Monday
After two days in a row off from lumbering, I was looking forward to getting back into the woods on Monday.
I felt refreshed, and my feet felt great over most of the 8.03 miles. However, I did need to deviate deep into the woods at one point for an emergency evacuation of what remained of the morning’s mug of coffee and veggie sausage, egg whites, and cheese breakfast burrito. So, that was less than fun. I knew I kept that plastic baggie filled with wipes in my bag for some reason. Seriously, you would think going multiple times before leaving would be enough, gahddamit.
Random Soiled Story:
A few weeks ago, I was on my way home from my hike and, as usual, drove by a nearby retirement home; the one that ironically sits directly next to a funeral home owned by a rich local guy and reported anti-bike path dickhead who Wifey had the displeasure of meeting one time when out to eat with a friend.
Out in front of the place was a bouncy house, you know, the kind you see at a kid’s birthday party and shit. My mind was blown! All I could think about was a group of elderly people hopped up on Tramadol and prune juice, bouncing up and down, with a few, shall we say, “less active” old folks getting bounced and thrown around like rag dolls as their feeble cries and snapping brittle, broken bones go unnoticed.
I relayed the story to Wifey (the sane one in the relationship), who said, “You stupid fat freaking moron, It’s probably there for some sort of family day thing.” [Wifey would never say that about me or anyone, but I love to imagine her saying such things. It’s like imagining a nun smoking weed and listening to Slayer whilst swinging a mace.]
To which I replied, “OR it’s part of an interactive Open House to attract more old folks and show prospective residents all of the carefree fun stuff they used to do when they were younger but can’t now, and why they need costly supervised care.”
I continued…
The tour would visit different expos along the way, first showing some young kids playing and riding bikes before stopping at the bouncy house filled with manic, dimwitted youth. Then, to a group of young adults acting like they are smitten and “courting” each other, old-timey style.
As the tour progresses to each adult stage of life, it reaches adults having sex/procreating (missionary position, under the covers, semi-clothed, Republican style), then chasing their kids around, then grandkids, and then eventually it reaches a display of an old woman sitting alone in a chair looking at a photo of her dear departed husband who unbeknownst to her used to fool around with his secretary behind her back (Slutty Barb!)
Finally, we make it to the last display of the woman lying on the floor in the classic “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,” shattered hip and pneumonia to follow pose.
The stage goes black, and a lone spotlight hits the tour guide, who softly and kindly explains that THIS is why you need the care and support from the good folks at Summer’s End Retirement Center and Good Time Hospice. Now hand over that Social Security check, you ol’ bag.
Of course, Wifey disagreed.
Tuesday
I woke with my heel feeling remarkably good for having hiked 8 miles the day before. So, after another homemade breakfast burrito, coffee, making breakfast for Wifey, taking care of the dogs, cleaning the kitchen, and starting some laundry, I headed out for a planned 4-5 mile lumber at a chill pace.
That turned out to be 6 miles just below my lumber pace, and now I find myself just two days into the week, and I have nearly half of my 25-mile goal met. It might be time to extend the goal to 30 or 35, at least until winter, but I also don’t want to fuck with my heel if it’s getting better.
Random Soiled Story II:
I was in Meijer not long ago, and while in the checkout line, I noticed the man in front of me was wearing jeans, a normal belt, and suspenders made of a clothesline rope and cardboard for padding on his shoulders and back. He was also wearing earplugs. NOT hearing aids; earplugs. I don’t know how he heard a damn thing, but I do know his pants stayed up.
While I was taking all that suspending in, the man behind me, who I had yet to put full eyes on, was talking loudly on his cell phone (you know, the android kind that old men use that is about the size of an iPad and carried in a holster).
Eventually, it was my turn in line, and as I was paying, I looked to my left and saw Mr. Loud Talker, and he was roughly 80 years old (more than likely 60 but living a hard life) and covered in tattoos, including a unicorn on the entire side of his face.
A UNI-FUCK-ING-CORN!!!! ON. HIS. FACE!!!
Usually, you can count on Meijer to have a few less oddballs than Walmart, but that day, I was shown no mercy. Well played, Meijer, well played. Oh well, we’re all fucked up in some way. Some of us just happen to have unicorns tattooed on the sides of our fucking faces.
A UNI-FUCK-ING-CORN!!!! ON. HIS. FACE!!!
Shit for pics, ’cause I ain’t got much.
Later.