Well, I did it. I bought a Nomad Jukebox. I'm putting quite a bit of effort into ripping all my favorite CDs, but it's a labour of love. I haven't treated myself to a true, undisguisable present like this for some time, so I think I'm due. Besides, it's still way cheaper (and more practical) than the other goodie I was thinking of.
My workmates did the math and informed me that it should be able to produce (when filled) fifteen straight days of uninterrupted, non-repeat music. Seven gigabytes filled, thirteen to go!
Glug, glug, glug!
I'm back in the water this week after a three-practice hiatus (a too-late-to-make-a-reasonable-showing day, a handing-out-candy day and an I'm-getting-ready-for-my-blogparty day). Monday was a killer practice - what's with that? Doesn't our coach know we're old folks? I'm still really enjoying swimming and will fight for my right to go to practice.
The swim team went to the pub after practice last night and we got to see each other with clothes on. We're really an intersting bunch when we're not gasping for breath. The Two Broads (and "broads" is the best word for them - trust me) that swim in the lane next to me are real wild ones. They're good buddies and purport to be former hell-raisers. I don't doubt this as they both look to have been up late and partying hard for the full forty-some years of their existence, have raspy, smoked-too-much voices and regularly swear like Jack Nicholson provoked. They are talking of going to an out-of-town swim meet in March. I'm willing to sponsor a camera crew just to see what these two crusty babes get up to.
As we sat and talked, the male-bashing session lead to a discussion of childbirth and labour. One of the Broads told a story about being in labour for over three days with her last child! Well, things quickly progressed into a scene from the Four Yorkshiremen, all of us lying about past injuries and endured pain. What a hoot.
One other interesting character we have on the team is a Dolph Lundgen-sized fifty year old. He's the athlete's athlete too - plays all kinds of sports, strong as a bull, buzz cut, square-chiselled jaw, big broad shoulders, the whole bit. He's dead serious when he's at practice and (to his credit) works incredibly hard. I haven't got a good nickname for him yet, but I think The Torpedo will do for now. Swimming in his lane (which I've done a few times) ensures that you'll be hit by a one-foot wake once every length. Up at the pub I asked our coach how long The Torpedo had been swimming. She said that he had been swimming since he was about seven. One of the others asked when he stopped, meaning when did he leave competitive age-group swimming - a life most notable for having an exhausting, highly disciplined schedule of eleven two-hour practices every week. She remarked, "I don't think he did stop."