Writing

My Flawless Travel Day

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

This is shaping up to be a flawless travel day, is my first thought as I step off of the shuttle bus into the drizzle and chilly early spring air at the rental car lot next to the Philadelphia Airport. 

As a sports fan, I know better than this. You are not supposed to talk about the perfect game or no-hitter with the pitcher in the dugout, as it guarantees a hit next inning when he’s back up on the mound. When the sportscaster talks about the incredible streak of made shots at the free-throw line, the next shot is sure to clang off the iron. 

To be fair, it wasn’t a typical travel day. 

My son had been asking to see my sister and their kids in Maryland since we saw them when they came to Minnesota in September. When my wife, Jenni, and I looked at the calendar and discovered Spring Break rolled into Easter this year, it seemed like a fantastic opportunity to book a trip to the East Coast. 

We decided it would be fun to surprise our children with the trip when we got to the airport. Lucky for us, our daughter had been asking to go on an airplane… anywhere, so the surprise would land with her just as well as it would with him.

*Advice for parents planning to surprise their children with a trip: don’t pack your suitcase the morning of your flight. Yes, you will easily convince yourself that you aren’t procrastinating. You’ll think you’re preserving the surprise by not leaving the clue of a half-packed suitcase lying around. Unfortunately, this will make you panic every time you hear a noise while packing and cause you to question your mental capacity when you look at the random assortment of clothing in your suitcase when you open it at your final destination.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a more significant reaction from my children. It’s not as though they weren’t excited, but I was hoping for utter shock. What percentage of people have had the experience of being surprised with a trip to the airport on the day of their departure? 

The surprise could be the worst destination in the world, say… Madison, WI, and still, I would be in a puddle of tears if I got surprised with a vacation at the airport.

We checked our suitcase without issue despite Jenni packing a bag for her and my daughter that weighed nearly half as much as their combined body weight. 

Security took about ten minutes despite the fact we forgot to take tablets out of two of our carry-ons. We found food the kids and Jenni would eat before the flight, right before the hangry river of rage started to flow out of my wife; the Prosecco helped, too. 

If your significant other gets “hangry,” do not ask them, “Are you hungry?” When you notice the hanger level starting to rise. I nearly derailed our trip by making this observation about my wife as we stood in line for pizza.

Our flight was on time, and we landed ahead of schedule. When we got to baggage claim, I immediately saw our overweight suitcase making its loops around the carousel and snagged it. 

This is why I had the guts to allow myself to take a breath and pat myself on the back in the rental lot. 

I walked over to look at the board to find my name and where my rental card would be parked. Instead of a parking space number next to my name, I saw “see desk.”

Most days, I would have been panicked by this message. On this day, it didn’t occur to me that I could ever have an issue traveling ever again. 

I entered the small yet clean rental car office. I waited in a short line to talk to one of two representatives helping other customers. 

I gave my name as I approached the kiosk and started to wince in preparation for bad news. After some quick clicking on the keyboard, the woman smiled and said, “You reserved an electric car; that’s why you needed to come in here today.”

I did, in fact, reserve a Tesla. It was a secondary surprise for my son and a treat for me. Before you start calling this a humble brag, I will let you know it cost ten dollars more than renting a Toyota Corolla or “something similar” when I reserved the car. 

Once everything was settled, the rental car company representative told me they would immediately pull the car up for me. 

My family was waiting on the curb when I joined them. 

“Daddy, what if they gave us a Tesla?” My son asked as he saw our car weaving through the parking lot.

“Yeah, I don’t think we will get a Tesla, buddy.”

“Yeah, that would be, like, so expensive.” 

I smiled and winked at Jenni as we silently acknowledged how perfect that was for the surprise to land even better. 

Moments like those make you forget the whining, the fights, and the worry of having kids. Like a stack of napkins that have been blown to the ground by the wind, some of the moments are carried away before you have a chance to remember they existed; others hit the ground and stay put just long enough for you to bend over and grab them, almost as if they were holding on just for you. 

If you’re a parent, chase those moments and stomp them to the ground before the wind whisks them away. Pick it up and shove it into your back pocket with the snot cover tissue and fruit snack wrappers because someday you’ll pull it out. It will be the most valuable napkin you have ever held. 

When the Tesla pulled up, my son had the look of shock you’d expect to see on someone who just found out they were going on a flight halfway across the country for Spring Break at the airport. 

As we pulled up to the booth at the exit of the rental car lot, the attendant scanned the barcode on the dash and said, “It’s not letting me check you out; there is a problem with the car.”

“What does that mean, ‘there is a problem with the car?'” Jenni whisper-shouted at me from the passenger seat. 

Twenty-four and a half years of experience with this woman had taught me that the question was not rhetorical, so I repeated it to the attendant. 

“I don’t know. Sometimes, there are errors with the car, but we don’t know what they are until a technician looks at it. Let me call my manager.”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Why would they drive a car up to us that wasn’t working?” Jenni continued from the passenger seat, making sure I was seeing the injustice of the situation we were in, and making sure I didn’t fold to the pressure in an effort to make the interaction as smooth as possible. 

Usually, that would be a fair concern. However, I rented this car for my son, who had, just a week earlier, counted every Tesla we saw on the road throughout a thirty-minute drive. Leaving the rental car lot in something other than a Tesla was impossible.

The attendant wrapped up the call with his manager, “Yeah, you are going to have to bring the car back in and pick a new one. Good news, you’re getting a complimentary upgrade to any sedan in that row.”

“This is a Tesla… upgrade… Tesla!” is all I can hear from the whisper-yelling from the passenger seat.

“So, you’re saying there’s a problem with the car, not with my reservation?”

“Right. I know you really want to drive the Tesla, but you’re not going to be able to today.”

I hadn’t said anything about being excited to drive the Tesla, so this comment convinced me I would need to have a conversation with someone else. He directed the line of cars behind me to back up so I could return the vehicle. 

“Do you want me to go talk to them?” Jenni asked. I would typically respond with an enthusiastic “yes,” but since going with the flow would have ruined my son’s day, I let her know I would handle it. 

I returned to the rental car office and approached the woman who had assisted me the first time. I told her I wasn’t allowed to leave with the Tesla. She looked as confused as I was by this news and told me she would investigate. She went to the back room to discuss the situation with her manager. 

