Note: this post has been updated. See second footnote. My bad.
I seemed to have, for the most part, recovered from Monday’s “McGregor Strut” injury to my foot and was able to return to the gym on Wednesday.
For some reason, I didn’t have a lot of desire to be in the gym, so I got in, did a casual warm-up on the treadmill, did my quick circuit of weight exercises, and got out. Then I spent the rest of the day doing whatever it is I do. While I’m still not sure what it was I did (or do), I bet I did it very just adequately enough.
Thursday, I woke up to dark cloudy skies and cold rain. AGAIN! While I really wanted to fill up the bathtub with scalding hot coffee (or gin), dive in, frolic nakedly about, and then drink my way out, I opted to just have a big-ass cup and then make my way to the Forest Hill Nature Area in search of critters to photograph.
I had no sooner pulled into the parking lot when it started misting rain. And by the time I gathered my camera gear and walked 30 feet down the trail, it was pissing down heavy rain and snow, and I was audibly cursing the weather dogs above for their malevolent deeds.
I walked on, stomping and cursing my way through the boot-sucking mud, Then turned back to the car in a fit of rage, then turned back around, then turned back again, then finally said “fuck it,” and walked on towards the woods as rain and ice stung my face while I did my best to protect my camera and lens whilst taking the dogs name in vain the whole time.
Then it stopped. I was muddy and soaked, but it was over, so I walked on and tried my best to salvage my time with some pics.
I took a few OK shots in the shitty white sky that I felt I’d taken a million times before, then headed home, searching for warmth, dry socks, and a warm ham, cheese, and naan bread sandwich.
***
On the way home I stopped to take a photo of a barn I had passed earlier. It feels weird to me to pull the car over to take a photo; I’m used to being on the bike for photos like the one above. If the temps ever go above 60˚ and the rain ever stops, I’m sure I’ll see some miles on the dirt roads in the months ahead. But for now, the gym for a semblance of fitness, and hikes, walks, and detours whilst driving to feed my photo habit. Sigh… so many habits, so little money.
Later.
- No, not the Morning After Pill (although I just took one for some reason), The Day After! And not the movie we watched in the 80s that made us fear a pending nuclear holocaust and repent our sins via the Force of Guilt Department, St. John The Baptist Jurisdiction. A nuclear holocaust we may finally get to see in the months ahead due to political psychopathic fuckwads of the Putin persuasion. I still maintain 80s-era me had nothing to confess but looking at my 7th grade math teacher Ms. ******* and touching myself at night. Every night. It was worth it; I mean, she was a fucking former college cheerleader!! Sorry, but I’m pretty sure I was just one of 20+ boys doing their “thing” right after they finished math homework at night. She said she went to Pitt; I remember that… good times… good times…
- SEMI-WOKENESS UPDATE: It has come to my attention that talking about my 7th-grade math teacher in such a sexist way could be frowned upon, and talking about how I may or may not have touched myself whilst thinking about her in my adolescent evenings is possibly frowned upon even more. I agree; Ms. ******* (name protected because I have no idea what her name is anymore) was a smart, intelligent woman who, despite the low pay and constant harassment by pimple-faced middle-school jag off’s like me, held her own and dropped knowledge, like how to add fractions on us. She just happened to be a young, fit, beautiful, former college cheerleader with boundless spirit, unknown flexibility and assumed sexual prowess. It has also come to my attention that if I’m 50 now, she’s at least 60 years old and probably lacks the same spirit and assumed sexual prowess and flexibility. However, I can’t help but wonder if she still has the uniform. P-I-T-T PITT! PITT! PITT! Goooooo PITT!