What’s that word I’m looking for? Wait … there is none.

If you’ve ever spent time in a coffee shop, I’m sure you’ve seen them, maybe even been one yourself — the people who sit at their tables a long time but buy little if anything.

Did you know the French have a word for that? It’s “seigneur-terrace.”

And from the Scots comes a word that I can relate to — the nervous hesitation right before introducing someone whose name you can’t remember. I usually just introduce the person whose name I do remember and then give the other person an “and please tell them who you are …” look. It works most of the time.

The word is “tartle.”

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Was there a message in the music?

I have hundreds of songs on my iTunes, but I tend to fall into ruts depending on whatever I’m into at the moment, or whatever I last downloaded to my phone.

Sugarland and Jennifer Nettles will always be there, but lately I’ve basically been playing Maren Morris, Kacey Musgraves, Sara Bareilles and Josh Groban in pretty heavy rotation.

This morning, though, I decided to hit the shuffle, to just go with whatever came out next. It’s a pretty good way to remind myself that I have a lot of different stuff that I like.

Alcohol, without the pesky … alcohol

My roommate’s lack of response until I shouted his name for a third time led me to believe he had probably knocked himself out hitting his head on the wall of our dorm room.

It was the wee small hours of a Utica morning, and my large roommate, our larger friend and I had just returned from the bar. They had already dealt with a pis … I mean … pressing matter in the parking lot (fortunately both facing away from my car), and I was really hoping they’d both collapse in our friend’s room long enough for me to go to bed.

No such luck.

When he eventually regained both consciousness and lucidity, my roommate had no memory of what had happened, but I gleefully clued him in.

For I had been stone sober the whole time.

On Sunday, we wore pink

I think the last time I had worn pink was my junior prom 30 years ago, when my tux included a pink tie and cummerbund because my date wore a pink dress.

Because somewhere along the line, the old trope that “guys don’t wear pink” got stuck in my head, and so I just didn’t. Which is pretty stupid, because who cares?

And I also don’t run just for running’s sake, not because of any gender roles, but because I hate running.

So why was I at the starting line of a 5K … in a pink T-shirt?