I stood in the empty office waiting and rehearsing how I would get ‘tough’ if the answer was anything other than renting us the Tesla when my phone rang. I looked at the screen to see a call from an unknown number in Philadelphia and answered.

“Hi, Mr. Severson. This is Janet with Delta Baggage Services. Did you take the wrong luggage after your flight from Minneapolis today?”

I didn’t have to think about it as I closed my eyes and tilted my face skyward, “Most likely.” 

“Have you left the airport, sir?”

“No, I’m at the rental car lot right now, but I can be back as soon as I have my rental car.”

She told me where to go to return the stranger’s suitcase I had in my possession and get my actual suitcase while I apologized profusely. 

My anxiety, which is typically paired with my travel, was finally served. I had to jinx it by slowing up before I crossed the finish line and was now facing my punishment. 

The woman returned from the back room, and I readied myself for battle. Fortunately for me, there would be no battle as she explained that she had missed a step in renting an electronic vehicle out to me. 

As Jenni and our kids had never gotten out, I returned to the car to see “On Rent” written with white car chalk on the two back windows. The attendant from the booth had come around and written this to ensure we didn’t leave the lot in the Tesla. Having that written on both the windows took some fun out of driving it, but I had a suitcase to return.

We parked near the Philadelphia airport’s arrival doors in an area with few cars, hoping no one would walk through to tell Jenni she needed to move the vehicle. 

I ran down the sidewalk and through baggage claim like a former Heisman Trophy winner to return the stolen luggage, convinced I was about to get an earful from an Eagles fan.

I found the Delta Baggage office and was relieved not to see anyone obviously waiting on their luggage. I found Janet, who assured me this kind of thing happens all the time. 

“You have morons flying in from Minnesota all the time?”

Janet stared at me, not getting my joke. A hand reached from behind me and rolled what I thought was my suitcase away. 

I turned and stood face to face with the man whose luggage I had taken. He looked to be in his late twenties. He stared at me with a vacant look. He wasn’t mad, but he didn’t have a look of understanding either. 

“I am so unbelievably sorry.”

No change in expression.

I then did something I had never done before in my entire life: I pressed my palms together in front of my chest and started doing these twenty-degree bows as I repeated, “I’m so sorry,” multiple times. 

Still nothing.

I was about to turn to Janet to gauge how this interaction was going from a third party’s vantage point. Before I could do that, a younger man leaned his head through the door and, with a thick accent, said, “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, I was trying to figure out where to catch the shuttle for the rental cars and I grabb…”

“It’s. Okay,” the second man interrupted. The other man flashed me a quick grin before he turned, and they walked away.

Turning toward Janet to grab my bag, I said, “I’m just going to get out of this airport before anything else goes wrong.”

“It really happens all the time,” Janet called after me as I walked away.

“I really doubt that,” I said to myself as I began my way back to the rental car with the correct suitcase this time. 

People often use hyperbole when discussing what they would do for their children. Parents make statements like, “I’d step in front of a bus for my child” or “I’d take a bullet for my kids,” and I always think: but would you?

It’s not that I am questioning their love. Instead, it’s usually because those statements are uttered after something mundane occurs. It’s easy to claim you’d do anything, but we don’t get to know what we would do until those moments present themselves. 

Now, I can tell my kids, honestly, “I would have a stern conversation with a rental car agent for you.”

Because even though it didn’t happen, I was ready. I was prepared to say what needed to be said to ensure my son got to ride in a Tesla.

I had a short time to come up with what I would say, and it was good. If said with the correct tone of voice, I would have gotten the Tesla and most likely gotten a discount. It’s a short statement that is to the point and could get me out of even the stickiest of situations. 

Since I didn’t use it, I figured here is as good a place as any to share it:

“I’m going to go get my wife.”

Cheers. 

Hot Dog or Sandwich: A New Hill to Die On

/ Tim Severson / 3 Comments

On November 6, 2015, the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council (NHDSC) announced an official policy I do not relish.

“Limiting the hot dog’s significance by saying it’s ‘just a sandwich’ category is like calling the Dalai Lama’ just a guy. We, therefore, choose to take a cue from a great performer and declare our namesake be a “hot dog formerly known as a sandwich,” the former NHDSC President and ‘Queen of Wien,’ Janet Riley, said in her statement.

It is unclear if Ms. Riley is still going by her royal title, as her X (formerly Twitter) account (@queenofwien) has not shown activity hot dog related or otherwise since October 2023. 

She addressed the USDA’s guidance that the hot dog, as meat between bread, falls into the sandwich category, saying, “While we thank the USDA for their careful regulation and inspection of our products, regulatory brevity is not their strength. We hope our position offers Americas some clarity and peace of mind.”

The USDA is to brevity as Ms. Riley is to picking Twitter handles. It saddens me to think of the people who thought they had finally found their kink fix on the internet, only to find another mouthpiece for ‘Big Hot Dog.’ Furthermore, it isn’t shocking to see the NHDSC thumbing its nose at the rules and regulations of the federal department in charge of keeping our food products safe for consumption.

Sandwich, as defined by Merriam-Webster, when used as a noun: a. Two or more slices of bread or a split roll having a filling in between. b. One slice of bread covered with food. Or, as a verb, to make a place for —> often used with in or between. 

Those definitions should have been, and should be, enough. Unfortunately, NHDSC decided they were better equipped than both Merriam and Webster. The hubris is overwhelming. 

An argument could be made that the shape of the hot dog is the basis of its not fitting into the sandwich category. Anyone who has run out of hot dog buns knows the pain of what to do from here. Using two slices of bread is a non-starter as there is too much bread. Slicing up the hot dog into small, evenly sized pieces to be laid out with even distribution on the bread is too much work. After all, the one-handed convenience of the hot dog is a big part of its appeal. Who doesn’t love a one-handed sandwich, ya know? 

Sooner or later, we all end up with the same solution. We take a single slice of bread, roll it around the hot dog like a faux bun, and eat it with considerably less enjoyment. This is the only scenario where we yearn for more crust. Adults and kids, it doesn’t matter; we all wish for more crust. The butts of the loaf of bread plead for us to use them just this one time, yet we hear nothing. 

