you occurred while we were on vacation for a wedding in Tennessee in April. 

Before we get to that, let me provide more context for how anxious this makes me.

If you think how I handle a normal bodily function in my home is ridiculous, let me tell you about being on vacation in a hotel room with one bathroom.

If my wife is asleep, I will lock the door, turn on the faucet, turn on the shower, and hope for the best. 

If awake, she will tell me I am ridiculous for wanting to retreat to the lobby to use the public restroom and force me to use the bathroom in our hotel room. Since she is a loving wife, she will throw in headphones (I wait until I am as confident as possible that noise is coming through them), or she will leave the room and walk down the hallway.

Stop judging me.

I know this behavior is absurd, but you must understand the absurdity to appreciate the dire situation I encountered when we went to the Gone With The Wind museum in Marietta, GA. 

When we traveled to Tennessee, we flew into Atlanta and drove to Chattanooga. Before traveling, we decided to stop in Marietta for lunch and check out the museum. 

I had to use the bathroom when we arrived at the museum. 

I was delighted to see a sign outside the museum that read, “Restroom Cottage.”

That sounds quaint and private, I thought. 

I told my wife I needed to go to the bathroom and told her I would meet her inside the museum. 

There was no one else around as I entered the bathroom. It appeared the restroom cottage might have just been opened for the season as the doors to both the men’s and women’s restrooms were propped open. They were not the most outstanding facilities I’ve used, but the privacy was all I really cared about. There were three stalls, and I chose the one with cleanest looking toilet seat. 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized I had made a rookie mistake. 

I reached for toilet paper. However, not only was there no toilet paper, there wasn’t even a toilet paper dispenser. I kept my cool. Since no one else was around, I would just do the waddle of shame (that’s what I call it when I need toilet paper that is not within arm’s reach). 

Time was of the essence as I made my way to the next stall—no toilet paper.

The last stall? No toilet paper. 

I looked to the sink and saw a tissue dispenser in between the two sinks. Empty. 

I looked to my final option, the paper towel dispenser. 

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. 

I waddled to the paper towels with my pants and underwear down around my mid-thigh, hence the waddle. It wasn’t until I grabbed the first paper towel and heard the creak of the main door to the Restroom Cottage that I remembered the entrance to the men’s room was propped open.

I turned to see my wife standing at the door wide-eyed, asking, “What is happening?”

I am not lying when I tell you I would have rather seen the face of any other person in the world. 

I stood, frozen with fear, looking like Porky Pig in front of the sinks.

“There isn’t any toilet paper,” I said.

“Do you want me to check the women’s bathroom?” she asked.

I quickly calculated that if toilet paper were in there, she would need to get closer to bring it to me—hard pass.

“I’ll just use paper towels,” I said. 

She told me I was ridiculous, but luckily there wasn’t toilet paper in the women’s restroom either. 

I came out to my wife laughing, and she laughed all the way to the museum entrance. 

My, err, shitty situation taught me a valuable lesson that day, and for that, I am thankful.

Cheers.

Steering into the Skid: My Journey to Officiating My Best Friend’s Wedding

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

On November 6, 2022, I received a text from one of my best friends on this planet: “Are you around tonight?”

This is an odd text to get from a friend who lives 433 miles away, but he clarified that he wanted to FaceTime. Since he was engaged, I knew he would ask me to play a role in his wedding. 

I figured I would be an usher or a groomsman. 

“So, we wanted to ask you if you would officiate our wedding?”

Has your heart ever started beating so hard that you can feel it in your ears? 

I asked them, “Did everyone else say no?” I was partly kidding, as this couple has friends and family surrounding them who are much more qualified than myself. They assured me that I was their first choice. 

I kept them on FaceTime and brought my phone downstairs so they could share with my wife what they had asked of me. Her face was instantly covered in shock and worry. 

At the time, I was struggling with my mental health. Navigating my stress and anxiety while trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up at thirty-eight started to take a toll. My wife’s concern was not for my ability to handle the actual officiating. Instead, she was worried the added stress would be too much. 

Everything in my body agreed with her. I had a choice to make. Steer into the skid and become their officiant, or take the coward’s route and let them know it was too much for me.

I grabbed my computer and started writing. The words began to pour out. My fingers had trouble keeping up with the pace of the ideas. As I wrote, I realized that I was smiling. 

