MY WORLD:
*Quick recap of Part One for those of you who are too fucking lazy to read it: The VP of Ops and I went canoeing last weekend. Part one was about the 3 hour drive up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin. I left off when I got out of the car and was massacred by mosquitoes. Want more details? GO READ IT!
By the time the VP actually got out of the car, I was but a shell of myself. Weary from the beating my body had taken in the 47 seconds I had been outside, the thought of shielding myself with The VP’s body not only crossed my mind, it consumed me. If I draped her over my shoulders like a fashionable shawl, and began to spin, the helicopter motion of her limbs would SURELY fend off these hungry fuckhead squitoes. The VP had a solid defense mechanism, however, which consisted of her giving me the “I can’t believe you made me come here”-stare. Imagine two razorblades made of un-meltable ice; that’s what The VP’s eyes looked like. I may have let out an audible “yikes” after being caught with that frigid glare. Back to the squitoes, everything is going great!
We had to load our stuff on the back of a school bus before it drove us to the launch off point. The VP carried like a friggin’ pillow and left the cooler, firewood, tent, chairs, and backpacks for me; this is the definition of not-fair and if my Mom was there I def would’ve squealed a “Mom! This is unfair!” Unfortch, my Mom was too busy not sacrificing her body to the Squitoe Squad, so I was left to exhale audibly and then just carry everything because WE’RE NOT GETTING IN A FIGHT! By the time I loaded our entire life into the back of this dumb bus, most of the seats were taken. When I got to the VP’s seat, I felt like young Forrest Gump. While not exactly Jenny-ish, the VP did scoot over and make room for my swollen ass. Want a perfect remedy for a tense situation with your significant other? Just make a fart noise. I’m not sure if I did that or I just said something along the lines of “thanks for letting me carry everything!” but it did lighten the mood. The Squitoes, like most cool people, wouldn’t be caught dead in a big yellow school bus, so we were safe for the time being. As the bus took off and our itchies began to subside, I felt The VP begin to soften. Beers and sun and NATURE were on the docket. We were about to live that H.O.C. life (Hot Outdoorsy Couple).
We got to the launch point and after a minor altercation with the canoe organizer lady, we loaded our canoe and set off into the great wide open! Oh, the minor altercation? You know that thing when someone acts like you don’t have a reservation when you really do, so you respond with a brief, albeit passionate, fury? Did the words “well that’s something that YOU need to figure out” come out of my mouth? Yes. But listen, The VP and I didn’t drive 3 hours, and get in a few almost-fights before donating our bodies to the Squitoe Squad to be turned away by some idiot woman holding a clipboard and wearing a life vest ON LAND. Hey Lady, hard to drown in grass, dontchathink?!?! Thankfully, my very brief, very minor outburst didn’t result in any sort of incarceration. Before we knew it, we were on the water, paddling towards enshrinement in the H.O.C. Hall of Fame.
The weather was perfect out on the water and the Squitoes weren’t too bad out there either. The VP and I basically took deet showers before we got on the canoe, and that seemed to work. Lite beers began to flow and cheesy country music blared from our friend Bonesaw’s cool waterproof speaker. (Am I the only one still using the speakers I bought for my dorm room in 2004? Yes? Oh.) When you’re out on the water, cheesy country music or Dave Matthews is all that you can listen to. If someone had put on like Two Chainz or N’Sync, I would’ve swam over to their canoe to strangle the life out of them. (Aggressive). Give me Florida Georgia Line or give me death on the open waters. The VP and I were having a ball, guys. No joke. Was I doing most of the paddling? Yes, of course. However, if I wanted to earn my H.O.G. badge, I was going to have to blast my delts and traps until they begged for mercy. When they did beg for mercy after roughly 4.1 minutes of paddling, though, I was forced to yell at The VP to “feel free to paddle ANYTIME!” Flinging guilt trips your wife’s way is part of the H.O.G. lifestyle, correct?
We (mostly me, but whatever) paddled for a while and then hooked up with a few other canoes for a solid, hang ‘n float sesh. My jokes were not landing the way I was hoping they would, however, and The VP seemed to revel in that. After a few “I think we forgot to pack our motor”-jokes didn’t connect, she looked back and said “you’re really on fire today!” I can’t lie, it stung and I’m still kinda’ pissed about it. Don’t wedding vows also encompass supporting your husband’s desperate attempts at canoe humor? If they don’t, they should, and if they do, then The VP owes me a heartfelt apology. (VP? Care to comment?) Eventually, the hang ‘n float group loosened up and sent some (courtesy?) laughs my way. WAS THAT SO HARD?!?! We ate sandwiches and drank some beehs and bagged many many rays. Excuse the following brag, but I tan like a Greek God; going from translucent white to burnt gold in a matter of minutes. I skip the lobster red phase altogether; it’s a gift.
After a little more paddling (yes, still mostly by me, thanks for inquiring) we set up camp at a little sandy beach. Are these called dunes? I don’t know and I don’t want to look it up, but it was like our group’s own private beach. It was sweet. Everyone went off to set up their tents while it was still light out. I guess I missed the memo that good friend Bonesaw wasn’t going to do everything for me, as he did last year, though. I pretended that this wasn’t a MAJOR problem, but my brain was beginning to swell with anxiety. I had no fucking idea how to put this tent together. We borrowed it from other friends, and now was the time that we were supposed to act like a real H.O.C. The instruction packet was stuck together because it got wet, so we had to go into “we can figure this out”-mode. Wanna hear a secret? Both of us knew we weren’t going to be able to figure it out.
