Quick travel anecdote from yesterday . . .
I get to the airport and as I'm about to go through security I feel my phone vibrate and hear the tell-tale chime of a text from my son. I dump my stuff in the requisite TSA industrial-boring-gray bin and stroll through the scanner. On the other end I gather my stuff as it rolls painstakingly slowly out the business end of the x-ray scanner. I grab my phone and take a quick glance at the text before grabbing the laptop and returning it to its carry bag.
I don't want to be that guy who stands there and blocks everyone trying to get by, so I don't tap on the link, but ask "What's the scent profile?" before sliding the phone in my pocket and getting out of the way. I find my gate and about 15 minutes later he still hasn't replied, so I check out the link, read the scent description, then message him back . . .
I played ball as a kid--left field, and one bloody, woe-begotten stint at third; I wont' tell the tale here. My son played as well, 1st base, a little outfield, and a lefty pitcher. We both enjoy baseball, and I am of the mind there is something about the game that lays dormant in our American blood as children; some of us tap into it and it grows with us, breathing a life of its own. There's something about putting on a glove and playing catch that resonates deep within, or swinging a bat, hearing and feeling the ball connect and instantly head in the opposite direction. So, as we both now DE shave, seeing this soap offering is, for me, reminiscent of playing catch with him, even though he's on the other side of the globe in Italy with the Navy. I send the necessary follow up question . . .
His birthday is next month. Since it's his birthday, it's baseball related, and it's shave soap, my good friend AD pats me on the back and gives me his best you-know-what-you-need-to-do look.
So now I have two tubs of Diamond on the way. Like I needed another shave soap. Pfffttt . . . who am I kidding, of course I needed another one!
I get to the airport and as I'm about to go through security I feel my phone vibrate and hear the tell-tale chime of a text from my son. I dump my stuff in the requisite TSA industrial-boring-gray bin and stroll through the scanner. On the other end I gather my stuff as it rolls painstakingly slowly out the business end of the x-ray scanner. I grab my phone and take a quick glance at the text before grabbing the laptop and returning it to its carry bag.
I don't want to be that guy who stands there and blocks everyone trying to get by, so I don't tap on the link, but ask "What's the scent profile?" before sliding the phone in my pocket and getting out of the way. I find my gate and about 15 minutes later he still hasn't replied, so I check out the link, read the scent description, then message him back . . .
I played ball as a kid--left field, and one bloody, woe-begotten stint at third; I wont' tell the tale here. My son played as well, 1st base, a little outfield, and a lefty pitcher. We both enjoy baseball, and I am of the mind there is something about the game that lays dormant in our American blood as children; some of us tap into it and it grows with us, breathing a life of its own. There's something about putting on a glove and playing catch that resonates deep within, or swinging a bat, hearing and feeling the ball connect and instantly head in the opposite direction. So, as we both now DE shave, seeing this soap offering is, for me, reminiscent of playing catch with him, even though he's on the other side of the globe in Italy with the Navy. I send the necessary follow up question . . .
His birthday is next month. Since it's his birthday, it's baseball related, and it's shave soap, my good friend AD pats me on the back and gives me his best you-know-what-you-need-to-do look.
So now I have two tubs of Diamond on the way. Like I needed another shave soap. Pfffttt . . . who am I kidding, of course I needed another one!