It was the happiest I had felt in months. 

I spent the remaining 186 days writing, re-writing, outlining, and rehearsing a wedding ceremony from start to finish. 

It felt incredible. Working on something for two people I care about was cathartic. The writing felt fun and easy again.

You should know that the wedding would be in Cabo San Lucas, on the beach. I arrived in Mexico feeling confident the ceremony would be terrific. 

We rehearsed briefly with the resort’s wedding coordinator the night before the wedding. She let me know that I would be holding the microphone. 

I did not rehearse this way. I felt the anxiety rise, but I kept it under control.

The following morning, the day of the wedding, I grabbed a water bottle to use as a microphone to rehearse. 

I made it 3 sentences in before I began to cry.

I thought, that was weird. 

I had read the words hundreds of times over the past few months, and not one time did I get emotional.

I shook it off and started over. I lost it again 3 paragraphs in. 

Uh-oh, I’ve got a problem. 

Every attempt led me to tears, so I decided to steer into the skid and let myself cry for thirty minutes on our hotel balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 

My wife walked out to find me sobbing. Something that she has done quite a bit over the past year or so. She was relieved to find out that my tears were mostly happy tears. She assured me that if I did get emotional, it wouldn’t ruin the wedding. I believed her, but I didn’t think anyone, let alone the Bride and Groom, would want to see me ugly crying on the beach. 

I dressed and went to the best man’s room to take photos before the ceremony. It was the most wind we had during our entire stay. I glanced at the folder in my hand with the wedding as the whole inside and thought, this will make things interesting. 

Fortunately (for me), the groom was experiencing the pre-wedding jitters, which helped keep my mind occupied. 

We got to the beach, and I found a spot to give myself one last read-through. The wind had its way with the pages inside my officiant binder. This meant I would be battling my pages while holding a binder and the microphone.

I did not rehearse this. 

As it turned out, the wind was my savior. It forced me to focus on something other than my emotions. The wind also did a fine job of hiding my shaking legs. 

You may be wondering, how did it go?

I did a good job. 

Of course, there are things that I would change if I had to do it again. 

When the ceremony was finished, the wedding guests had nothing but lovely things to say to me. Their kind words mean more to me than any of them know. 

When I’m old and looking back on life, November 6, 2022, will be a day that changed my life for the better. It led me to May 11, 2023, one of the best days of my life.

Remember when the path of life takes an unexpected turn to hang on and enjoy the ride. Hold your judgment until the moment passes. In hindsight, things we think are good or lousy flip-flops. 

Embrace the anxiety. You never know when the wind that wrecks your hair will end up being the thing that saves the day. 

Salud.

My Vasectomy

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

“You haven’t taken that yet?” the nurse side with moon-sized eyes staring at me above her mask.

“No,” I said.

“You were supposed to take that an hour ago… How is your anxiety?” she asked.

“Well, pretty bad now,” I said.

If you have read the stories here, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I made this stuff up. I’m not sure if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy or just plain bad luck, but things like this happen to me despite my best efforts. 

In March 2020, I scheduled my vasectomy consult that ultimately got canceled because of Covid. After a couple of years of procrastination, I booked an appointment this past April. 

The consultation went fine. Though, no matter what the situation, a nurse should never squeeze half a bottle of lubricant on a towel and walk out without mentioning what they might use it for. 

The lubricant was never used, or mentioned, by the doctor. I guess I’ll never know. 

I scheduled the actual procedure for Monday, May 23rd. 

My wife and I spent the weekend leading up to the 23rd in Chicago, celebrating our friends’ recent engagement. On a normal travel day at the end of a vacation of any length, my anxiety is through the roof. There was no anxiety this Sunday. Our flight didn’t leave until 3 pm, so we went to brunch before we made our way to the airport. 

As we walked through Old Town, I noticed I had no anxiety or sense of dread. Also, noticing the absence of these feelings didn’t bring them to the surface. We sat down at brunch and I treated myself to a couple of mimosas. 

There’s no reason to stress. This is great. This must be how normal people are.

There was a lull during the conversation. My wife, the love of my life. The person who knows me better than anyone else on this planet. My rock. Decided she needed to break the lull.

“You have surgery tomorrow,” she said. 

And just like that, my stress-free Sunday crumbled before my eyes. 

I attempted to push the anxiety down where I keep my emotions, self-loathing, and dark thoughts, but apparently, the tank was full. 

