We Blog At Dawn…Or Not

I’ve changed my schedule and it’s taking a while to adjust.  I had been getting up at 4 a.m. during the week so that I could go to the gym at five, and it worked well for most of two years but lately I’d  found myself watching cartoons (yes, yes, now go read someone else’s blog and feel superior) for two hours until SWMBO got up.  Not terribly constructive, so I decided to shift the gym schedule to after work so that I could still enjoy time with the missus both in the morning and evening.

Oddly, and actually counter-intuitively, my muscles are not exactly over the moon about this.  I’d have thought they would cheer and say “Thank You!  We are all now limber and warm before you make us work so hard, whereas before we were sleepy and grumpy!  To honor your wise and kind decision we will reward you with a few more centimeters to the biceps, ‘kay meng?”  But no, apparently muscles are more like cats than dogs, an analogy that seems even more fitting when you consider that an over-worked shoulder does feel as if it’s being mangled like a catnip toy.  They’ll just have to get with the program, because this schedule is sticking around.  It’s nice not to have to go to bed at freakin’ 9 p.m.  I can record the cartoons.

The gym crowd in the evening is different from that of the morning.  It seems that all the moaners and screamers prefer later hours (insert your own tacky joke here).  I’m a quiet toiler in my pursuit of a taut and powerful physique, but some of these other fellows sound like they’re passing stones.  I find it a little difficult to concentrate for that last trembling rep when the guy behind me suddenly yells “GUH-KUH-KUH-GLAAHH!” and then drops the 300-pounds he’d been using on the floor as he walks away (always with his head down as he towels his face; I suspect that what he’s really doing is stuffing an eye that ejected from his head back into it’s socket).  I never hear women do this.  Is it truly a gender thing?  The very few times I have yelled like that during a strenuous effort, I was near coma some seconds later, so in this context I believe it’s actually the gym equivalent of pawing the ground or beating the breast except it comes after and not before.  “HELLO!  I HAVE JUST LIFTED THIS ENORMOUS WEIGHT AND HAVE SQUIRTED YOU WITH MY PERSPIRATION FROM EIGHT FEET AWAY, THUS PROVING MY INDOMITABLE STRENGTH AND MY WILLINGNESS TO HURT MYSELF TO IMPRESS YOU ALL!  WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE PICK UP MY EYE OVER THERE AND BRING IT TO ME?”

I’ve noticed that men always look at these other guys grunting and screaming, but the women never do.  Just an observation, dudes.

A fellow member in a forum posted a thread suggesting people take photos of where they live.  I might, if I can get my other chores done today, go out walking in the neighborhood with a camera.  This would be a healthy thing to do because before I can get to a neighborhood I have to travel a mile or so because our apartment complex is in the middle of a light-industrial area.  Unless I want to take photos of the Goodwill and the half-mile of straight, boring road leading out to more interesting architecture, the better bet is to walk to downtown Milwaukie and on to the neighborhoods beyond.

I took some photos on the Springwater Trail on my way home from work at Spruce ‘n’ Abuse some months ago…

…but I need to get some skillz because I’m almost never happy with snaps I take.  Photography in the hands of the gifted is a favorite art of mine, but as yet I don’t seem to have the knack.  I just need to make myself take more photographs, but it’s just not something I think about ordinarily.

Here is where the magic happens, by the way:

At least so far we’ve been left to ourselves this weekend.  The wife needed a break from tending the kid and her little friends.  That’s what happens, one kid becomes four or five because of course she wants to play with her friends and then they’re all over here and the missus is suddenly mommy-surrogate for them all because some other mothers can’t be bothered.  Annoys her (and me) no end.  Plus, Lil Angel is morphing into quite the little princess who is convinced that anyone taller than she is a servant.  The missus and I have discussed it, and we have decided we are going to school the young miss in the proper ways of adult/child dynamics (pardon me while I rub palms together in malicious glee).  I love this kid, and I’d rather she not grow into yet another mouth-breathing, resource-consuming drone, because folks, we have enough already.  This might sound like an anti-youth rant.  Tough.  I was in danger of becoming one of those myself once upon a time, and I consider myself fortunate that I had parents and others who were willing to make me absolutely miserable for a chance at a useful life.  This will sound so clench-jawed John Birch-y I’m sure, but kids know and deserve everything unless caught early and convinced that they don’t.  It’s just a Truth.

Wow.  Soap box be a-creakin’ mon.

Love (most of) ya.  L8erz.

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