Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Let me start my explaining that my job has become very busy and stressful as of late, and what with all the typing I do at the office, I don’t really want to come home and type more. Hence, dramatically reduced blog output.

Not much truly important has happened in the past few weeks. Still waiting to hear from a couple grad schools, which just happen to be the ones I would most like to attend. This, clearly, is getting the best of me, and I have the anxiety dreams to prove it. Dreams that, by the way, I remember... and I never remember my dreams. What’s up with that?

I have joined a gym, in spite of a bait-and-switch signup issue where I was told a blatant lie about available plans so that I would spend more money than I had to. (I have since re-negotiated my membership terms to be more favorable, monetarily and otherwise, to me). Let me ask you this: when ya’ll work out (which I’m sure some of you do), do people just strut about naked in the locker room? I mean, okay, I know it’s a locker room, and I suppose if there’s a semi-public place where it is socially acceptable to strut naked, that would be it. But there’s a suspicious level of enjoyment there, as evidenced by the circuitous, meandering routes taken from locker to shower or scale. I know, I know, all that “naked is natural” stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I like nakedness, in some contexts, as much as the next guy. But the locker room is not a nudist enclave, nor is it the privacy of one’s own home. And Old Guy, you have been walking around this three-room suite for upwards of five minutes, so how is it that you have not yet reached your destination? Sink? Right there. Shower to the left. Lockers behind you. If you’re in it for the exercise, fella, there are treadmills upstairs. Put on some clothes. Dang.

Not unlike the salesman at the gym, the weather here has also been blatantly disingenuous. Seventy degrees and sunny! It’s springtime! Flowers and birds! Go to sleep, Buffalo, for tomorrow will be another beautiful day. What’s that? You don’t want snow anymore? Fine, have sleet. And wind. Cold. You put your snowbrush away, didn’t you? You’ll be using your ungloved fingers today, my friend. And flowers? I’d like you to meet my friend heavy frost. He will kill you.

And so it is that I put the fleece lining back into my winter coat. A seasoned Buffalonian, I knew the warm weather wasn’t really here to stay, but I thought we were done with daytime highs below 35 degrees. Wrong-o.

Closing thoughts: I should hire some goons to muscle information out of NYU and Syracuse.

Over and out.