I have to shave. I have to take medication. When am I supposed to take it again? What time is the appointment? Was it 11 or 11:15? Is it at the same office where I had the consultation? What time will we have to leave? What needs to be done at work before I go? What if something goes wrong? I know I am going to be a part of the 1% to 2% that ends up with chronic pain, I thought.

Yes, a real lightning round of panic-filled thoughts hit. Nothing new for me, and it was a treat to have an entire Sunday morning without intrusive thoughts. 

The next morning, I read the instructions on the two bottles of medication that had been prescribed to me. One was an antibiotic, and the other was diazepam. 

Diazepam is an anxiolytic. This pill was critical to me for obvious reasons. 

The problem was, that I had no clue when I was supposed to take this pill. Making me anxious. Take your 10,000 spoons and shove them, Alanis Morissette. 

My wife, noticing my tell-tale signs of anxiety, told me to go shower while she called the clinic to find out when I needed to take the pill. 

When I got out of the shower, my wife informed me we were to bring the pill with us and await instruction on when to take it. 

We walked into the office (30 minutes early) and I checked in at the front desk.

Before taking a seat in the waiting room, I asked, “I have this pill. Should I take that now?”

She looked at the bottle and said, “Yes, you can take that now.”

“What is it?” asked the other nurse at the front desk.

“Diazepam,” said nurse number one.

“No, don’t take that now. They’ll tell you when to take it when you get into the operating room,” said nurse number two.

I stood flashing my eyes back and forth at the two of them, waiting for them to agree.

“Sorry,” said nurse number one, “they will tell you when to take it when you get back there.”

I sat down, hands shaking, wishing I could take the pill immediately. 

After half an hour of listening to Maury on the TV in the waiting room, I was called back. 

I followed the nurse to the operating room and took a seat. She informed me that the doctor would be in shortly and that she was going to get things prepped for the surgery.

“I have this pill. Should I take it now?” I asked.

She spun around and with wide eyes said, “you haven’t taken that yet? You were supposed to take that an hour ago.”

“Well, I called before coming and asked the nurses out front. No one informed me of that.”

“It takes a while for it to take effect. How is your anxiety?” she asked.

“Well, pretty bad now,” I said. 

“What would you like to do?” she asked.

“Uh, I’ve never done this before… so I guess I’d like to talk to the doctor and see what he thinks,” I said.

She left the room, got the doctor, and sent him in. He informed me I could take it right now and it would kick in once by the time the surgery got going. 

The pill was in my stomach before he stopped talking. 

He told me I could get undressed from the waist down, hop onto the bed, and cover myself with the sheet. 

I laid there like Porky Pig, willing the diazepam to take effect. 

When the doctor came back in, he gave me a quick synopsis of how the procedure would go and then asked, “did you prepare the area or do we need to shave you?”

“I prepared the area and I think I did a pretty good job,” I said.

The doctor turned on the surgical light and as he ripped the sheet apart, making my genitals center stage, he said, “well, let’s see. Oh, yeah, you did a good job.”

“Thank you,” I said because I don’t know what to say when someone says you did a good job shaving your scrotum.

“This is awkward,” he said as he was feeling around.

“What is?” I asked as my panic took away any effect the diazepam was having.

“I think I found one of your wife’s hairs,” he said.

“I don’t think so… I have long hair. It’s probably one of mine,” I said.

“Oh… well, that’s less awkward,” he said.

As he prepared the surgical instruments, we made a little small talk. Which led to me describing half of the city of Chicago in great detail while he listened patiently.

When I finished he said, “yeah, I did my undergrad at Loyola.”

I thought You could have stopped me, then said, “oh, so you’ve been everywhere I described.”

“Yep, let’s get started,” he said.

He told me I would feel a pinch and burn as he numbed me up. After waiting a minute, he said that everything should be ready, but that I should let him know if I feel anything. 

“I can feel some things… but it’s more like tugging,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s normal. I’ll get started,” he said.

I winced in preparation but felt nothing. I relaxed, assuring myself that the worst was over.

Then, as he cut the vas deferens attached to my left testicle, a lightning bolt of pain shot up into my stomach. I gasped and flinched. 

“I’m sorry,” I said to the man that just caused me pain, “but I felt all of that.”

“I guess we need to numb you up a bit more,” he said.

