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.
On Friday, I found myself oddly void of the desire to visit the Caligula-like setting of the gym and all of its sweat, testosterone, and cluster bomb pheromone attacks camouflaged in Gymshark tights. Instead, I opted to get some shit done and then do a short photo walk at Meridian Park. This obviously did nothing for my rotund shape but did get me out of the house, and somedays, that’s all that matters.
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.
The week has been moving along pretty darn not bad, with daily workouts in the gym, including a 5-mile lumber on Tuesday that took me so long that the Dreadmill started going into cool down mode, and I had to hit stop and start again, just to keep walking my “sprightly for a fat man” 4 MPH. I guess most people don’t stay on a machine for over an hour, especially someone who is a shadow of their formerly fit self. I do love me some cardio, though, even if it is just a fast walk while listening to music and trying not to notice that there is a war going on via the rows of talking heads on the TVs in front of me.1
Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
Dear Reader,
The following lengthy post deals with my ongoing search for inner peace and self-love (not code for masturbation). There is talk of mental health and depression. I am CLEARLY not a doctor, just a putz with a blog and 50 years and counting of personal experiences dealing with some depression-type shit.
I’ve waffled back and forth on whether it’s in my best interest to post something like this or not, but given the stuff I’ve already written about myself and/or my hatred of the orange buffoon that had been in the White House for four years, I think I’ll be alright. If a potential employer sees this and is offended, you’re not the sort I would want to be associated with anyway.
And if the Google machine somehow pointed you here because you were looking for immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
— Management
Looking back through my January posts over the years, I have talked ad naseum about my loathing of January, so I will just say, a mid-Michigan January for someone dealing with depression is like throwing a drowning man a dead carp. Sure, it might be funny for a second, but the dude drowns, and you’re out your best dead carp.
The week after the Christmas holiday, I was back on the Dreadmill in the Not So Stankment, pounding out daily 3-mile lumbers and intervals. After what seemed like months of being ill in one form or another, it felt great to get my heart rate up and to sweat again without a 101˚ fever.
So, after 21+ miles of lumbering nowhere slow, I was stoked to get back on the magic Zwift machine last Monday and get my legs back to doing what they do best. Or at least do better than running.
Anybody that has hung around this blog for more than a few seconds knows that I don’t have the sort of personality that celebrates a New Year. Or anything else for that matter, at least not without one eye looking at the half-empty glass about to fall onto the floor and break. And this year was my best year yet of non-celebrating: a few beers, some TV watchin’, food eatin’, and in bed by nine while Wifey fumed and mentally cursed me and my worsening attitude in the living room below.
Ah, the weekend. So many plans, so much to get out and do. Um, not so much.
The weekend started off with B going to visit a friend and coming home with a head cold, which led to me getting a head cold, which in turn led Wifey to get a head cold, and led all of us (OK, just me) to say “fuck it” and not do anything all weekend.
