OK, so I woke up at 10 (per the alarm I set) and proceeded to go to Dinkytown. (Mother was in the rocking chair working on her knitting, Father was downstairs on the computer; neither said goodbye to me and didn't even acknowledge me as I was walking around the house. That may be a good or a bad thing.) What I planned on doing was walk to the U.'s Campus Union, buy a discounted State Fair ticket, walk by the House of Hanson, the famed local grocery store that is closing for good today, and possibly buy something, then sit and eat and surf the Internet at the coffeeshop that used to be in the mall closest to me, then exercise.
Well, fuck that.
First of all, maybe waking up at 10 was too late if I wanted to do all the things I wanted to do. Second, while walking towards campus, I feel my socks falling down. Oh, shit. I remembered that the socks I'm wearing, black-and-white cross-stitched socks I think I got from the Gap, are ones that slowly slide down my foot while I'm walking. I don't know why this happens, although a quick answer by someone on Ask.com said it's the result of a sock's loss of elasticity, and my socks are stretched out to the max. But I also remember needing to stop in the middle of my time on the elliptical or treadmill to pull up my socks, and I fucking hate that.
And ever since the first time I've picked up my socks the first time I've noticed how far down my feet they are, particularly the left one. I imagine them sliding all the way down, even past, my ankle if I didn't pull them up. And I've pulled them up at least half a dozen times today. That's when I said, that's it, I'm not going to exercise today, not with these shit socks that are on my feet right now. In fact, I don't think I'm going to wear these fucking socks ever again. This breaks my rule of not donating socks until both of them have holes at the heels, and they have to be big holes at that. But I'll make an exception for socks that piss me off because I have to pull them up every 60 goddamn seconds. I'll throw them into the dirty laundry pile, get them washed, then hopefully I'll remember to put them into my donate bag. I cannot wait to get these damn socks off my feet once I can get home.
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But until then, what can I do? If I'm not going to exercise, what will I do instead? Just sit in the coffeehouse for five hours instead of three?
I thought about that when I walked all the way back to the House of Hanson. Brought my camera with me to shoot a couple photos of the place on its last day. Been in it two, three times but have never bought anything. It's a grocery store, and being the only store within walking distance close to campus for decades it became a neighborhood institution. But a CVS opened up a few blocks away and, according to one news story, business was cut in half. Meanwhile, gentrification is going up all over the place. Buildings, mostly for student housing, are razing old buildings around Dinkytown. A lot across the street from the House of Hanson is being turned into a mixed-use building, complete with another grocery store. So the owner, the third generation of this store, saw the writing on the wall and decided to sell to a developer. Sad. Understandable, but very sad.
So I thought about buying something. Hey, maybe they'll get me a receipt for it, a momento to preserve a piece of the old University of Minnesota. But then I noticed that there is a microwave (parlance for a television production truck) parked across the street. Shit. Then I noticed that it was 20 minutes to noon -- the time for afternoon news. Someone was setting up a tripod, and I saw a reporter working through her notes. Double shit. If I walk in there right now I could be on TV, and my parents could see me, and then when I come home they'll ask what I'm doing at the U. Triple shit.
I took a chance anyway because even though I did see a camera on that tripod, there was no one there to man it, therefore I wouldn't be on TV at that moment. So I dove in there, hoping to buy something quick before they go live, maybe at high noon. I saw the owner, whom I've seen in a couple TV reports the past few days, manning the checkout counter, before I open the door. But I did not see the cameraman interviewing her until I stepped inside. Well, that blows that idea out of the water. I got the hell out of there before the cameraman picked it up and filmed me.
However, this might be a blessing in disguise. I'm sitting here at the coffeeshop right now. I still really do want to pick something up from the House of Hanson. It's about a mile away, and as I type this it's a 2:36. Let's say at, say, 3 o'clock I leave, walk back down to the House of Hanson, where hopefully no TV trucks are there doing stories, and take my time buying something. That way I not only make a commemorative purchase for a legendary business, but I burn about an hour or so while doing it. The only drawback is that I'll be stopping five or six times to pull up my fucking socks on the way there and back, but I'll endure that so I can spend an afternoon doing something I want to do.
Geez, I thought this blog post would end a little more bitter than it did. Oh well.
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