No. Fucking. Shit, I thought. 

The rest of the procedure went well, and I even took this picture:

And sent it to my wife as he cut the vas deferens attached to my right testicle. 

It was a big moment, and I wanted something to remember it by.

Please don’t misunderstand the message here. I don’t blame the doctor or the nurses for any of the events. 

This is exactly how things go in my life. My stories would be pretty boring if they didn’t, and for that, I am thankful. 

The good news for you, dear reader, is that I am not out of the woods yet. In 9 weeks, I need to schedule an appointment to bring in a semen sample for testing to ensure that I am sterile.

What could go wrong with that?

Cheers.

My Good Old Day

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

If you’re looking for a more conventional April Fools Day story, you can find that here. What follows is a different story that will still give you an opportunity to laugh at me if you are into that kind of thing.

There is a quote from the last episode of The Office delivered by Ed Helms as Andy Bernard that is so touching and relatable.

“I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.”

We all know that the time we have is finite and yet we are so often unable to appreciate how impactful events will be on us for the rest of our lives. Days with friends before responsibilities. Time holding your sleeping newborn. 

So often, it isn’t until those moments aren’t available to us that we stop and recognize how great they were.

Sometimes, however, there are moments that pang in your chest just so. That pang rings up in our brains and we know that we need to take in all that is happening. We allow ourselves to be truly present as we are struck with clairvoyance that in years to come we will want to remember what is taking place. 

Today is the five-year anniversary of such an event that happened to me. 

I struggle with being present. I am usually wrapped in worry about what just happened or what might happen next.

April 1, 2017, was a perfect spring day. No, I am not romanticizing the weather because it was a special day for me. It was sunny, in the mid-60s, light breeze. It’s what I refer to as “Tim Weather”. 

My wife was away for a bachelorette party, doing God knows what, while I stayed home with my 12-month-old son. 

Leading up to the weekend, people asked, “who is coming to help you while she’s gone?” As though I would not be capable of keeping my son alive on my own for 48 hours. 

I mean, I get it now. At the time I thought, why does everyone keep asking that?!

I was so excited about the weekend. I knew the weather was going to be amazing so I planned an outing for the two of us. 

I settled on going to one of my favorite places, the University of Minnesota. 

We started in the mall. I took him out of his stroller and let him run around. Since it was Saturday, the mall was quiet with just a few students sitting on the grass studying. Reminded me of when I didn’t do that on Saturdays in college. 

We walked up to Northrop Auditorium and there happened to be a sorority taking their annual picture on the steps. I let Jude wander up to them. He would wave, back then, by raising his hand straight into the air and then opening and closing his fingers. He said, “Haaaaaaaiiii!” And the girls lost their collective minds. 

To this day, Jude makes fast friends with everyone he comes across.

We ate some Cheerios and I put him in the stroller for a little tour of campus. 

It’s so much fun to push a baby in a stroller and talk to them as though they understand a damn thing you are saying. 

We circled back to Coffman for another round of Cheerios. Jude greeted every new passerby with a wave. We rolled around in the grass until it was time for a nap. 

Throughout our time on campus, I knew I was living an unforgettable day. I knew it would be a day that would randomly pop into my head for years to come and it has. 

There is a movie, About Time, that I adore. I used to call it a guilty pleasure movie, but somewhere along the way, I have decided that it is an awesome movie.

That night, after I put Jude to bed, I turned the movie on and decided to have a beer. And another. And another. By the end of the movie, well I was a little drunk. 

The very basic premise of the movie is that the lead character discovers he (and all of the men in his family) can travel in time and change what happens and has happened in his own life.

SPOILER ALERT

In one of the final scenes, Tim, played by Domhnall Gleeson, takes his last trip back in time to see his dad before his baby is born. They both know that this is the last time that they will see each other. His dad, played by Bill Nighy, has one last request, it is to go back in time together to a day they spent on the beach together when Gleeson’s character was a boy. 

I realized that if given the opportunity, that day would be the day I would go back to with Jude. 

Still is.

This realization paired with the beer caused me to cry.

Check that sob.

No. It caused me to heave cry audibly for about 15 minutes. Because drinking beer and crying are the things I am best at and I was all out of beer.

April 1, 2017, is one of the best days of my life and I am grateful that I was able to recognize that it was a good old day before I left it.

Cheers.

Flying Kites

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

It’s the last wave and smile. 

