In all my 17+ years of writing this shit-show, I finally find myself with a bit of writer’s block. Whilst the masses rejoice in knowing they are safe from my long-winded posts of sophomoric humor, tales of self-loathing, sub-par chubby middle-aged white guy pseudo adventures, and nonsensical word salad, I bemoan my stifled mind.
The past couple of weeks have been a blur of keeping up with B’s last days as a high school senior and his last weeks of club soccer. Somewhere between all that stuff, I’ve been at the gym 3 to 4 times a week, taking care of the springtime needs of the Cul De Sac Shack and getting out for some creeps around the woods, stalking birds and other critters with my camera.
Just a quick post to prove that I’m still alive. I know the value of that is questioned by many, including myself, but I’m still here, just like that faded mustard stain on your favorite Superchunk t-shirt1. It’s just that life has been busy with many un-blog-worthy things.
I feel like I have had too many “lost weeks” lately. And by that, I mean that I know I’ve done stuff; my house, husband, and dad duties, as well as hitting the gym, photo hikes, and Mindbender visits, but in the end, I don’t feel like I have anything to show for it.
It’s Friday morning, and I’m writing this to kill some time before going to the gym to lift heavy things for no reason. I am also writing in an attempt to cajole the last shreds of motivation in my mind into doing such an absurd thing. I feel like a sassy $5 hooker talking up my game to any pedestrian walking down my side of the street. And as you might imagine, motivational talk from someone who is blindly confidant yet so clearly undervalues their talents is not great. Of course, I’m also trying to quash the mental snapshot of myself wearing a crop top, booty shorts, pink wig, fishnets, and combat boots as I hustle my side of the cul de sac. “$5, and I’ll show you the time of your life. Where else are you gonna get chlamydia this good? ‘Cmon, baby.” Or something like that.
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.
There is a first time for everything, and I’m not too ashamed to admit it; I hurt my foot Monday afternoon while animatedly relaying a story to Brenann about the time a few years ago when I saw a clip of a non-league goalkeeper doing the Connor McGregor strut after his team scored a late-game winner at the opposite end of the pitch.
Can I get a do-over on last week?
Something about last week was off for me. While nothing horrible happened, and I’m still maintaining a good (enough) mindset, something was off. I think the Michigan spring is getting to me, and I use the term “spring” lightly. The past week was filled with cold temps, high wind, ice storms, heavy rain, and very few fading glimpses of the sun. The week also seemed worse because it was B’s spring break, and while the rest of Michigan seemingly did something in warmer climates, we did nothing. Again.
Over the years, it’s been well documented that I am a creature of routines and habits. Some are good, like going to the gym at the same time every morning, and some are bad; we won’t speak of those right now. Still, I dig a good routine, and Tuesday’s gym time was ruined by a dentist appointment I apparently made after a cleaning six months ago and only found out about via a Monday night reminder text from the office. Oh well, it seems my body will have to remain in this sagging and flaccid state one day longer.
As I write this, it’s a dark, cold, icy Saturday morning in mid-Michigan, and I can’t make up my mind if I want to go for a photo walk in the icy woods, go to the gym to lumber nowhere fast on the Dreadmill or go back to the Bed of Torment for a second sleep; the world is my mother friggin’ oyster as they say.
Somewhere between morning bowel discharges, too much coffee, and my 3 egg white omelet with veggie sausages, I was made aware via a variety of Instagram posts that today is the Barry-Roubaix gravel race near Grand Rapids.