January 30th, a Super Sunny Saturday.

I put an Olympic medal on someone today.

I'd always pictured a somber, disciplined athlete standing straight, bowing slightly to receive the Prize of all Prizes, misty-eyed as the national anthem played in the background, the medal falling proudly on his strong chest representing years and years of pain and grit and early morning swim practices.

It was kind of like that. Only the man I honored was jumping up and down, out of his mind excited, forgetting the beer in his hand for a few glorious moments. He had a goatee and a fisherman's hat on so the ribbon didn't fit over the brim. The medal just kind of dangled a few inches from his face like those pine-tree fresheners in a taxi cab rearview mirror. I don't think he noticed, too busy hanging high fives with his co-workers and newfound pharmaceutical conference best friends 2010, baby! yeah!!! He recovered eventually from that childlike state of rapture one gets lost in when one wins something AWESOME and ceremoniously took the remains of his beer in a victorious chug.

Meanwhile, the lady who borrowed my [new] shoes told me to pretend like we were sisters because one of her co-workers thought I was cute, and she was playing a joke on him. Would I play along? She slurred the words out and put an arm around my shoulder. Really I just wanted to give her back the shiny leopard Dansko's she'd traded me for my Merrels. Instead I stood there and smiled and asked how Mom was. And the girls? Do they still have the dogs? How's Don's job? And on and on. I stood there pretending to be Carrie's sister amidst the madness and revelry of The Olympics at Camelback Inn, the crescendo of a week chockobock full of "meetings" (which I learned no one attends sober) for these hardworking, mostly married, nose-to-the-grindstoners who were milking the cutting loose part of the "business" trip to the last lime wedge the resort would squeeze out. Even after the event was over I saw a guy hurry over to the booze table and ask for just one more beer.

Beer. That's what the other Joy I met today offered to buy me if I wanted a ride home. She had a little Toyota pickup so I threw my bike in the back and we headed to Four Peaks Brewery, reminiscent of any ski town happy hour bar, a well-scripted scene the West over. SO TYPICAL. Also typical, Joy locked her keys in the car. So we waited while her soon-to-be ex-husband as of tomorrow (she moves across town in the morning) brought the extra set. He also had a goatee but didn't wear a fisherman's hat; just a very long, sad face.

Divorce stinks. Leopard clogs stink. Beer helps, but stinks in the end, too. Not much remains except a redemptive word of encouragement that God longs to pull us out of the stink. Come to think of it, do I receive That Gift respectably? I'd be that guy jumping up and down: unabashed excitement, a leisurely kind of joy that comes as a result of undeserved merit. Then I hope I'd turn my life into the stoic athlete, beat my body like Paul and run with commitment for The Prize.

Barley wine, in case you were wondering, is what I discovered tonight. Excellent.