The shape argument would be solid if it weren’t for the fact we have been letting the hot dog’s Italian cousin, the meatball, squirt out the bottom of our meatball… sandwiches. That’s right; the meatball is the more diverse and delicious of the spherically shaped meats, so there is no issue with being known as part of the sandwich community. As a matter of fact, they saw ham, salami, and pepperoni making a scene in the sandwich community and said, “Hold my balls,” as they jumped in with a swagger. 

The argument could be made that the bun hinge takes it out of the sandwich category since it is not two pieces of bread as long as the hinge holds strong. Entertaining this notion, however, means we must mention the fast-food chain with the most locations in the United States: Subway. 

Anyone who was sandwich-eating age in the early otts or prior and went to Subway may remember the U-Gouge. The U-Gouge technique removed the top of the bread, leaving behind what looked like an oversized hot dog bun, which held in the sandwich ingredients more efficiently. Subway used this sandwich-cutting method for forty years before transitioning to the hinge-cut method.

According to Subway, a poll of their customers found that 97% preferred the hinge cut to the U-Gouge method. In no way am I trying to suggest that the NHDSC had anything to do with the results of this poll. However, I defy you to find a topic on which you could find a representative sample of Americans who agree so overwhelmingly on any subject. 

Is it possible the groundwork was laid a decade before the NHDSC’s controversial announcement? Did they want to see the hinge cut become standard, knowing the thin hinge of the bread would rarely stay intact over the entire time of sandwich consumption, resulting in separate pieces of bread so we would be conditioned to lay down and accept the outlandish claim that a hot dog served in a bun is not a sandwich?

There used to be a bar called Williams in the Uptown neighborhood of Minneapolis. They kept a hot dog cart inside the front door for late-night eats. One of their specialty hot dogs was a Reuben Dog. Many nights in my mid- to late twenties, the Reuben Dog saved my life. 

I told my friends I was going to the restroom one night at Williams. I waited until the right moment to make my break to the hot dog cart. I ordered a Reuben Dog, went out into the frigid night, and ate my Reuben Dog in the dark alley next to the bar. What happened between me and the Reuben Dog that night transcended eating; it was as close as I’ll get to a one-night stand in this lifetime. However, halfway through my… experience, the remaining half of my hot dog squirted out the end of the bun, landing on the snow and salt-covered ground. After a brief stare-down with the hot dog lying seductively on the ground, I decided it would not be prudent to observe the “five-second rule” and ate the remainder of what was left.

What was left?

Bread, corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and thousand island dressing, otherwise known as a Reuben sandwich. 

The NHDSC’s haughtiness suggests that the mere act of adding a hot dog changes the classification of a classic and revered sandwich, such as the Reuben borders on criminal. 

Speaking of classic sandwiches, we must discuss the ultimate classic American sandwich: the hamburger. You know, the beef responsible for all the juice and cheese in the empty space on the platter next to the hot dogs at every barbecue you’ve ever been to in the United States. It’s the place where we all look with disappointment before we say, “I guess I’ll just have a hot dog.” 

This is the root of the NHDSC’s official policy. Barbecue after barbecue, cookout after cookout, hot dogs get left to cool to room temperature as hungry people scoop up the self-assured hamburger instead of the vain, self-conscious hot dogs. Eventually, those hot dogs are blanketed under a loose piece of plastic wrap and placed in the refrigerator as they await their journey to their final destination: the garbage. 

Being eternally second place is challenging. People often refer to second place as the first loser, so understandably, the NHDSC got frustrated.

The NHDSC should have declared loud and clear that a hot dog is, in fact, a sandwich—and not just any sandwich, but the most unique and versatile sandwich in the world. There is no end to the different ways a hot dog can be elevated into a delicious sandwich. It’s an unfortunate missed opportunity for the hot dog.

Claiming to be something it isn’t is like someone quitting their job and claiming they’re a writer. If we are honest, it comes off as sad and a bit desperate. 

As spring turns to summer and baseball season begins the opportunities to enjoy the classic American hot dog grow. I encourage you to take a stand. Do not let big hot dog influence how you classify the dish. Instead, whether ordering at a baseball game or making your choice at your Memorial Day barbecue, I encourage you to say proudly, “I’ll have a hot dog sandwich, please.”

Cheers.

Image by Racool_studio on Freepik

Bar Soap and People Pleasing

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

“We can all agree that people who use bar soap in the shower are psychopaths, right?” I asked my friends Jenna and Terrence.

After getting showered and ready for the day, these were the first words out of my mouth when I sat down at the breakfast table while on vacation last year with a few other families. I have never had a strong opinion on body wash versus bar soap. However, when I sat down at the table, nobody was talking, and I felt the need to fill the two seconds of silence thanks to my social anxiety. 

“I use bar soap in the shower,” Terrence said, staring at me with contempt aimed at making me uncomfortable. 

I should have seen it coming. I should have known not to talk about anything related to the shower in public. It’s where all of my previous embarrassments come out to play. Something about the warm water and the vacant shower wall prompts my brain to play a highlight reel of all the things I have done to embarrass myself, like every time I have introduced myself to someone I have already met, for example.

Of course, I did my best to walk back my question by asking thoughtful questions about the merits of using bar soap. It didn’t matter that I was talking to an old friend who knew my proclivity for being awkward.

After a few months of beating myself up mentally in the shower, every time I squeezed the blue gel from my oversized Old Spice body wash bottle into my hand for saying what I said, we were invited for dinner at Jenna and Terrence’s home. When we arrived, Terrence handed me a small gift bag. Inside was a bar of soap from Baxter of California. 

I have been using bar soap every morning since May 28, 2023. 

Hi, I’m Tim, and I am a people-pleaser. 

Let’s get on the same page with what that means:

“The people pleaser needs to please others for reasons that may include fear of rejection, insecurities, the need to be well-liked. If he stops pleasing others, he thinks everyone will abandon him; he will be uncared for and unloved. Or he may fear failure; if he stops pleasing others, he will disappoint them, which he thinks will lead to punishment or negative consequences.”

Psychology Today

Reading that description feels like a punch in the right testicle because if you change the “he’s” with Tim, it reads like a summary of my personality. However, I take exception to the underlying negative tone.

