Bloat and My Fusiform Gyrus

Since Sunday I have been inhaling food and beer like there is no tomorrow. (I blame the Buddha. Did you ever notice the beer belly on that dude?) On Sunday, I drank a couple of beers with my pizza at lunch. Bloat. Monday was a office happy hour. I was happy so I went and had two beers. Bloat.Tuesday was Saint Patrick’s Day. Being the decendant of assorted Gavins, Hanlons, Cairnses, and Kerwins, I did not feel the need to prove my ancestral bona fides with beer. Un-bloat.

During the day on Tuesday, I sent a text to KL apologizing for completely not recognizing her at the Swedish embassy on Sunday. This led to a flurry of texts back and forth during which KL suggested that I may have neurological issues: “You should totally get your fusiform gyrus checked out.”

Only…

in…

DC.

I raised a white flag and proposed an IRL summit. This summit was held at a watering hole in downtown DC on Wednesday evening. What we thought was going to be “a drink” turned into a four- hour remake of My Dinner with Andre. (To her credit, KL looks decidedly better than Wallace Shawn. Now that I think about it, ANYBODY looks better than Wallace Shawn, including Wallace Shawn.) Many more beers were consumed. And hummus. And burgers. Bloat. Suffice it to say that for somebody I can’t seem to recognize, KL is most excellent company. Of course, with my defective fusiform gyrus, it is conceivable that I may have been talking to just about anybody.

I expected today’s bike commute to be a slogfest complete with hangover. (Four beers are quite enough to give me a hangover. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.) Instead I woke up clear headed and ready to roll. It was a little cool outside but I had a beautiful ride to work. Of course, this included another stellar sunrise.

The rest of the ride was one of those two wheeled, hour long meditations that I love. Every so often my dream state was interupted by the sight of a bird I hadn’t seen in months. Or the realization that a beaver has been hard at work near the aptyly named beaver bridge. The water level is now up to the underside of the bridge. Or the early morning light making the monuments look more monumental. Hell, I even survived the Intersection of Doom.

The ride home was every bit as serene. In fact, I’d say that the only thing worth complaining about was the fact that fair weather bike commuters are a little rusty on their etiquette. (Call out your passes, people.)

Unless it snows like a bitch (which is not entirely out of the question) I will ride to Friday Coffee Club tomorrow. Then, this weekend I will lay off the beer. And the pizza. And the burgers. And the hummus.

And maybe I look into getting my fusiform gyrus tweaked.

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