Moving Toward São Paulo

Dearest Rachel –

I’m going to start with a few apologies with this letter, honey. First of all, this one is going to be a little rambly, compared to most of the things I write to you. I know I try to keep a consistent theme with each of these letters, but it’s not going to be possible this time around; yesterday and today simply have a few little things going on, rather than one overarching subject to connect them all (apart from the fact that it’s all going on in my life, and even then, not really – I’ll explain shortly).

Secondly, I apologize for the title, which, now that I’ve written it down, looks a little click-bait-y. No, of course I’m not moving to São Paulo; I’ve got no more Portuguese than I’ve picked up in the local Brazilian steakhouse (which I’ve not been to four almost two years, when I took Ellen there as a thank-you for watching Daniel and Chompers over AnimeIowa weekend), and I’m told it’s more dangerous to live there than in Chicago – although, for all I know, it may also be like Chicago in that you just have to know where to go and more importantly, where not to, in order to be safe. I’m just running on São Paulo time.

Which leads me to the third part of this apology – and probably the least significant, as no one, including you, has to (or even can) read this at the same time I’m sending this, let alone at the moment I’m writing it at a quarter to five in the morning. Besides, from where you are, terrestrial time probably means nothing to you any more. From what I understand, there is no darkness there, nor do you get tired. And, not being tied to this cosmic dust speck I’m still stuck on, you’re no more constrained to any given time zone than Daniel and I were to Central Standard while we were in Japan. So, yeah… there’s no apologizing for waking you up, like there might be when I was running on Halifax time, and you would be on Honolulu time. But I figured I’d put it out there, regardless – even though I know I won’t finish this until at least noon.

So how did I get here, where I’m sitting up and writing to you at what to even me might seem an ungodly hour of the morning? Well, I’ll get to that.

But first, I think I ought to fill you in on the remainder of yesterday. After all, what I was telling you about was fairly early on, only a little after ten in the morning. To be sure, that’s standard operating procedure for me, since I usually have to get on with my life after that, and I’m usually too concerned with doing stuff to write about it at the time – or, conversely, I wind up doing nothing, so there isn’t all that much to write about to begin with.

In a way, yesterday was a bit of both. I had fully planned to go out and get my hair cut (for all that I have a bald spot large enough to qualify me for your standard medieval monastery, I’ve learned that my hair gets almost unmanageably shaggy around the ears and back of the neck if I let it go too long – would that it could be a little bit more even overall! That, and I’d much rather be a Costello than an abbot), do some shopping (I’ve wondered lately if it isn’t the HDMI cable that’s causing the communication issues between the television in the bedroom and my computers; I’ve been able to put up with using the TV’s own YouTube app, but I’m getting sick of the advertisements. That, and I may want to start watching a few anime titles again) and hit the gym while I was at it. All the best of intentions; but we all know where that leads.

Actually, it wasn’t all that bad – at least, at least as long as you’re able to believe what’s said about two out of three. I actually got to the haircut place (I’m not sure if I’d go so far as to really call it a ‘barber shop’) while Kris was doing her thing through the rest of the house – in fact, I started writing you yesterday while I was waiting my turn. And I got out for the HDMI cable (and got a very late lunch for Daniel and myself in the process), and even was able to get the setup to work, albeit with one of my laptops instead of the desktop PC we’ve had sitting in the bedroom for so long. Hey, whatever works.

But here’s where my resolve faltered. You see, in the course of successfully ‘testing’ the HDMI cable, I encountered a new channel on YouTube – well, new to me, anyway; clearly, the fellow has been making videos for the better part of at least five years, if not more. I don’t know how or why he showed up in the algorithm; I assumed it was due to the boys’ viewing habits, but both of them denied any familiarity with this particular creator. And to be fair, the fellow’s language might actually be offputting to Daniel in any event, although his thick but somewhat indeterminate Irish accent takes a lot of the offense out of it. Many of his storytime videos tend to involve his living with his fellow dudebros, and in particular, going out ‘on the lash’ with them, as there’s a much higher potential for interesting shenanigans when you and your mates are out getting drunk together (yeah, talk about being stereotypical).

But since then, he’s settled down, and either gotten married, or found himself in a relationship sufficiently long-term that there’s hardly a difference. He’s done a series of videos about living with a woman – and the differences between men and women that make this a challenge – that I think you and I would have had an uproarious time laughing and agreeing with (for the most part – his bit able her upset with him about his slovenly ways would probably not register with either of us). As it is, it’s still funny to watch, but it leaves me wistfully wishing I was sitting next to you (or, barring that, Megumi) and seeing your (or her) reaction.

You can probably see where this is going. By the time I got to a video of his talking about how he discovered he was getting, let’s just say, out of proper shape (apparently, he was carrying a little more than my top weight of 280 – he described it as “just shy of fourteen stone,” however much that is – but on a 6’2” frame, so it wasn’t quite as noticeable at first) and having to deal with that, I remembered that I’d meant to go to the gym, but at the hour of the night that it had become, that was so late as to be out of the question.

Fortunately, Sgt. Ducky (yes, that’s what he calls himself – complete with a green mallard head and all) had a recommendation; go to the gym first thing in the morning, so you have the place all to yourself. Considering that I find myself waking up with the birdsong and sunlight, despite dealing with tinnitus and having shades on all the windows (yes, just like Ecclesiastes 12:4), this seemed like an ideal compromise. Besides, I have an appointment to get the car looked at this morning; if I could wake up and get to the gym when it opens at 5:30, I can work out for an hour or so, come home, shower, and still have time to spare to get out to the dealership.

If.

Well, considering the time I’m writing you, that’s turned out to not be a problem. All that remains is to go through it all. So keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.