This post has been edited to protect the privacy of friends. So I hope no one thinks I am trying to freak them out by changing the story.
There is an ancient tale about a warrior in quest of a magical sword that will make him invincible. Along the way he meets by chance a wise old master who gives him a set of spiritual disciplines to follow. The warrior pursues them diligently for years. Then one day the magical sword finally appears to him as promised. But as he grasps the hilt, he realizes that the spiritual practices have worked; he no longer cares about the powers the sword would give him.
“Hey, am I a fuck up?”
“Bill, you’re not a fuck up.”
“I think I am a fuck up.”
My friend contemplates as the artic winds ruffles his parka. It’s flapping like a flag does in a wind storm. Winds are howling through the guy-wires that secure the towers. We are on top of University Mountain and it’s November. He takes a couple steps to get a better view of the valley floor where city lights twinkle. Why do city lights twinkle from a distance? Anyway, the 6 inches of snow crunches under his boots and he looks back at me.
“No, your not a fuck up.”
“Dude, I am virtually un-datable, I choose mountain biking over a good job, and my bedroom is a bike shop.”
We start back down the mountain. We loft with great strides over snow drifts and land with small controlled slides. We stop at times to take in the quietness and winter wonderland. Near the bottom of the ridge we pause to remove all our summit gear.
“Your not a fuck up.”
“I still have clothes from high school, my “good” clothes have holes in the ass from commuting, and if I were to interview for a job upgrade I don’t even have anything to interview in. I don’t have dishes and my only big piece of furniture is a futon.”
I turn and start hiking down the hill. My left foot hits a rock and I stumble. Wincing from pain my little toe starts throbbing. I regain my composure and make a mental note that my baby toe will be hurting in the morning.
“I’m a fuck up”, I report out loud. The words crystalize and float out into the frozen air.
Near the end of the evening we celebrated a great hike in town at a local pizza joint.
“My idea of fine dining is the Bridge Pizza where only the attractive women, ones with mud on their faces and chain oil on their hands, hang out.”, I proposed to my friend as I stuffed half of my bacon and chutney garlic slice into my mouth.
“The closest thing I have to a girlfriend is a bike”, I added.
“Wow! You are a fuck up.”
Special note: This blog post has two main goals. One is to confuse the hell out of anyone who has not seen Away We Go and two to say the word “fuck” more times (8 now) in one blog then ever. Thank goodness for small things.