This winter is pushing me close to my breaking point. I’m sure you feel the same way, but my situation is exacerbated by the fact that I work at home, and when I cannot get out on the road, I spend my entire day inside. This does not bode well for staving off winter madness, and since I cannot fathom the thought of typing any more about my monotonous, repetitive and wearisome training routine, I will type about something else.

In my neighborhood here in suburban New Jersey, I am considered "interesting" in a quirky way, much like someone with a wooden leg or an eye patch. I’m the "bike guy", and this is fine by me, as I do spend the majority of my leisure time straddling bikes. As the bike guy, I get the occasional mechanical inquiry from neighborhood cycling neophytes (the answer is always "clean your bike"), and sometimes I get asked to consult on a new bike purchase (the answer here is "you’re buying a hybrid, they’re all crap, just buy the cheapest one"). This is the price one pays for being moderately interesting, actually I’m more unusual than interesting, but let’s not split hairs. The fact of the matter is that I understand that I am not really that interesting or special, I am just in an area where my hobby is unique. If I were in Belgium or Portland (which is the American Belgium—without a Royal family or interesting battlefields to visit), I would just be another guy on a bike and nothing to remark upon.

While I know myself to be as common as measles (I write for a site that gets 1/1000th the hit of LOLcats), others are not as peacefully self-aware as I am. This is the story of one such person, a relative of mine. I have a very large family. My grandparents reproduced at rate that suggested they were intending to repopulate the earth with Iowa farm folk. They made a lot of people, and all of those people are related to me. But despite our numbers, there aren’t really many famous members of our expansive family tree. We’re mostly a bunch of regular, hard-working types. There’s only one member of our extended family who can claim to be any sort of celebrity, and she’s a minor one at best.

My mildly famous distant relative (let’s call her Mildred), gained notoriety in the 70s for doing what people did in the 70s, partying, rocking and being open with their sexuality. This is what Mildred is mostly known for. Actually, it’s unfortunate that she didn’t grow up in modern times, as she really had it in her to give the Kardashians, HIltons or even Lindsay Lohan a run for their money. But alas she came of age in a different time, when partying excessively was not the ticket to fame, fortune and rehab, but to shame, ridicule and burning sensations when urinating. It was a different age.

Growing up, we heard very little about Mildred’s escapades, probably because any photos to be found of her involved a navel staple and a listing of turn ons. She never made it to Iowa for holidays. We grew up unaware of our link to her, as she was well kept (but not hidden) family secret. This arrangement lasted well into my adulthood, but my parents decided (as people who are getting on in years often do) to look Mildred up on a trip east for my daughter’s christening.

I can’t remember when my wife got the first call from Mildred, as it was a busy time for us. We were planning a pretty substantial party and had lots of details to work out. My parents had set aside some time to meet Mildred at a local restaurant, and Mildred was calling to work out some details.

"Is it private? Well, I suppose it’s a private place." MIldred was asking my wife whether the local Italian (everyone likes Italian, right?) restaurant was a place where she might be noticed and have to worry about getting mobbed.

"I don"t think you’ll have to worry about that, people in our town are very respectful." My wife is an ace at preserving people’s feelings and delusions. "No, I don’t think you’ll be bothered by photographers." It was odd that Mildred would be calling ahead to ask about paparazzi when it seems that everyone knows there’s no paparazzi in New Jersey to speak of—how many times can you photograph Reverend Run? And Mildred should’ve known about New Jersey’s lack of surveillance photographers, because she was calling from her boyfriend’s mom’s house in Rutherford, where she was currently staying.

We put her fears to rest and were able to acquire site approval for our reunion meal. My parents, along with myself and my brother (my wife had suddenly found many more important things that needed to be done for the christening party) arrived a bit early for the meal, so Mildred wouldn’t be walking into an unfamiliar restaurant with no one to greet her. It struck me that we quickly getting swept up into her world. We were scouting dinner locations, preparing for entrances, and hoping that there wouldn’t be any unruly crowds, which of course, were unlikely as her moment in the bright lights of notoriety had happened for only a brief moment, and of course, that moment had happened over thirty years before. But we were anxious nonetheless.

I think there’s a hope that some people get before meeting someone who’s famous (or in Mildred’s case, adjacent to famous) that the famous person will find them enchanting and immediately become their best friend, allowing them to join their lives of fame and comfort—making them their own Kato Kaelin or, in the best case scenario, their own Gayle King (Oprah’s loaded). Mildred’s arrival in her boyfriend’s beat up Jeep Cherokee quickly quashed any Kato-esque aspirations any of us may have been harboring. But God bless her, she still made an entrance. She walked through the door as if she expected to be chased through the restaurant like a Beatle in a boarding school dormitory. I played along and shrieked, or more accurately, I stood up. Mildred made it to our table without incident. We all got acquainted and tried to somehow bridge the cultural chasm created when we sat down for garlic bread. My dad tried to explain casting concrete to Mildred and her boyfriend. Mildred told my dad he laughed like Viggo Mortensen. I acted as a translator, explaining manscaping to my dad and noting the importance of gravel in a proper mix for concrete. It was an eventful meal.

But soon our time was at an end. Mildred and her boyfriend had to get into the city to see a showcase for a friend’s band. She put on her large sunglasses and left us, headed for the city and hoping a little in her heart that there might be a crowd waiting to mob her. We had played along with her fame game and chose not to shatter her illusions. We nodded and raised our eyebrows when she casually dropped the names of stars and celebrities that had passed away or had been away from the limelight for decades. We tried to act impressed by her contacts and prospects, because to not playing along would’ve been too cruel. Mildred was walking through a dreamworld of her own creation, a world where she was pursued by admirers and needed protection from the cruel gaze of media and photographers; and everyone knows the worst thing you can do to a sleepwalker is wake them up.

There, now I feel better about myself. The entire state of New Jersey is covered in an icy crust, but smugly passing judgement on the life of a distant relative has brightened my attitude. I can count on one hand the times I have been outside this past week. I fear that New Jersey has incurred the wrath of the heavens. Is it Snooki that offends you, mighty ice bringer? We can return her to from whence she came, in fact I ‘d be willing to drive her back to Poughkeepsie myself.