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.
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.
On Monday morning, I wrote a post about how much of a slacker I was over the weekend. However, because my slack was so unbelievably strong, there were no photos to accompany the post. So I waited. But I waited so long that I now find the post more irrelevant and even dumber than my usual dross. So it’s been permanently shelved—the Blog Dogs rejoice.
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.
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.
While this week won’t win me any awards for Life and How to Live It, it was a tolerable experience. And during a mid-Michigan March that is frequently filled with 45˚ days, 15˚ days, high winds, snow, ice, bright sun, freezing rain, standing water, mud, gloom, blue skies, spring-time inspiration, and winter-time funks —often all in one day—tolerable is way above average for me. So, yeah, mark it a win, dude.
Thursday night, I made an amazing burrito filled with perfectly seasoned chicken thighs cooked in the air fryer and homemade refried beans made in the instant pot. Despite my apparent aversion to using the stovetop and newfound mommy blogger-like love of unnecessary kitchen gadgetry, I was pretty stoked with how it turned out and devoured the savory log of carby Mexicana like a pack of rabid wolverines near a shallow grave (What?? – Ed.).
On Wednesday, I took myself and my newfound, much-cherished improved mindset out for a walk with my camera. I took the Nikon Z50 with an old DX zoom lens mounted with the FTZ adapter. I also took an old 105mm f/2.8 Lester A. Dine macro lens; that way, if things looked stale, I could kill some time with some manual focus handheld macro shots.
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.