It’s easy for the world’s non-people-pleasers to speak about us as though we are doormats who need to stand up for ourselves, learn to say ‘no,’ and set clear boundaries. They assume everything about the people-pleasers way is wrong. 

Synchronicity (see: Carl Jung) popped up as I began working on this piece when a friend posted a meme regarding people pleasing on her Instagram story. I sent her a message asking her why I should stop being a people pleaser. I am simplifying the way I asked the question for brevity. 

This is what it looks like when my social anxiety takes the wheel as I attempt to ask a simple question: 

I am a neurotic mess.

“I think people pleasing becomes dangerous when you lose yourself. There’s an aspect of being able to be supportive and accommodating to the people around you, but when it goes too far, I feel like people lose themselves. Like if I am doing something only because I know it’ll make other people happy but it actually makes me uncomfortable or upset, then I feel like I’m doing more mental and psychological damage to myself than I would just saying no.”

It’s hard to believe I could get such an insightful response from a rambling question. Still, I have always been good at surrounding myself with intelligent people.

Her words have been playing on a loop in my brain since I read them.

I can trace many things I love in this life back to a moment someone could classify as people-pleasing. 

One afternoon recently, after I did something my wife would classify as people-pleasing, I stopped her and said, “I don’t think you understand that almost everything I do in my life is for you.”

She explained how ridiculous that concept is, but I don’t think she, or anyone else for that matter, can understand how happy it makes me to make other people happy. It doesn’t matter if it is through a grandiose gesture or even something mundane, like holding doors. 

When we started living together, she still loved Gray’s Anatomy. Me? Not so much, until I realized I didn’t like leaving the room when she would turn it on. So, I started it from the beginning and was hooked after two episodes. We watched it for as long as we could tolerate—probably too long. 

If I hadn’t liked it, I would have watched it all the same because my person (IYKYK, Gray’s Anatomy fans) was happy to have me join her in watching something that made her happy, which, in turn, made me happy. The fact that I liked it was a bonus. 

In college, I had a roommate who was (still is) obsessed with the Minnesota Twins. I learned of his obsession while watching the Twins lose to the New York Yankees in the ALDS in 2004. 

I played baseball as a kid and liked watching a game occasionally. Still, I never described myself as a “baseball fan.” Desperate to make a friend out of a roommate, I listened intently as he broke down the games between obscenities being hurled at Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez. This led to late-night tutorials about pitching mechanics, swing mechanics, and manager strategies I pretended to be interested in.

Fast-forward to me refreshing the ESPN website repeatedly in my room the following winter to see what moves the Twins would make during free agency. 

One could argue that becoming a Twins fan in 2004 is a perfect demonstration of people-pleasing causing me to be uncomfortable and upset as it was the infancy of what would become a historical post-season losing streak to the Yankees. However, I used their excessive losing to my advantage by using it against the person who got me into this mess by reminding him incessantly about every failure, no matter how small, which also fills me with joy.

I could go on with examples like those mentioned above. So many things in my life make me happy that I could have missed out on if I had given in to my initial instinct to say ‘no.’ 

I allowed the analytical side of my brain to understand what people-pleasing is, and I placed myself in a box I didn’t fit. 

Sometimes, there can be too much self-analyzing; sometimes, therapy can push you in the wrong direction. I may be a people-pleaser. There might be something in my past that may force me to serve others’ happiness before mine, but naming it and calling it negative is short-sighted. If everyone involved leaves happy, does the order they got there really matter? 

I say no. If I lived that way, I’d spend most of my life alone because when opportunities arise, my gut instinct is to decline for any of a long list of trite reasons and stay home by myself. Giving in to that instinct would lead to an entirely new set of diagnoses that may or may not be accurate. 

Allow me to re-introduce myself.

Hi, I’m Tim, and I am a people-pleaser happy. 

And that is all I need to know.

Oh! I am also a proud user of bar soap.

Cheers.

Shadow Work

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

When I started working with a coach in September, I intended to get coaching on finding a new career. I needed someone to help me put together a resume and find something that aligned with what I wanted in life. 

My coach, Ally, quickly recognized that I wouldn’t be happy switching to another standard job or career. She encouraged me to read Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. She described it as spiritual and a bit “woo-woo,” so I was unsure if it would be the right fit. 

Desperate for answers and direction, I bought the book without thinking. I knew I needed something out of the norm to jump-start my new life, whatever it might turn into. 

My mouth hung open as I read the first pages of The Artist’s Way. Never in my life had I seen myself so clearly in someone else’s writing. It was as though someone had downloaded all of my hopes, dreams, and fears, reorganized them into a book about how to put them into practice, and sold them back to me. 

I cannot go more than a paragraph in the book without thinking, “Yep, I do that,” or “Do other people think like that, too?” I quit my job within a few weeks of opening the book. 

Doing something solely for myself and my mental well-being was a relief. The relief, however, was short-lived when I realized the work was just starting because, for anything to work for me creatively, I needed to do a lot of work on myself. 

Shadow-Work, to be precise. 

The Artist’s Way is adorned with outstanding inspirational quotes from people throughout history. One name is quoted most frequently—a name familiar to me from studying psychology in college: Carl Jung.

If you’ve taken a Myers-Briggs personality assessment, you are more familiar with Dr. Jung than you realize. 

While studying psychology in college, my relationship with Jung’s work was influenced by my relationship with religion as a lapsed Catholic and how his work was taught to me. He was presented as a descendant of Sigmond Freud’s teachings who liked to analyze dreams. 

I can’t stand hearing about the nonsense of people’s dreams. So, the idea that analyzing a dream about sorting paper clips in my underwear in an Arby’s with my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Schirmer, would reveal valuable information about my psyche did not lead me to explore more of his teachings.

Rather, it left me to view him as someone who had a few good ideas but was mostly a kook who thought the answers to life’s problems were in our dreams. As a twenty-year-old, that was all I needed to hear to shrug my shoulders, shake my head, and move on to something more concrete and scientific. 

Jung’s contention is that we all have traits or interests that we have decided to ignore. Some of these are negative, and some might be positive things we were told to give up on at some point in life by parents and/or perceived authority figures. 

“Without a well-developed shadow side, a person can easily become shallow and extremely preoccupied with the opinions of others.”

Carl Jung

That sentence defines how I lived the first thirty-nine years of my life. 

