Other than sleeping, the motivation for “doing stuff”1 has been low. Like, old man testies sort of low. Still, I’ve managed to do what I can with the scraps of motivation I have left in me after a month-long illness, a seriously infected cut on my leg, a self-esteem that’s plunging further and further into the nether regions of my stank anus of a psyche, and a winter that shows no sign of releasing its murderous grip from Michigan’s throat.
Sweet Gabriel Jesus, it took me forever to beat that chest cold, but I finally did it!
With many horses beaten and a few more bishops flogged, I’ve returned with another missal of life calamity.
My ongoing illness—well into its third week—had me returning to the doctor on Wednesday.
I wanted to do a travelogue about the trip Wifey, and I recently took to Jamaica, sort of like I did for our trip to Paradise, Michigan last summer. But the 7-day vacation was such a whirlwind of fun, rum, buns, and sun, that I now find myself playing mental catch up, trying to figure out what I did, what day I did it, and why I did it.
Tomorrow I am leaving the United States for the first time in my life. I’m happy about that and plan on spending the next seven days far away from any news concerning the pathetic excuse for a President we have in the White House. The less I know about what goes on here, the happier I’ll be.
I had been rolling along (going nowhere fast) with my Zwifting and eating OK enough until I came down with a slight case of body sludge (AKA a cold).
I had an early morning appointment with my eye doctor on Thursday, and by the time I was done trying on new sets of contacts—none of which seemed to help my vision—I really didn’t feel like working out or riding the trainer. But I did, and I bit off way more than I should have.
Despite the “woe is me” title of this post, things are pretty darn, not badish.
When I say “it’s over,” I am of course referring to the holiday season. Finished; done; caput. Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back, until you force yourself upon us like a horned up, drunk, conservative Supreme Court judge a year from now!!
After weeks months of putting myself through a mental ringer of worry and personal shame about the holiday season and seeing family, they are just about over with. Only New Years remains and other than the fact that I met my wife on New Year’s Eve many, many moons ago, that holiday means nothing to me (not that the other ones do). Out with the old and in with the new? More like out with one shit year, and in with another. I’m being negative, aren’t I? Sorry, it’s a gift. And a curse. Mostly a curse.
As I’ve documented here more than a few times of late, I haven’t been riding outside that much. Wait, reverse that, I haven’t been riding outside at ALL. I was beating myself up about that, but looking back at previous years, it seems that it’s not that unusual for me to sequester myself inside to do stuff this time of year.
