Received another dozen refills for the 207 today.
Let's see if I can beat my record of 35 months.
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I had to fill up a car with premium unleaded today, and wow is that an unpleasant experience watching the dollars outpace the litres on the display.
However, when I went inside to pay, the cashier was super nice to me.
A year ago, Vanessa won a door prize at a conference. It was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Brut. Now, I doubt Roger Federer would even wash his dog with this champagne, but to us it was the fanciest champagne bottle we'd ever owned. We stored it in the cupboard, next to the potatoes.
Then the waiting began. Waiting for the right opportunity to pop that special cork and pour that sparkling wine into the $1 IKEA champagne glasses we had left over from our self-catered wedding. What occasion would we deem worthy of these luxury bubbles? Summer came and went, as did our six year anniversary - not significant enough? I thought maybe we'd celebrate when I cracked the semi-pro spec-fic market, which I optimistically hoped would come last year. It did happen this year - out of the blue, but not for lack of trying. Sometimes you work so hard to achieve something that when it happens, you kind of don't feel anything at all.
By last weekend a year had passed. Birthdays, half-marathons, promotions all unacknowledged by Veuve Clicquot. So we decided to pop it. Not for any specific occasion. Sure, it was father's day, and it was the first weekend of spring, and the world premiere of my Winter 18 movie, but none of those reasons were why we drank. We sipped a glass of champagne for no reason. We celebrated just the fact that we could choose to spend free time on a cold yet sunny day with family and do whatever we wanted. Celebrated that we could have hope, always, that something worth celebrating might be on the horizon.
Sometimes it feels like there's pressure for events in life to linearly lead up to one shareable, social media moment. It felt better just to drink champagne with no one else watching.
It tasted nice.
Winter is over! As well as another three months of me making a video every day. If you want to relive another Adelaide winter in 9 minutes, click play below. Are you in it? If you are a dog, the answer is: probably.
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If you met yourself from the future, what would you ask your future self?
What if they wont tell you anything?
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Over time I've noticed the occasional squeaker slipping out when I lift something heavy off the ground, hold a stretch too long, or have a quick burst of activity. All part of the aging process, I reasoned. I'm not as young as I once was. I'm not proud of it, but the majesty of the mature human body does seem to come with some extra flatulence.
Then I remembered, LeBron James is basically the same age as me. I doubt he's tooting each time he jumps for a board or lays in a floater. Maybe something is wrong with me?
Of course, LeBron is essentially an archetype for the perfect male athlete, and that probably includes his butthole. Also, I doubt LeBron is buying the week old cabbages and capsicums from the front of the fruit and veg shop, making bulk lentil vindaloo with them, then eating them after ten days in the fridge.
Yes, obviously.
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