It’s the oversized backpack filled with snow pants. 

It’s independence.

I drove to work crying today, again. 

It’s not a daily occurrence. It’s something that happens on certain days. 

You see, due to a parental scheduling error, my son has been without before school care at his elementary school since the New Year. 

As with most things in life, there are benefits and drawbacks to this situation.

Good: Kids get to sleep in a little. They choose not to of course, but they have the option.

Bad: Mom and Dad get to work later than they’d like.

Good: More time with the kids at home. They have breakfast, watch shows, and getting out the door is a little less hectic.

Very Bad: Dad has to drop off with other parents for kindergarten.

Dropping the kids off is typically Mom’s job, mostly due to work schedule and location.

If you’re a parent, you are most likely thinking, oh it’s a nightmare waiting in line every day to drop off your child for school.

I am not here to tell you that you’re wrong, but it’s not what makes it bad for this Dad.

I’ve come to realize through almost six years of being a parent that your children are like kites. 

Yes, kites, stick with me on this one.

In the beginning, you work to get your kite airborne. Pushing for milestones. Taking ultimate pride in the milestones they hit early. Rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking, potty training, these are things that mean the wind is picking up and your kite is going to fly.

The first day we dropped my oldest off at daycare he was three months old. I wore sunglasses the entire time, hoping that they would hide the uncertainty, sadness, and tears on my face.

In reality, it made me look like a douchebag. More accurately, a sad douchebag.

That was the day that it struck me. The end of the line that holds my kite, is not attached to the spool in my hand. The line is roughly 18 years long.

The day will come when the last bit of line detaches and I’ll be left with an empty spool with nothing to do but watch the kite fly on its own.

This has created a severe cognitive dissonance for me. 

There are things we do as parents that feel taxing at that moment.

Pushing them on the swing, for example. When you are doing it for the thousandth time, it becomes so monotonous. So, you start educating them on how to swing by themselves. Thinking, if I let out a little more line off the spool, I won’t have to stand here and push them anymore. 

You tell them how to move their legs. They do it wrong. You try to correct. They do it wrong and get frustrated. Then you get frustrated that they won’t try. You say, “if you’re not going to have fun at the park then I guess we’ll just go home.” They cry, so you tell them they can play for 5 more minutes, convinced you’ll have the only child that never learned how to use a swing.

Then one day, out of nowhere, they can swing on their own. That section of line that you so desperately wanted off the spool is off. There is no getting it back. The pang hits you in the sternum when you realize, you never have to push them on the swing again. 

The problem is, the word “have” changed to get.

You’re not sure how it happened but it is there as clear as day. 

You never get to push them on the swing again. 

All you want is to pull the line back in just a little. Just for a minute. Just one more time. 

The spool doesn’t work like that on these kites. 

This is why this morning… and yesterday morning… and a few more over the past week and a half, I drove out of the parking lot with tears rolling down my cheeks. I look at other parents driving out of the parking lot muttering “what the fuck is wrong with you people?” as I notice no one else is crying.

They are moving on with their day and not having an existential crisis.

After he stops, smiles, and waves to me (ugh, the wave is a punch to the gut), he runs to catch up with friends with his backpack bouncing back and forth on his shoulders. I remind myself that this is a good thing. It’s good that he doesn’t need me to walk him in, find his locker, put his backpack away, and go to class. I am doing a pretty good job at flying my kite. 

It helps a little. Eventually, the book that I am listening to in the car distracts me and the sadness fades.

What’s more, I have two kites, which allows me to recognize these important spots in my daughter’s line and cherish them. 

However, too soon, she’ll be the one smiling and waving as she walks into kindergarten. 

All I can do is continue to fly my kites. Keep them away from trees, houses, and powerlines so when the day comes, they’re able to soar.

Until that day, should you need me, I’ll be the idiot crying while flying kites.

Cheers.

Hot Timmy Summer

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

I’ve hated myself for a long time.

Wait, let me rephrase that.

I’ve hated my body for as long as I can remember.

I can remember hating the start of football as a kid because the pants never fit right. I’ve hated shopping my entire life because trying on clothes would give me anxiety and leave me in a depressed state. 

I’ve had stretch marks on my stomach since high school. 

Then college happened. People talked about “the freshman 15”, but my body misheard that and went after the freshman 50. 