In my brain, shadow work meant I would need to get spiritual and blame my parents for all of the problems in my life, which were two things I had no interest in doing. So, I ignored the idea altogether. 

Reading The Artist’s Way made it clear that avoiding shadow work would not be possible. It is around every corner. To get anywhere, I would need to uncover things that would certainly be uncomfortable and painful at times.

There is one crucial question everyone should ask themselves first and foremost before they dig into their childhood searching for answers about the person they have become as an adult:

Did my parents do the best they could to raise me?

If your immediate and honest answer to that question is yes, you need to understand the work is yours to do.

Chastizing your parents might feel good, but it will not get you further down the road. It will feel nice momentarily, but you will be left battling the same issues. Furthermore, you will have one or two fewer people to turn to for love, guidance, or even a hug. 

If your answer to the question is “No,” you need to talk to someone far more qualified to help you out. You do not need advice from a guy who had to fight for his life to earn a 3.0 GPA and a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology. 

For the “yes” people (like me), it’s time to grow up.

As an adult who is white-knuckling through this whole parenting thing right now, there are too many nights I go to sleep wishing I had done better for my kids. I resolve to be a better Dad the next day, but then I invent a new way to screw up. 

You know what I don’t need? Having my children recite my ‘greatest hits’ of failures to me twenty or thirty years from now. I wrote the music and lyrics for those chart-toppers; no one knows them better.

You know who else doesn’t need that, your parents.

They are the low-hanging fruit. They are the people desperate for you to visit or pick up the phone and call for an update on your life. You probably aren’t going to go to the effort of tracking down all the bullies and awful teachers who played a significant role in creating your shadow, so don’t put all of it on your parents. 

You don’t need to remind them that there were days they couldn’t take it anymore. The days when if they heard “mom” or “dad” one more time, they were sure they would have a psychotic break. 

Take a look at your own body of work before blaming it all on your parents. 

Does that mean you won’t trace some of your issues back to interactions with your parents? 

Of course not. 

When I’ve uncovered things, I’ve found that they are mostly silly. They wouldn’t register on my list of events on any given day of my adult life. However, they were devastating to the kid they happened to. 

As an adult, it’s silly that I still know the name of the girl who made fun of me for spelling “baby” wrong during my second-grade spelling bee and still, if I’m honest, hold a grudge. 

While it has played a prominent role in my avoiding the spotlight for any reason, personally or professionally, I’ve discovered that there is nothing that the girl or I can say about that incident that changes anything about the thirty-one years that have passed since the incident. Not to mention, she is an adult now, and while it was damaging to me, I’d guess she has no recollection of making fun of me. 

I have been spending a lot of time rounding up these silly things that make up my shadow and shining lights on them, only to find they aren’t worth thinking about, let alone driving my life choices. 

As I write this, I am thirty-nine with two children, ages seven and five. 

My parents were my age and had three children (ages 11, 10, and 8) when I was born. 

I am going to focus on my father through this example for no other reason than the fact that I grew up with Boomer parents who followed gender norms in the household. In those scenarios, our moms had the advantage of being constantly present. She had the luxury of being the parent who dolled out the love and affection at the steep cost of dealing with endless whining, fights, lying, and my two other siblings, Janie and Dave.

My Dad is the oldest of thirteen. He started delivering milk when he was young and stopped working (for the most part) just a couple of years ago.

He went to college, fought in Vietnam, attended medical school at the University of Minnesota, was a resident at Mayo Clinic, and dedicated his life to treating, healing, and saving thousands of children’s lives while maintaining a marriage and a family. That’s barely scratching the surface of his story, and I’m exhausted. 

My Dad cared for every child and family he came across. Going out with him anywhere in Minnesota as a kid was a small taste of what it would be like to have a parent who is a celebrity. We couldn’t go anywhere without a former colleague or patient stopping him to say hello and, usually, thank you. 

I have the things I have in this life thanks to the hard work my Dad put in professionally.

Did that mean there were areas where things lacked? Of course. There were events my Dad couldn’t attend when he was on call or had many patients. I don’t have what would be called an affectionate relationship with him; we don’t hug a lot or say, “I love you” often. 

It would be easy to use that as the reason I am not where I want to be in my life. It would be lovely to remove myself from all responsibility and pin it on one of the two people who gave me this life.

That is akin to mining for shit in a mountain made of gold.

I didn’t need to do any searching to know my parents gave it their all for me. I can’t exist in a day of my adult life without being able to draw a direct line to them for all of the great things I have in my life. 

I’ve found that shadow work is not the search for something or someone to blame for who I am. It’s the search for the person I truly am that I keep hidden away because of something I misinterpreted when I was younger. 

For example, I loved when people would stop my Dad and remind him of how he saved their child’s life when they were younger. I craved that kind of attention. I wanted to have a positive effect on people’s lives. Because I wanted that kind of attention, I decided I needed to be my Dad to get it. I spent a lot of my childhood convinced I would be a doctor. 

There are easier ways to get that attention, but I was an idiot kid who knew nothing about how the world worked. Is the kid who, with a broken wrist and using a cane due to a snowmobile accident, auditioned for his fifth-grade talent show by lip-syncing “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan a good judge of… anything?

Thoughts like that opened things up for me. I started coming up with more and more until I realized that I had held many beliefs about myself, my abilities, and my weaknesses since I was a kid. 

Perpetuating false beliefs I developed in childhood for so long turned me into an idiot adult who doesn’t know anything about how the world works. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I realized it was ‘peace’ of mind rather than ‘piece’ of mind. So, no, calling myself an idiot isn’t harsh.

If I wasn’t a reliable source of knowing what I wanted to do as a kid, then there is no way I could accurately assess what I couldn’t do as an adult. Nevertheless, I trusted my own perception of what I was capable of, allowing these baseless, limiting thoughts to spread like an infection until I had a long list of things I couldn’t do and a short list of what I could do. The problem was I had no interest in doing any of the stuff on the shortlist. 

The only thing that has been a constant want in my life is writing. I have been obsessed with writing for as long as I can remember. 

I wish the path I obsess over was more practical, like being an accountant or doing something technology-based. It’s just not the answer for me. Even if I had the aptitude for those things, I’d be miserable doing them. 

