Writing

My Leap

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments
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You know the old saying: If you agree to officiate one wedding, be prepared to officiate more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was wrong. 

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

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

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

She stared back at me, eyes wide. 

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

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

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

“Right,” she said.

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

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

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

You can get drunk power like that.

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

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

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

You know, hiccups. 

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

The theme? Chaos. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indecision is a mainstay in my life.

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

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

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

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

I need to do more of that, I thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

Easier said than done. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Congratulations,” my CEO said to me earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This.

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

Cheers.

The NIT, AITA?

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

“What did I do?” I asked.

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

“N, I, T,” she said.

“What about it?”

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

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

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

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

“What does NIT stand for?”

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

“That’s crazy!”

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

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

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

“No, you didn’t,” I said, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

This may be a learned behavior. 

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

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

“Really?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daddy, what if the road was made of water? 

Daddy, why are there traffic lights? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Dad can dream…

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

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

“Look it up,” I’ll say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

Airport Anxiety

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I deserved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, to be young. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic is ineffective against Jenni’s “hanger.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

Embracing the Speedo

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, that doesn’t read well. 

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

Nope. Not better.

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

There we go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I assumed my Speedo days were over. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope. 

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

I look naked, I thought with a little laugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

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

4th of July Embarrassment

/ Tim Severson / 2 Comments

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

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

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

Next to the pool, they were not invited to. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Canada?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our party had grown from four people to ten people. 

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

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

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

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

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

Why? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn’t my inner dialogue neat? 

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

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

“Are you done?” She asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know,” he yelled. 

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

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

15 Years

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

How do you describe fifteen years of marriage? 

The universality of love makes it conflicting. On the one hand, it gives you relatable love songs and romantic comedies. On the other hand, it makes every word and gesture you come up with feel cliche. While that fact doesn’t make those sentiments erroneous, it can make them feel empty. Because of this, we leave things unsaid that should always be said. 

So, when describing fifteen years of marriage, I suppose you start with the easy stuff. 

You lead in with how she is beautiful (if not more so) when she isn’t trying because it is her natural state. Of course, she’ll never believe you, even though you tell her so often that your four-year-old daughter reminds her almost as frequently as you do of how beautiful she is. 

You should remember to let her know that when she does try. When she gets her hair just right and puts on the dress, she finally finds, after scouring every store and website in existence, that she is absolutely stunning. 

She doesn’t know you see her, always. You could explain your heart still skips a beat watching her from across crowded weddings and parties as she dazzles those she interacts with. Tell her how sometimes it is impossible to focus on what the person you are talking to is saying because, well, she exists, and nothing else seems quite as important as that. 

You don’t want to linger on these shallow compliments for too long. Yes, you could write pages about how effortless her beauty truly is. Do your damndest to convince her she is just as beautiful now as she was twenty-four years ago when you first met. She’d love to hear it, but she’ll never admit it because to do so would be vain. It’s best to decide the words you have written in a few short paragraphs are enough and move on.

When you move on, the best change of pace would be to remind her that the only thing more impressive than her beauty is what a pleasure it has been to watch her grow over the course of all the years you have spent together. 

You should tell her how anytime you are presented with the question, “Who is your hero?” Your answer is a lie because you never answer “my wife,” even though it is unequivocally true. How could it not be? You’ve had a front-row seat to watch her perform, speak in front of crowds, and accel at every task thrown her way. Meanwhile, you sit by, feeling lazy and inadequate because it seems impossible to live up to the standards she lives by. 

Worse, you can’t ask her how or why she does it all because you already know the answer. The answer is simple, it pulls your heart in entirely different directions. It’s simultaneously the best and worst answer possible, and it’s only three letters long: You. 

You’ll never tell her you don’t deserve it because you adore how it makes you feel. 

And what’s the harm? Her goals are yours, and vice versa if you’re doing marriage right. The best thing you can do is sit in the front row and watch her meet every goal she sets professionally and personally. 

