A Nice Sleep In

Actually I don’t know why I used that outright lie as a title, since attempts to sleep late(r) for me means trying to ignore a bladder the size of a cantaloupe.  I miss the days when I’d allow myself the luxury of visiting the bathroom and then going back to bed, but that sort of sloth I can no longer afford.  These days I’m Action Man when the clock reads 4:30 a.m. (Monday to Friday; on Saturdays and Sundays I’m Delayed Reaction Man).

My new schedule works very well.  Up at 4:30 a.m., feed cats, dole out medications, make coffee, visit the gym, go home, greet somnambulant wife who has managed to find the living room sofa without first wandering into a closet along the way, or plummeting off the balcony to the bluff below  while the squirrels she insists upon feeding in the morning look on in horror (anguished squirrel voice:  “Oh the humanity!”), pop a couple of ‘Tarts in the toaster for her, make oatmeal for me, catch the television news and perhaps an hour of shows we’ve recorded via DVR, don bike kit, roll out.  That’s a successful morning.  I’m damned chipper by the time I get to work (to my co-workers:  Shut Up).

Unfortunately my left shoulder isn’t down with all this healthful activity, and in fact I suspect it plans to murder me in my sleep.  If it falls into collusion with my bladder, I am indeed a dead (and wet) man walking.  I have either abused the bursa in the shoulder, or I’ve cultivated a stern case of arthritis there.  The missus is after me to make an appointment with our doctor for a cortizone shot, forgetting that the men of my clan will always consider mailing the offending organ or body part to the clinic via parcel post before we would contemplate going ourselves.  Meanwhile I’m trying to be kinder to my ailing joint, but those bench presses won’t lift themselves and I have this weird sense of accomplishment when I complete a set while working through the, uh, discomfort.
Within a couple of weeks I plan to begin running as well.  I state “within a couple of weeks” as a way of saying “I should start running too, because running will be good for me, but you’re out of your fookin’ mind if you think I’m going to commit to a real schedule for it because I hate running!”.  And I do.  Hate running.  This is the way I look at it.  Running is an emergency thing, and it’s relation to health is short term.  By this I mean that one should run only under two extreme circumstances, those being (A), the need to eat a thing that is running away from you, and (B), the need to run from an eating thing running in your direction.  This was the mandate of our distant ancestors.  I submit as unsubstantiated fact that my greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreat-grandfather Zumgrukgruk did not jog.  Those TV cave guys might do it, but none in my family line did, I’m certain.

I think the maximum distance I’ve ever willingly ran was about one mile.  Sure it felt good when I finished.  “Don’t you feel great now?”  Well yes, fool, because I’m not running now!  Fitness freaks.  Jesus.

I just got up to get more coffee.  My consumption of coffee has gone through the roof since I quit smoking.  I used to (and still do, apparently) equate the two and so thought that my love for coffee would wane.  Quite the contrary.  The same is true for alcohol, and that is fraught with peril.  Among my clan’s considerable natural gifts is the ability to fall into addiction like leaves from a tree; if not vigilant, I tend to drink a lot.   My drink of choice is whiskey, but this  last weekend I re-introduced myself to the joys of Crystal Light lemonade liberally spiked with gin.  I love gin, but whereas whiskey is like that friend you have that is always good company even though sometimes he innocently leads you into trouble, gin has a smile full of fangs and with a dagger hidden behind it’s back.  With whiskey, even when on rare occasions I’ve over-indulged the night before, I wake with a gentle muzziness that is almost pleasant.  After a gin-fueled evening, I usually feel like I’ve tried to stomp on my own head.  Anyway.  I should watch the drinking.

My missus has successfully navigated the hallway and has found the diningroom table.  I should offer her breakfast.  Sayonara.

-Rob

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