I have been miserable for a large portion of my life because I lived under the assumption that I needed to keep working through the misery to get the money, life, and time I wanted to pursue my dream. When I looked around, that was how life worked. Over time, this way of life took its toll, so I had no idea who I was anymore. 

“Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want so that they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do in order to have what you want.”

Margaret Young

So, here I sit, typing away, hoping that Margaret is right about this one. I am doing what I want to do, which brings me more happiness between 8 AM and 5 PM on a weekday than I thought possible. 

However, I am still searching for “who I really am.”

The good news? Thirty-nine years of being a moron has given me a lot of good stories and a penchant for good humor. I’ll be sure to bring you more “wisdom” as I pull it out of the shadows.

Cheers.

My Business Trip

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

Watch on YouTube

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. 

Leap Year: Seizing the Spectacular Opportunity We’re Missing

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Watch Tim talk on YouTube

As a society, we are missing a spectacular opportunity with Leap Year. 

In the United States, we are fine coming up with reasons to celebrate nearly everything we consume with little to no basis. 

In 1979, someone (I’m going to assume Gregg) from Gregory’s Restaurant & Bar in Somers Point, NJ, came up with an idea. One can only imagine the only thing Gregg loved more than tacos was alliteration, or maybe he just needed a way to get rid of excess ground beef. I prefer the former. Forty-five years later, we are still celebrating Taco Tuesday weekly. 

National Pig Day, Fruit Compote Day, Cold Cut Day, and Mulled Wine Day are all celebrated in the first week of March. 

Mulled wine? Rarely do people emphatically ask, “Do you serve mulled wine?” More frequently, you’ll order an actual drink only to find out mulled wine is the sole option, to which we all respond, “That’s fine.” It’s like when you order a Coke, and the server tells you they have Pepsi. It gets the job done, but you’re making a sacrifice.

So, how is it we can take the time to celebrate mulled wine but not take advantage of an extra day showing up on the calendar every four years?

At the very least, we should all stop to appreciate how the need for a leap day was discovered by Julius Caesar in 45 BCE. Of course, it has significantly evolved since then, but that doesn’t change the fact that had I existed in 45 BCE, there is no way I would have come up with it, let alone understand it. 

Yet, we are not all dressing in togas for all the Leap Day toga parties tonight. Not even Caesar’s Palace has a mention or promotion tied to the day. Et tu?

We could have an official animal of leap day, a tree frog, for instance. Maybe a dolphin? Every four years, we could all laugh at Australia because they would undoubtedly use the number one thing everyone in the world thinks of when they think about the continent.

My vote is the tree frog. I even wore green in solidarity today. Dolphins get enough attention. This is not to say I don’t get excited and giggle every single time I see a dolphin. 

Tree frogs are like miniature Spider-Men, which is cool, just not every year cool. However, taking a day every four years to stop and marvel at tree frogs feels about right. Not to mention the fact we’re all breaking out green clothes and decorations to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in two weeks. A holiday we all celebrate with vigor, yet most people (myself included) couldn’t give you the correct answer as to why we all drink to excess on March 17th every year.

We could make the day about gathering with extended family. Something we all are annoyed by to some extent. Yet, every year, we complain about our relatives and their nonsense come Thanksgiving, only to return to the misery less than a month later.

Celebrating Leap Day with extended family means you could save time, money, and frustration on two of the most celebrated holidays. Who knows, maybe your drunk, racist Uncle who can only talk politics won’t make it another four years. I am not saying I wish that upon anyone; I am just trying to highlight the possible perks of making Leap Day a bigger deal in our culture. 

There should be social media posts comparing previous Leap Years. Let’s set Leap Year resolutions and goals to get where we want to be in our lives by 2028. 

Imagine it’s 2028, Tuesday morning, February 29. You wake up and realize you don’t have to go to work because Leap Day is a National Holiday. You felt it, didn’t you? The twinge of relief, like waking up on Saturday morning thinking it’s a weekday and immediately realizing it’s Saturday.

You go to the bathroom to get ready for the big day. The vibes are already on target, so you opt to listen to Jump by Kriss Kross (if you’re a millennial) or Jump by Van Halen (Gen X, looking at you now) or Jump In The Line by Harry Belafonte (ok, Boomer) or Jump Around by House of Pain (that’s for you Wisconsin, you unoriginal bastards).

You get dressed in your Tree Frog-themed gear. You can’t wait to see friends and family as you take the first drink of your Jump Up and Kiss Me cocktail. I’ve never had a Jump Up and Kiss Me, but it has to be at least as tasty as Mulled Wine. 

Maybe you’ll take the family to the Leap Day parade and see the next Leap King and Queen crowned. From there, you go to the tree climbing contest, a celebration of the official mascot of Leap Day. You notice as you observe the crowd of people laughing and talking the occasional head pops up in the air, as it is tradition to jump and kiss your date or significant other when you finish your Jump Up and Kiss Me.

Eventually, you make your way home to prepare your Leap Day Dinner. Traditions vary from home to home on the dish’s feature, but it is a true Leap Year feast once the Mexican jumping beans are hopping on the table.

After dinner, you head to the living room to watch 21 Jump Street (TV series or movie, depending on your generation) or White Men Can’t Jump before bed. 

My point is we need to claim the day. We need to start a revolution. We shouldn’t get an extra 24 hours and use it by doing the same old, same old. 

Let’s get the ball rolling and try to remember this in four years.

I probably won’t.

Oh, I guess I get why it’s not a bigger deal.

Cheers.

@theofficialtimtalks

Happy Leap Day. #leapday #leapyear #jump #timtalks #theofficialtimtalks #funny #fyp #fypシ

♬ Jump Beat – RPeterson

Letting Go

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

Listen here or watch on YouTube @theofficialtimtalks

He feels the warm morning sun on his face through the blinds in his bedroom, followed by her warmth as she presses against his back, draping her arm over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and catches a faint scent of her perfume from yesterday. 

“I think today is the day,” she whispers, gently into his year. 

With that, his eyes open, and he is awake. He rolls over to see the bright, smiling face of his wife, Catherine, framed by her long blonde hair. He is always caught off guard by how the smallest moments remind him how lucky he is to have her in his life, convinced his heart will explode out of his chest. 

I can’t wait to tell my Dad; he is going to be thrilled, Daniel thought.

