Three days ago, I bought a gym membership and I’ve gone twice already. I walked and jogged on a treadmill, even lifted weights.
Out of character, I started modestly, sensibly. I only ran for five minutes each visit. Weight settings were shamefully low. I ache just the right amount, enough to distinguish bicep from tricep, my insteps raw and crabby with every step.
I vaguely remember being young. Running barefoot across grass. Throwing a baseball. Smoking cigarettes while pedaling my bike to school.
I took being young and spry for granted, of course. Most feral animals do.
I also remember the time I helped push a car up the last part of the ramp to the Cobo rooftop parking lot on a cold Monday morning in October, summer swims at the Iowa City public pool, rocking, shivering and smiling in the bow of a boat in the San Francisco Bay.
Maybe I appreciated these moments because I was older. Or maybe I just started paying more attention.
I don’t want to grow old, nobody does, but since I don’t have a choice in the matter, I want, at the very least, to experience aging fully.
Every now and then I get this shooting pain in my right big toe. The level of pain is utterly transfixing. I can pinpoint the spot to the millimeter in the joint where it’s firing.
For a lack of a better description or a serviceable epiphany, it’s interesting as hell. It’s life.
What the F Is This Blog About?
I have don’t have a clue, but I am enjoying myself.