Monday, November 29, 2004

Lead Into Gold Into Lead

So Thanksgiving weekend. Mostly, I was thankful for getting the fuck out of the miasmic pit of bad feelings that I call my office. Some bright boy, as Hemingway would say, got the idea that a windowless room in the basement would be much more pleasant if painted pale yellow. With bright orange doors. Throw in a cranky, petulant German with the manners of a spoiled five year old and the human feeling of a Vulcan, and you’ve got a recipe for GOOD TIMES! So while the braintrust of the firm were in high level meetings with clients and toasting the good times ahead, the four of us in the cheap seats who getting shitcanned ten days before Christmas were sitting in the outside room, being resolutely ignored and feeling a bit chafed about the chaps. God bless YOU, Tiny Tim, you precocious little cripple.

So, to cheer myself up, I did what the rest of America did, aside from the vegans and other assorted weirdos and haters of Freedom: I ate my way to happiness. Or at least into a stupor.

I was supposed to race at San Ramon on Saturday, but it rained the night before and the track was “too wet,” even though it wasn’t raining at race time. WTF? It’s a fucking BMX track, what’s going to happen? We get muddy?

Saturday night was supposed to be Captured By Robots at Bottom of the Hill, but I was really not feeling being out and about amongst humanity. Though robots would’ve been nice. I long for an Isaac Asimov future, devoid of fleshly weaklings like myself.

Sunday morning was the Run to the Far Side 10 K. Up until then, I was pretty much of the opinion that 10 Ks were the province of old people and fat asses, which I guess is true—and I’m one of them, because that run kicked my ass. After all, I thought I was Bobby Badass Marathoner—and a marathon is over 40 K, but that marathon was over a year ago, Jack. My thighs feel like someone’s stuck about 8 or 9 icepicks in them, and I’ve got some sweet shin splints. Anyone want to run this week?

When I got back, I stepped on the scale I’ve been assiduously avoiding. How bad could it be, right? I just ran a 10 K. Well, weight-wise, I’m not all that much heavier—about 20 lbs. over where I want to be—but my scale has a body fat percentage feature. I gained three percent body fat over the holidays! And if the weight didn’t go up, I guess some of my muscles must’ve congealed into Parkay over the weekend.

I know—I’m a bitch. I’m going to turn into one of those “I’ll just have a salad with dressing on the side” twats. What I need to do is get a new set of New Balance distance shoes and start putting on some fucking miles on the weekend.

All right, so. This was mostly about nothing, huh? I’ll promise to be more interesting next time.

“If I had to give you something then I think I’d give you nothin’
If I had to give you something then I think I’d go to hell.”

“Day of the Deadringers”

No comments: