I’m trying to get back to normal posting, outdoor activities, and photography after two months of watching and shooting B play his junior season of (dystopian) high school soccer. I think the unintelligible, manic-like word vomit disguised as photo tips in my last post may have been my way of dealing with that, and the realization that there’s not much to look forward to over the next six to seven months that doesn’t have the word “tentative” attached to it.
If you follow me on Instagram and see the soccer photos I post, you may know that I use the hashtag #crapsportsphotography. This is for two reasons:
Going to take a second to look back at my week.
*less than one second later*
OK, that’s done.
The week had some of this, and some of that. Some of it good, a lot of it bad, but there is no use looking back, or dwelling, on all the unlistenable art house jazz of life (look at me starting to use some of the Stoic knowledge that Bill Irvine is dropping on me in his book, A Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy.
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.
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.
Having a plan on Friday proved useless, so I entered Saturday planless and brainless. In other words, it was just me being me.
I was up around 8 for coffee, toast, and a couple of dippy eggs before lubing up Mr. Burgundy (not code for sex) and getting my shit together for a quick ride in the rapidly warming morning sun.