“Have you felt any contractions?” He said, trying to disguise the concern in his voice. 

“I think I felt one a little while ago. It was faint, but something tells me, today is the day,” she said with a smile, then concern flashed across her face, “Regardless, I think you need to do it today.”

“I know,” he said, rolling to his back and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. You’ve been preparing, and just think, once it’s over you’ll get to meet your daug…” Catherine said, cutting herself off when she realized what she had started to say.

“Wait. Daughter? We’re going to have a baby girl?”

“Don’t be mad. When I went in for my last check, the nurse accidentally told me and…”

“Mad? Mad?! How could I be mad? We are going to have a baby girl, a little you. I have never been more excited in my entire life.” 

He gave Catherine a kiss, got out of bed, and made his way to the shower. He needed to get in touch with his Dad; the sooner, the better. 

Sharing big news with his Dad is one of his favorite things to do in life. He had a knack for providing a reaction that matched the moment’s gravity. Never underwhelmed, never too much enthusiasm, always just right. 

He smiled as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, recalling the day he got his first hole-in-one. On a late August evening, he got off the golf course just before sunset. He ran to his car to call his Dad, ignoring the yells from his friends reminding him he had to pay for drinks inside the clubhouse.

“Hey buddy, what’s up? Your Mom and I are out for dinner in one of those restaurants that consider it rude to have a conversation above a murmur,” he whispered. 

“Oh, uh, sorry, maybe we can just talk tomorrow,” he said, hoping the disappointment wasn’t evident on his face.

“Hmmm, something tells me I want to hear this news right now.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt.”

His Dad stared at the phone with a knowing look. 

“Alright, alright. Well, I just got off the course, and I got a hole-in-one on fifteen,” Daniel said, trying to keep his voice at a respectful volume. He realized his Dad hadn’t moved as he broke the news and said, “Dad, are you there?”

Then he saw the corners of his Dad’s mouth start to curl into a smile threatening to touch his ears as he said, “Gotcha.”

Then he stood up, knocking his chair over backward. Then, in the middle of the quiet and crowded restaurant, he yelled, “Woooo! Attention everyone: my son just got his first hole-in-one, and the next round is on me. Let’s go!”

The once-silent restaurant erupted into cheers as Daniel heard his Mom attempting to tell the other customers it was a joke, but it was too late. That would go down as the day Daniel hit a hole-in-one, and his Dad ran up a two thousand dollar bar tab. 

He dressed, made himself a cup of coffee, and sighed dramatically. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your Dad with you, sweetheart?” His wife said. 

“Yeah. I need to do this on my own. Your focus should be on your contractions, and if anything changes…”

“Go straight to the hospital, and don’t interrupt you.”

“Very funny. I mean it. If anything changes, I want you to come get me. You and our baby, our Daughter, are all that matter today.” 

“Yes, sir,” she said with a salute.

She watched him walk into their home office and shut the door. She immediately grabbed her phone and made a call. 

“Hey, it’s me… Yes, they started about an hour ago… About 20 minutes apart… No, no, not too painful yet… Listen, he just went in to make the phone call, and I think it would go a long way if you were here when he finished… Yes, a theatrical sigh… Okay, great, see you soon,” she said, hanging up the phone. 

She stared at the closed door, hoping it would turn out better than expected.

He sits in his office, staring at the cursor hovering over the New FaceTime button, mentally preparing himself.

“You can do this,” he said to himself, finally clicking the button. 

As usual, the call connected after two and a half rings, and his Dad’s face appeared on his screen.

“Hey buddy, how’s your day going?” His Dad said.

“Good, Dad. Really good, actually.”

“That’s what I like to hear. What is making my son’s day so great this morning?”

“Catherine started having contractions about an hour ago. They are still pretty far apart, but it seems like today will be the day I meet my Daughter.”

“Daughter? Daughter? I thought we would have to wait until the baby was born to find out.” 

“Me too, Dad,” he said with a smile, “a nurse accidentally let it slip at one of Catherine’s appointments a few weeks ago. She told me this morning.”

“You know, I wanted you to be a girl. I was so sure you were a girl. I bought all sorts of pink clothes and toys and hid them from your mother. It wasn’t until you were a few weeks old that I broke the news to your Mom. The look on her face when I told her I didn’t save the receipts was priceless. Of course, I wouldn’t change a thing now. Being your Dad has been the absolute best part of my life. I am so proud of you, buddy. You’re going to be an amazing father.”

“I learned from the best,” he said, fighting back tears.

“Who? Me? Oh, c’mon, keep going,” his Dad said, beckoning his son to keep the stream of compliments flowing.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, buddy. What’s wrong? You seem far too sad on such a special day.”

“I just, well, I’ve got to…”

“You’re nervous, aren’t you? It’s okay. I remember the day you were born. I was so sure you were a girl…”

The same story. This had become a more common occurrence and one of the primary reasons that today would be the last day he spoke to his Dad. He read his notes about how to do this properly as his Dad continued his story. 

Be direct. Don’t worry about feelings. Irrational lashing out is to be expected.

“… anyway,” his Dad continued, “I know you will be an amazing father. And I am going to be an even better Grandfather. I cannot wait to meet my Grandaughter.”

“That’s the thing, Dad. I have to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.”

“You’re not going to meet her,” he said, bracing himself for the reaction.

There was a long pause as his Dad’s face cycled through emotion from devastation to fury. It looked as though all of his facial muscles were working independently of one another, trying to find the rhythm.

“I. Don’t. Understand.”

“Here’s the thing, Dad, you actually…”

“I don’t understand,” his Dad interrupted, his voice filled with anger and hurt, “how my own son. The child I raised… No, the man I raised has the balls to tell me I can’t see my own Grandaughter. Do you know what this is going to do to your mother? Did you ever stop to consider…”

“Dad, Mom is going to be fine. She will come to the hospital first thing after the baby is born.”

“So,” his Dad began, chin quivering, “I don’t get… What did I do?”

“Dad…”

“No,” his Dad interrupted through a sob, “Just tell me what I did. Tell me what I did wrong, and I will fix it. I will do whatever it takes. Please, I am begging you, buddy, don’t do this to me.” 

“Dad, I can’t… there isn’t anything,” he tried to get the words out, but the dam had burst, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. 