Since college, I have battled with my weight constantly. Losing some, gaining more back. A decade ago I lost 60 pounds and gained it all back (and some). 

I got to a point where I justified it. 

The worst part of my day was getting out of the shower and being forced to see myself. I told myself, “this is just who you are.” The echoes of people calling me “big guy” and other names pointed out the fact that not only was I big, but everyone knew it. 

I even got my Covid vaccine early because I was obese. Talk about bitter-sweet.

I have pretended to be confident in myself and how I look every day.

Fake it ‘til you make it. Right?

Then, on April 12th as I was sitting down to eat a plate full of air-fried popcorn shrimp and mozzarella sticks, I saw an ad for Noom. 

It advertised a psychological approach to weight loss. Something that piqued my interest as a guy with a Psychology degree. 

One of the first questions was, “what is your goal weight?”

A lot less than my weight now, I thought.

They wanted a specific number. I knew that if it was going to work, I needed to be specific in a meaningful way. Something that was special to me. 

The neat thing about my birthday, October 8th. Is that is the day that I nervously asked my wife to go out with me when we were in Junior High. 

Now I can’t be certain about this, but my educated guess was that I have not weighed less than 200 pounds since my freshman year of high school in 1999. And since college, I have essentially been pregnant on and off like an Irish Catholic woman. 

It clicked.

I am going to weigh 199.8 pounds on my birthday.

That meant that the task in front of me was to lose 64 pounds in 179 days. 

What was the first thing I did?

I ate the mozzarella sticks and popcorn shrimp, duh. 

A last meal of sorts. I’ve got to say it was almost a sexual experience. I dream about that “meal” sometimes.

I got obsessed with my weight loss goal. If you saw me walking (yes, I walk 2 miles every day at lunch) or on my stationary bike, it would look like I was talking to myself. 

I repeat two things over and over and over.

“One ninety-nine” and, my mantra, “I can. I will. End of story.”

The weight melted off in the first month and a half.

This gave birth to “Hot Timmy Summer”.

If you saw me this summer, you may have heard me promoting Hot Timmy Summer. 

From the outside, it probably sounded stupid or self-indulgent, but it was about me embracing myself and being confident in myself as a human, not just faking it.

If people asked if they should do something, my answer was, “go for it! It’s Hot Timmy Summer, celebrate your power.”

In the beginning, I held on to anger inside me. I’d hear the people making jokes about my weight over the course of my life. I’d see their faces and hold on to it through a difficult workout or when I really wanted a piece of pizza but didn’t want to mess up my progress.

Hot Timmy Summer changed all that.

It started when I was going to my brother’s house and going swimming in the pool. The pool that was put in when I lived there in 1998. I have had a routine since the first day I swam in it.

I would put a towel close to the stairs. I would pick a time when people weren’t paying close attention to me, quickly take off my shirt, and jump in. Then, when it was time to get out, I’d go straight to the towel and cover up as quickly as possible.

I would do this even if it was just my family around the pool. I just figured they had to be at least as disgusted as I was in how I looked without a shirt on. 

This summer, I realized how ridiculous that is. 

I decided that I was out of fucks to give when it came to what people thought about me. Thus,  Hot Timmy Summer was born.

So, how’d it go?

Well, today is my birthday and the official end of Hot Timmy Summer. 

I stepped on the scale this morning and it showed 198.4 pounds. 

I am down just over 65 pounds in 179 days. 

I am not done yet, I have adjusted the goal and will lose another 14 pounds, just so I can say I am at the normal weight (according to the BMI charts). 

This morning, I took a moment to pat myself on the back and enjoy it.

First and foremost, I did it for my wife and my children. They deserve a husband/dad that loves himself enough to take care of himself. 

I did it for previous versions of myself that would look in the mirror and cry. The guy that would look in the mirror and say terrible things to the reflection. For the teenage Tim who cried in a Hollister dressing room because nothing fit. 

I did it because life is too short not to love yourself. 

It took me 36 years to learn that lesson.

Maybe you’re reading this and have had some of the same thoughts or feelings. 

It’s never too late to work on and improved yourself in whatever way you want. 

Fuck what other people may say or think about you.

You can. You will. End of story. 

Cheers.

The Ice Cream Truck

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Well, at least I’m getting a little run in. 

This is my thought as I run out my door in crocs, sweatpants, and a t-shirt with my 5-year-old racing toward the street. 