After scrambling for a solid 37 minutes of minor fights and little progress, our tent resembled a deflated bouncy castle. It was sad, and looked even more sad because it was surrounded by fully erect, gorgeous tent houses. I swear to god some of these other tents looked bigger and nicer than the apartment we pay almost two grand a month to live in. The rest of the group was hanging and drinking in the water for a long enough time that I’m sure they had to be talking about and laughing about our tent issues. The case for me becoming a H.O.G. had hit QUITE the speed bump. Some would say, the point where I snapped “well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” at The VP is where my H.O.G. case was forever lost. (Members of the H.O.G. jury all nod.) We awkwardly gave up after we got the tent erect enough to sleep in, and shuffled our way to the water. Our body language must’ve SCREAMED “everything is fine! Please don’t ask us about our tent!”
Vodka with strawberry lemonade was the drink of choice as the day progressed and, lemme tellya, they were going down SMOOTH. I’m also pretty sure that I told everyone around us just how smooth they were going down no less than 87 times. (We get it Jimmy, you’re drinking a lot of vodka in the sun!) Nobody said anything about our shitty tent, which was nice. Instead, the group was more focused on laughing and smiling AND LAUGHING. Hey! I like to laugh! The water felt great and the weather was perfect as The Golden Hour approached.
When the sun went down, an actual H.O.G. in the group put together a gorgeous fire. Honestly, if the H.O.G. jury had asked me to build a fire, I probably would’ve just rubbed some sticks together until my hands bled before running off to my deflated tent while yelling “everything is impossible out here!” I was good at sitting near the fire, though, and eating a hot dog that someone else cooked. (God you’re impressive, Jimmy.) But when the sun finally went into hiding, the mosquitoes came back out. And they were angry, guys. Very, very angry. The VP and I looked at each other one last time. The itchies were back. The rest of the night consisted of people trying to laugh in between slapping the back of their necks and saying stuff like “these mosquitoes!” Fun fact, it’s hard to function as a human being when mosquitoes are building apartment complexes on your face.
Everyone went to bed relatively early as a result. Our bed did consist of, uh, the sand because our blow-up mattress refused to blow up even after I yelled at it to “just work!” I know, I couldn’t believe it either. So The VP and I slept on the ground, using our damp backpacks as pillows. How come nobody ever puts those camping pictures on Instagram? No videos of you telling your wife to “stop sighing, there’s nothing we can do” on their stories? I would’ve recorded some of this for you but my phone was already dead because I went canoeing with my battery at 16%. Planning, it appears, is not my strong suit.
The VP and I awoke covered in a thin film of sweat and sand. Guys, it gets hot outside in the summer. Did you know that? I made a bunch of the same sounds your dad makes when he gets up from his seat at Thanksgiving dinner. A lot of “urghs” and “wugffs” and “jesus christ, my back”s. Needless to say, I will not be perusing the “Wisconsin Sand”-section next time I go to Mattress World. The VP refused to get up because she knew that meant packing up the tent and cleaning and getting back on the canoe for more paddling. The VP was going into full-on “But I don’t wanna”-mode. Good thing that I can be INCREDIBLY annoying when I want to be. She snapped out of her fake slumber after a few Jimmy fingers went up her nose. (Surprisingly few boogs in there FYI.)
Nobody talked much in the morning because we were all tired and covered in mosquito bites. One guy in the group just looked like a human mosquito bite; I’m pretty sure King Squitoe swallowed him whole at some point in the night. It’s not fun doing your best impression of an air traffic controller while trying to take your morning pee, either. Hey mosquitoes, what don’t you get? Pee is gross, back off for a minute. By the time everyone loaded up their canoes again, we were all ready to have a magic current take us to the finish line.
That magic current never came, though, so we were forced to paddle much further than any of us anticipated. Whoever said “we just have to get to the second bridge” can rot in hell. Seriously, I don’t remember who that person was, but if you’re reading this, you better pray I don’t run into you in a dark alley. We passed like a hundred bridges and I don’t know if the magic current was actually working against us, but it did feel like you had to have the strength of Dwayne The Rock Johnson to get your canoe moving. Did it help that The VP wasn’t helping at all because she felt “nauseous or something”? No, that did not help. At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about ever being labeled a H.O.G. In fact, I began to think that H.O.G.s are really just tired, sweaty, miserable guys who are able to trick us by smiling for the one picture they put up on Instagram. I looked around at the group on the water that morning, and there were no smiles. ZERO. SMILES. There were grimaces and bug bites and The VP with her head between her knees saying “I am not okay.” THE OUTDOORS!
Now, because I really am a super nice and super strong guy, I didn’t make The VP feel bad about not paddling much on the way back. But now that we’re alone here guys, holy shit was that hard. Like, “am I going to have a heart attack and die in a canoe on the Wisconsin River?”-hard. Every day since, I’ve checked out my arms and shoulders in the mirror expecting them to look more chiseled than your neighborhood bodybuilder’s. Spoiler alert: they don’t look chiseled, and it’s fucking bullshit. After, no joke, like 3 hours of paddling, we finally got back to where I had parked my car. The VP scurried up to my Chevy’s air conditioning, while I dragged back every damp, smelly belonging we had. Remember those times when you would be moving into a new apartment and you just started dragging stuff because you were tired and didn’t give a fuck anymore? That was me here. If some strong man would have offered to carry me back to my car, I would have divorced The VP on the spot and married my new burly hero. I may have even tried looking helpless for a little while hoping that some strongman stranger was waiting to play hero. Hey, can someone play a sad song while I have my “please help me” face on? There was no strongman stranger, just a sandy hill and a wife bolted to the inside of my car. I loaded all our shit in the trunk, didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the group and said “holy shit” 14 times before I pulled out of our parking space.
I’m never going to be hot outdoorsy guy. I’m a chair man, through and through.
THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS AND NOW I’M DONE.
K bye.
Jimmy's Chair 