“Hey, buddy, don’t cry. Whatever it is, we will fix it. I’ve got your back. I’m always here for you, no matter what. You know that, right?”

“Of course. I ju- I think I hear Catherine calling for me; I’ll be right back. Just a sec.”

He walked out of the office and right out the front door. When he was on the front step, he took out his phone and dialed.

“AI Love You, how may I assist you today?” A friendly woman answered.

“Hi, this is Daniel Wilson. Will you connect me to Devon Wright, please?” 

“Just a moment,” the woman responded, placing the call on hold.

At AI Love You, we believe in love that lasts forever. Losing a loved one can take a toll on your health and well-being, but it doesn’t have to. Stay on the line, and a representative will help you keep that special someone in your life for…

“Hi, this is Devon. How may I assist you today?”

“Hi, Devon, this is Daniel Wilson. I am ready to terminate my membership.”

“Hi, Mr. Wilson, I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you sure there is nothing we can do to keep your bus..”

“Save it. Like I said the last time we spoke, I am done. You took advantage of me when I was most vulnerable, and I have been stuck in this purgatory, pretending a computer program is my Dad for over a year now. I am having a baby, and I must move on with my life,” he said, trying to avoid yelling into his phone, “and now, your fancy program is making me despise my Father.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wilson, but as I explained the last time we spoke, our AI rendering of your Father has limitations. Since you never disowned him in real life, there is no data to predict how he would have reacted,” Devon explained, attempting to sound sympathetic but missing the mark.

“For the last time, I am not disowning my Father. That thing is not my Dad. I want to terminate my membership.” 

“I understand. Just bear with me one moment. My system is a little slow today… must be a Monday,” Devon said, keyboard keys clicking in the background, “aaand, just have to make sure… yep, there we go. Alright, Mr. Wilson, when you return to the call, you will now see the END MY RELATIONSHIP button. As a reminder, once you have ended the re…”

“Stop saying I am ending the relationship. Cancer killed my Dad sixteen months ago, so I am not ending the relationship with my Dad. I am terminating my membership with your company.”

“Yes. My apologies. Please remember that once your membership has been terminated, all your supplied data will be permanently deleted. There is no recovery process.”

“I understand,” Daniel said. 

“Excellent. Your account is ready to be terminated. I want to thank you for calling AI Love You. If you have the time, I would appreciate it if you would stay on the line to complete a brief surv…”

Daniel ended the call. It took every ounce of self-control not to throw his phone into the street. He took a deep breath and went back inside. 

Catherine was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking concerned.

“Hey,” he said, moving toward her with his arms open for a hug, “I’m okay. We knew this was going to be complicated. I just need a couple more minutes, then we can focus on finally meeting our baby girl.”

He gave her a kiss and walked back into the office. His Dad’s face remained on his computer screen, blinking every three seconds, expressionless. 

“Hey, buddy,” his Dad said happily when Daniel walked into view, “What took you so long?”

“Look, Dad,” Daniel said, “I need you just to listen now, no talking, okay?”

“You got it, buddy. Whoops, this doesn’t count. My lips are zipped.”

“I love you so much. I miss you every day. I hate that my Daughter will never get to meet you and have fun with you the way we did when I was little. When you died, I thought my world ended too. The world turned into this drab place of existence for me, and I was desperate to get you back. Signing up for this thing was a mistake. I see that now. I need to focus all of my attention on Catherine and our Daughter. I can’t keep talking to a ghost in my office. I want to be the Dad to her that you were to me, and losing you taught me not to waste a moment doing anything else other than watching her grow into the wonderful woman she is sure to be,” the cursor was hovering over the END MY RELATIONSHIP button, “I love you so much, Dad.”

“Not as much as I love you, buddy.”

Daniel clicked his mouse, and the call ended. A survey was on the computer screen where his Dad’s face was just moments ago.

On a scale from 1-10, how likely would you be to refer a friend to AI Love You based on your call today?

He clicked ‘1’ and put the monitor to sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he stood up from his desk, ready to meet his Daughter.

He opened the door to see his Mom waiting for him. 

“Mom? How did you…”

“Catherine called. She thought it would be a good idea if I came over, “she said, “Don’t worry, I’m not coming to the hospital until the baby is born, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

With that, he buried his face into his Mom’s shoulder and finally cried the way he should have sixteen months ago. She pulled him in tight, shushing in his ear and making him feel safe the way only a Mother can. Once he settled down, she pulled away.

“I brought you something,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a flash drive. 

“What’s this?” Daniel said, grabbing the flash drive out of her hand.

“As soon as your Father got his diagnosis, he started making videos for you. We would sit in the living room reading or talking, and a thought would hit him. He would drop everything, go to the office, and record a video for you,” his Mom said, a single tear falling down her cheek, “he was so worried you would be sad, so whenever he thought of anything, stories, advice, or even just a joke, he wanted to record it so he could be there for you in case you needed him.”

After a moment to compose herself, she continued.

“I planned to give it to you the day you told me about AI Love You. It was probably a mistake, but I thought it better to let you grieve in your own way. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get in the way. There are hundreds of videos on there, but there is one that he would want you to watch today,” his Mom said with a knowing smile. They called for Catherine to join them in the office. 

Daniel sat in front of the computer and plugged the flash drive in. He opened the folder when it appeared on his screen, and it expanded to dozens of sub-folders for different occasions. “Golf Tips” and “Don’t Do This” were some of the folder names. His Mom pointed at the folder that said: “How to Dad.” He opened the folder to over a hundred videos for parenting milestones and challenges. 

“This is the one,” his Mom said, pointing to the first video title, ‘If it’s a Girl.’

He double-clicked the video, and the Quicktime application opened. There was his Dad, his real Dad, sitting in his old office chair with a lit cigar in his mouth.

“Hey, buddy! Sho I her itsh a girl,” he said, the cigar making it hard for him to annunciate. He took it out and placed it in an ashtray as he clicked his tongue, trying to rid his mouth of the taste, “ugh, I’ll never understand why people like these things.”

Daniel looked at his Mom as they both began to laugh. 

“Congratulations, buddy. Did you know that I wanted you to be a girl? I was so sure…”

Holding Doors

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

You can find Ally here.

Watch it on YouTube

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.