I fully admit that there was a moment when I had no idea what day it was when I woke up this morning. I thought I was over that part of our little 8 month long and counting worldwide pandemic, but alas—nay.
When that bit of momentary memory loss passed I rubbed my eyes, farted, yawned, and said, “Wednesday. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday, how the fuck did we get here?”
I would love to use a phrase like “I’m back to my old self again,” but not only would that be incorrect, it would also be a less than desirable outcome. Old me is a jagoff. At least I thought so; I think “recent” me (past few years) is in a way better place than old me.
However, in the context of how I feel mentally compared to this time last week, and to my month-long flirtation with the 0.1 lifestyle, I am indeed getting back to my old self again. Still a jagoff in my own way, but that—along with my AutoZone guy/dad on a beer bender physique and sophomoric, rapier wit— is part of my unique charm, right? RIGHT?? OK, forget it.
On Saturday, I actually surprised myself. No, I didn’t finally eat that 30 piece party tray pizza from Gluttonz Pizza®. I said I might ride, confessed that it probably wouldn’t happen, and then I rode.
This week started off HORRIBLE, but progressively got better-ish. Still, I’m glad to see it almost over.
It’s 9:40 AM on a Monday morning. I should be at work, but I alas, I ain’t gots no (real) job due to my less than stellar educational history, now redundant early 90s design skills, geographic locale, lack of employable talents, and no man’s land age. [See Underemployed, Being on the About page]
No, I am sitting in front of a computer writing this stuff. I have no idea what I’m about to write, but I need to vomit up some sort of verbiage in hopes of convincing myself to ride my bike. An activity—outside of a 13-mile rail-trail ride and a 30-minute Zwift™ session— I have not done in almost a month.
Why, you ask? Fuck, I don’t know.
Have you ever been stoned at a party, and some drunk dude is losing his shit? Being an obnoxious dick, picking fights, giving everyone his non-expert opinion, etc. And you just sit in a comfy chair and watch it all unfold with a half-smile on your face, unwilling—and potentially unable—to interject an opinion as Yo La Tengo songs drone on in your head louder than the stereo’s actual volume.
Whether you have or haven’t isn’t all that relevant, but that’s sort of how the past three weeks have felt to me. I’ve logged ONE 13-mile rail-trail ride with Wifey, a couple of walks in the woods, and care little.
It seems that the allegorical tale of near drunken death and breast ogling aboard the RMS Titanic was met with less than stellar reviews from my wife. I believe the term she used was, “It was a bit much.” Sigh.
I’m not one to argue with a reviewer, but I think she missed the story’s silver lining, which pointed out that no matter how bad things seem to be, they can sort of maybe work out. But first, a bunch of people are going to die.
Over the past week or so, I have greeted each day with all the enthusiasm of a one-legged turtle. All of that is based on the assumption that a one-legged turtle would not want to get out of bed, leave the house, talk to people, or lay eyes upon the world as it deservedly turns to ashes after being given chance after chance to make things right.
I realize that this may make me sound like I’m depressed. Oddly enough, I feel quite good, or at least content. I’ll try to explain.
Stick a pin in this post, right—— HERE!
