World of pain

A couple of weeks ago, my parents and Mr. B’s mom came to celebrate my mom’s birthday by biking 30 miles on the Mt. Vernon Trail, because nothing says “it’s a day of celebration” to my mom and mother-in-law like not being able to walk for a week. It’s like jointly turning 25 really sent them over the edge.

The first part went really well. Everyone was pumped and cycling under cloudless blue skies through charming downtown Alexandria, by the Potomac River and generally being happy and alive and all that bullshit.

Fortunately, about halfway through the trek just as my muscles were about to ask for refugee status from my body, the parents became distracted like cats on ADD because MUSHROOMS.

If you have ever met a Russian immigrant in North America, mushrooms are Big Deal.  In fact, in a recent survey of things they miss about living in Russia, immigrants place hunting for mushrooms just above free socialized healthcare.  Because the temperatures never get cool enough in the American Northeast, there are never any really good mushrooms to hunt.  So the rare mushroom provides as much excitement as a Bieber sighting.

Fortunately, after they were done evaluating the mushrooms, we were able to continue and finish the ride.

I could say a bunch of stuff about how exciting it is to be able to do really physical stuff with my parents at a time when both they and I do it willingly and appreciate it, or how awesome my mother-in-law is, or how much  I love spending time with my family, but for now I think I’ll just post this picture of Mr. B and my mom’s laser mushroom-honing eyes.