Last night I did one of those really groovy maneuvers where I fell asleep watching a television program and then slept right through until 3AM, whereupon I woke up to find that I missed hanging out with some friends who were in town. I’m sad that I missed my friends, but at least this might put me back in the good graces of the Hermit League.
Only yesterday, a carrier pigeon delivered a note scrawled on a piece of bark that read “We’re onto you, Hodgson”. I assume it was from the Hermit League, as pigeons have horrible handwriting and can’t even manage a scrawl.
Now I feel I have to explain to my friends why I didn’t hang out with them. They all know that I relish my time alone the way an alcoholic relishes a free six pack, or the way a relishaolic really relishes relish, so it’s going to be a bit of a tough sell to explain that I didn’t just lurk at home for the sake of a good lurk.
In this situation, a lesser man might be tempted to resort to subterfuge. He might tell what’s known as a white lie. For those not familiar with white lies, that’s when you lie to someone, then lie to yourself about why you lied. The second one makes the first one okay, kind of like sleeping with a one night stand a second time a few weeks later to make it seem like you are legitimately dating, not just getting sluttier when you drink.
But no, I have a policy against lies. They’re for amateurs.
For more on this topic, I recommend stripping down to a martini and a pair of satin boxer shorts, slicking your hair back, and dancing around your home to Sade’s “Smooth Operator“. Be sure to do the kind of dancing that involves a lot of shoulder movements. Trust me.
I did get outside a little bit yesterday, first to go to the cyclist training cave before dawn and second to clean my mountain bike. Upstairs Cutie, my neighbor, came outside while I was scrubbing said mountain bike and grumbling because the car wash place declined to let me use their pressure washer (jerks).
She stopped on the walk on her way past to ask if I were about to go for a ride, asking in a tone that suggested that I was standing next to a snarling puma with a saddle in my hands. I said I was just cleaning it this time, and even offered to let her help detail my bike, but she declined. Little did she know I was about to use my new can of spray lubricant.
Some people just don’t know how much fun bikes can be, I guess. Oh well!