More pretty weather yesterday. I was absolutely ebullient. Sunshine and blue skies and fair temperatures are magical balms for my (sometimes troubled) spirit. A beautiful day and a new camera--I was loathe to go to the gym. But, after much deliberation, I did go. Reluctantly. And when I got there, the boys and girls were finishing up their physical fitness routines. I was greeted with shouts and waves, of course, as well as hoots and hollers. And so, in no great hurry to get started, I went over and chatted. It was fun. I chatted for a long while, and when I was done and despairing of what lay ahead, I said, "Fuck it. I don't want to do this. I'm going to go lie poolside."
"That's great," said the shock jock. "You walk in, talk, lie by the pool and leave."
"That's right," I said. "Fuck working out."
"Let's go to lunch," Tennessee said. "I'm hungry."
"How much workout do you have left?"
"Fifteen or twenty minutes."
"Give me half an hour and I will go with you."
The air was cool and the breeze light. I took off my shirt and shoes, hiked up the legs of my shorts, lay down upon the deck chair, closed my eyes, and let my vacation memories and fantasies romp. I had made the perfect choice for the day.
Before the half hour was up, however, Tennessee and the shock jock were chair side.
"Are you ready to go?"
I was lying on my belly and didn't bother opening my eyes.
"Look at that clock over there. What time is it?"
They told me.
"Five more minutes and I'll be ready."
A bit later, Tennessee and I were seated at the good breakfast place ordering up Western Omelettes with all the fixings. Whatever's wrong with me feels right. I need a break. I have a need to skip routine, to stroll and muse and wander. To be a saunterer.
It just feels time.
And today is the last day of January. I'm done. Whether I drink or not is immaterial. What is important is the end of a restriction. Whatever benefits I derived from nearly 40 dry days, losing weight was not one. Selavy. Today I will go to the doctor's office to have my blood drawn and sent to the lab. It will never be cleaner. Still, I am terrified. The best that can happen is that I have not gotten "worse." The path from there, though. . . .
Other than that, though, I think I feel pretty good. I am ready to see the world anew.
I am ready for pasta and wine. Bellisimo!
* * *
And then this post took a dark, sardonic turn.
You don't need me to bring you down. You can simply watch the news. I don't want to go there. Perhaps it was the talk of the doctor's office that brought me down. But nope. I'm not going to bother my pretty little head about such things today. PMA. I want to be a High Profile Happy Guy full of sweetness and light. You'll know me if you see me. I'll be the fellow with the bright blond hair and the beautiful blue eyes. I'll probably have my new camera. And if I am brave enough, I will ask you to tell me a story. Then I'll steal it. You could end up right here in America's Favorite Blog.
Or. . . if you don't have a good story. . . well. . . you know what to do.