If It Doesn't
Tuesday. I repeated yesterday's routine this morning, walking to breakfast, walking back, the energy better, the attitude better making do with one stop to sit by the lake instead of yesterday's two. Doodle-dee-do. I have, after all, been sitting around on my ass for these last weeks with some walking involved, but no where near enough to keep me in shape. So we get in shape in this next month. (My idea of in shape is being able to walk around for a couple of hours without undue effort. An aching muscle or two if I actually push the two hour limit, but that's about it. Nothing, you know, overly ambitious.)
Not much sleep last night with the heat, although the head is relatively clear as noon approaches. Some thoughts about what to do now that the world seems to be knitting itself back together. An email yesterday announcing the usual crew will be assembling down the way at Roy's for Earth Day at six, Earth Day for us revolving around Guinness. I'll go on by, try to compare it with a similar outing two weeks ago at Jupiter's in Berkeley. I believe I drank iced tea and ate some crackers. Sounds adventuresome for two weeks ago if it was two weeks ago, the mind a bit blurry on my recent history.
Later. Four in the afternoon now thinking of getting something to eat although I'm not hungry. Why am I thinking of eating - the thought of a chili dog keeps popping up - when I'm not hungry? And a chili dog? Is that a sign of recovery or a decent into madness? Well, madness. That's a bit much. A decent into fast food American, well, madness. Get a leg up on blowing whatever weight loss I may have gotten out of this stomach operation.
Later still. I'm still writing like a robot. A slow robot. Part of the recovery is my guess. Hard to concentrate, easy to sink into repeating the same subject, describing an endless series of “I got up this morning and went to the usual café for breakfast”. How many times have a written that with the head screwed on, well, reasonably tight? Some thoughts on doing more with the writing in the future (writing here, not anywhere else), but we'll let that slide as they're mixed in with other thoughts of how many years have I might actually have left and what is it that I'd like to do with them? I'm old enough now that I could pop off from any of the usual suspects at any given minute. Are there things I'll regret not doing if, say, in five years they pop up into my head and for whatever reason I'm no longer able to do them? I doubt it, but you never know. However I've lived my life, the good and the less good, I've not had any regrets about not doing this or that.
Where'd that come from?
Nowhere particularly earth shattering. You sit here waiting on the insides to rebalance itself and you wonder. Life is relatively comfortable. Always has been. Is that what life is about? Comfort? Take it easy? Let your fingers do the walking, let the rest of the world take care of the heavy lifting life has imposed? I've had periods where I've done over the top things, grabbed for a brass ring or two (and missed). Because I didn't work hard enough at the grabbing? Didn't get back up with a smile on my lips and new determination on my face? Could be. Does it matter? It does if it does, I guess, but then if it doesn't, it doesn't.
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