You watch her fantastic one-woman show in amazement. It’s like watching the best magician because knowing the “trick” doesn’t matter, as they are much better than everyone else. It’s the performance, the art of it all. Seeing how she juggles work, volunteering, networking, and school makes it seem her days have 30 hours to your 24. And don’t blink because when you do, there will be something new she takes on, and she’ll never mention it. 

As if all of those things weren’t enough, time and again, she proves herself as the best mother to her children. 

One day, at your son’s soccer game, another mother will comment that your son doesn’t seem to run out of energy. You’ll mindlessly respond, “I don’t know where he gets it,” as the realization hits you in the chest like a sledgehammer. It’s been in front of you all these years.

He gets it from her. Both of your children get it from her. All of their most beautiful qualities come from her. You could cry right there in the middle of a bunch of kids running for snacks after playing soccer because you are so thankful for her existence and everything she does for your family. 

You spend a lot of time thinking about death and wondering what comes after our time on this planet. You do this because she has enriched your life so much that you never want it to end. You spend sleepless nights deciding whether you hope she dies first or you die first. 

Before the anxiety gets so bad you worry your heart will stop, you realize what happens after your inevitable death doesn’t matter; even if it all ended today (which it could), she has made your life complete. 

You resolve to focus on all of the little things she does daily.

When she smiles that smile, the one you know is just for you. 

When she looks at you that way. The look that reminds you how you are just as important to her as she is to you. 

The way she snorts and laughs when you tell the same old stupid joke. You know, when one of your kids points something out, and she says, “Good eye!” and you shout from the next room, “Good eye to you, mate!”

And when she comes to you with tears in her eyes this morning because she just backed into your car (again), you take a deep breath and fight the urge to get mad. Because even if she backed into your car every day, it would be worth it. 

It’s worth it because the only certainty you have in this life is that a life without her is not a life you’re interested in living. All you can do is be thankful every day you wake up to her there with you. Remind yourself how lucky you are to have the privilege to share your life with her. Because no matter what happens, everything seems possible with her around. 

Lastly, you should tell her you would change nothing about the past 15 years and that when you say, “Happy anniversary,” you mean thank you. 

Thank you for being my best friend.

Thank you for being my partner.

Thank you for being my wife.

Thank you for putting up with me when I am an asshole.

Thank you for being a fantastic mother.

Thank you for being a badass woman for our daughter to look up to. 

Thank you for working so hard.  

Or, you could just run to Target and buy her a card that says “Happy 15th Wedding Anniversary”.

Cheers.

Unexpected Adventure in Chicago

/ Tim Severson / 1 Comment

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

It’s possible for me, anyway.

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

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

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

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

You know, things old people say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What should Timmy do?

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

Or,

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

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

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

Easy peasy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I finally spotted the neighboring hotel shortly after midnight.

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

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

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

Cheers.

Unexpected Adventures in Boulder

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 No, thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No? That’s just me? 

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

I shook my head in disgust. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

“Then shut the hell up,” he said.

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

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

I’m in Colorado!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s what that looked like. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That put a quick ending to our conversation. 

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

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

That said, I regret nothing. 

Cheers.

What Are The Odds?

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

Introverted-extrovert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely!” she shouted back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to play,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What fun is that?

Did I mention that my wife is in Human Resources?

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

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

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

“Does it have to happen, right…”

“Yes,” they said in unison once again.

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

They informed me it must happen immediately. 

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

I walked to the cubicle, forming my plan. 

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

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

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

I would like to thank The Academy…

He went back to his conversation. 

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

Time to get aggressive, I thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew I was in the clear. 

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

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

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

But…

What are the odds?

Cheers.

My SATs

/ Tim Severson / Leave a comment

“Timmy!”

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

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

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

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

“Late for what?” I asked.

“You’re taking the SATs today.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The test must not be today, I thought. 

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

“Dammit,” I said under my breath.

I made my way to the classroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fake it ’til you make it, right?

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

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

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

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

And guess what?

It didn’t.

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

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

The proctor informed me that I could not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they came.

700 – Critical Reading

200 – Math

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

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

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

The answer? Good enough. 

Cheers.