It's been 43 days since I've last updated this blog. In that time, I've taken the bar exam, moved to Traverse City, and failed to eat a giant pizza, among other, less noteworthy accomplishments. In the meantime, Emily Moiseeff said I could join Blog Mondays, wherein a weekly topic is chosen in advance in an effort to avoid writer's block and maintain blogsistency. This week's topic:
Name three or four objects or things that, when seen by others, make them immediately think of you.
Food Challenges. I have become something of an amateur competitive eater in the last few years, a span that has included successful runs at the Fifth Third Burger and The Corner Bar's twelve chili-dog challenge. More recently, though, I've ran into some difficulties, including the giant pizza pictured to the right: a 24" behemoth with at least eight toppings created by the Sazerac Lounge. Rules allow two-person teams an hour to complete it. My brother did the math and concluded that each person is responsible for the equivalent of one round, 17" pizza. My friend Moose tried this a couple weeks ago and came really close, to the point that they gave us the pizza for half-price; a successful attempt gets the pizza for free, while anything less ordinarily costs something in the neighborhood of $30. Nevertheless, multiple friends and family members cheered us on, and were disappointed only in the way that a concert-going U2 fan would be disappointed that she didn't hear anything off of the 'Pop' album. And, therefore, I'd like to think that I am associated in others' minds with food challenges, irrespective of my infrequent success.
Late-90s Cadillacs. Way back in October of 2007, one month into the beginning of my three-year stint of daily drives from Grand Rapids to East Lansing and back--i.e., law school--my Toyota Corolla broke down, never to be driven again. I did what anyone in that situation would do: I bought a 1997 Cadillac Seville. Now, 100,000 miles and nearly three calendar years later, people tell me when they see such a Cadillac on the road, and it's usually with some degree of surprise that it wasn't me behind the wheel. I'd therefore like to think that I am associated in others' minds with this over-sized, difficult-to-park, unnecessarily fast, domestically produced status symbol whose body style has not aged particularly well.
Student ID. I'm 27. Besides brief post-college forays into the world of bartending and teaching K-12 music and K-1 physical education (note: I didn't do these things simultaneously), I have been a student since kindergarten. The days of purchasing textbooks, free soda at Qdoba, and dividing the calendar into fifteen-week segments are now over. And, they've been replaced--in a somewhat dramatic and relatively abrupt fashion--with a new city, new (rented) house, and a new career [pictured left-to-right, respectively, sort of]. I'm happy to say that my days of student identification are now complete.