Let’s back up. 

I recently saw a Tik-Tok. Yes, I’m thirty-six and on Tik-Tok. 

To be clear, I watch Tik-Toks. I do not create them. I’m not sure that makes it better, but there you go. 

Anyway, this Tik-Tok is from a dad’s perspective. He had just finished putting his child to bed. Relieved and recovering from the frustration of his day, he flops onto his couch where he sees his child’s jacket. You then see the pang on his face. A feeling that I’m sure is familiar to parents with toddlers. 

That instant yearning for your child. The fights, frustrations, and tears melt away leaving nothing but the overpowering and all-consuming love. 

Captions on the screen read “Could I have been more patient?”, “Could I have played with them more?”, etc. 

Once again, these are thoughts that run through all parents’ heads often, if not daily. I am constantly battling thoughts like this. 

This past Sunday, while I was preparing food for my wife for Mothers Day, my wife yelled my name from upstairs. 

My heart sinks because, typically, when she yells my name it means something bad has happened. She comes downstairs quickly asking if I have money. 

“What is going on?” I said. 

She looks out the front door and says “I heard the i-c-e c-r-e…”

It’s amazing when you start having to spell everything out in front of your kids, how fast you can pick up on what is being communicated. It’s also amazing how sometimes you forget how to spell even the most basic words.

During the summer months, the ice cream truck comes through our neighborhood almost every Sunday. The sun was out and the temperature was in the low 60’s which qualifies as summer in Minnesota. 

As my wife spelled out “ice cream truck”, I have a moment to decide what to do. I was busy in the kitchen, my daughter needs a nap, I’m wearing sweatpants, and I haven’t showered. 

Normally, I wouldn’t care about that last one, but I am trying out this long hair thing and I don’t really know how to manage it all. It tends to look like I recently got struck by lightning. Not just moments ago, but maybe a few hours ago. 

Point is, it would have been easy to just let it go by and give my kids ice cream from our freezer. However, the ice cream truck might be my 5-year-old’s favorite thing in the world. So I look out the front door, hear the familiar music, and see the truck slowly driving away from my house and decide…

We are catching that fucking truck.

I yell, “Jude! ICE CREAM TRUCK! I’ll go get money!”

Just the look on his face as he processes this information is enough to let me know that I’ve made the right decision. 

I sprint up the stairs to my bedroom, grab a $20 from my jeans pocket, run back down, slip on my crocs, and follow my barefoot son out the door in a dead sprint.

When I say sprint, think light jog for a normal human that is in decent shape.

As we run across the street and get on the sidewalk making our way toward the truck that is 2 blocks ahead, I notice a couple of neighbor kids in their yard pointing in the direction of the truck and yelling for their parents. Then I see their shoulders slump as they had clearly gotten the “it’s too late” answer from their parents. 

As we were about a block away, I realize that I have a giant smile on my face. I can’t help it.

We continue after the truck, which has stopped for a couple of kids and their mom. 

We are going to catch it.

I see the change passed back to the mom and the truck starts to drive away. 

No.

I make eye contact with the mom as she turns. She sees the desperation in my eyes and she yells for the truck to stop. 

We make it to the window. Out of breath, I ask my son what he wants. 

He points to a Batman ice cream and then, because he is an amazing big brother, asks “can we get some for Clementine?”

“Of course!” I said. And we pick an ice cream we think she’ll like. 

My son asks, “why aren’t you getting anything?”

“I don’t want any, but I wanted you to have a treat.”

“You’re the best daddy,” he said. 

And, there it is. If I make nothing but terrible decisions for the rest of 2021, I could still hang my hat on the decision to chase the ice cream truck and call it a win.

You may be rolling your eyes and thinking, oh, so this was just an attempt to brag about being a good dad?

No. 

I do my best to be a good dad, but there are more times that I feel inadequate than great. What’s more, I don’t judge my neighbors for not chasing the ice cream truck because I have no clue what they were going through that day. They may have just gotten back from Dairy Queen for all I know. 

The point is it was simple. It made me feel like a kid. It made my kids unbelievably happy. 

There are so many frustrations in life (especially over this past year) and in raising kids. It’s easy from moment to moment, to forget that the days are long and the years are short. 

So whether you have young kids, grown kids, or no kids at all…

Get out there and chase that ice cream truck. 

Cheers.