First run in almost a year early this morning. My joints aren't pregnancy-loose anymore and mum is still here for a few more days to offer Godzilla support if he doesn't fall back to sleep after his early morning feed and the F-word wants to be a fucking diva. So it was time to start again. And it was lovely, even if I am back to being the winded maggot I was a couple of years back when I first started running, except fatter. And even though I'm being carefully unambitious so I don't hurt myself, or burn off the fat Godzilla needs to feed on exclusively for the next four months.
And even though, frankly, it's sort of painful to not spend that time cuddling with or staring at Godzilla instead of running. But health-wise there's not a choice. My environmental allergies are back in asmathic-Jewish-boy-before-coming-of-age-in-American-summer-camp-movie force and the only thing that keeps them at bay is lots of cardio, and when they're kept at bay I have a lot more energy and good mood to spend on Godzilla than I would otherwise.
Anyways, in a few more months, I'll pick up a running stroller from Luke Duke's awesome wife in Canada and start taking him with me.
And then there's needing to get in trim before I make any attempts to produce another fearsome behemoth. I really believe that getting into terrific nick is what allowed Godzilla's birth to be so comparatively untraumatic for all concerned, given my age and the gestational blood pressure problems. And I'm not getting any younger, and the countdown is on . . . I think I've decided to attempt to produce more progeny AFTER we've moved. And settled in a bit. Which means two years. Two years to get back into perfect nick, whilst juggling work, Godzilla, the next intercontinental move, getting rid of the house, the final Mandarin course in my certificate, and then German language study. I think that's possible.
In shittier news, Elvis and his lady are splitting. At least, now, I hope they are, which I wouldn't have hoped before, given she's a pretty admirable sort of person. They've been in trouble for awhile but now it looks as though she's caught up with someone else. While they're still living together. Well, I don't judge people who can't keep it in their pants before the corpse is quite buried. I screwed my way out of my relationship with Bluebird and it worked really well. But I'm pretty disgusted all the same. It's my brother.
Sometimes I think one of the reasons I moved away is so I could go on loving my brothers as gods, and not have to see their embarassments or mistakes until they'd had time to compose themselves, and turn everything into a funny macho misadventure. I could still make fun of them for being foolish or drunks or any other manner of things, but still keep adoring them as larger than life awesome types without the frailties and vulnerabilities of normal people. But now that we're all approaching middle age I guess the facades can't stay up like that anymore. Ten years ago they were still so much older than me - not anymore. Not when we've all got such a big collection of years.
And even though, frankly, it's sort of painful to not spend that time cuddling with or staring at Godzilla instead of running. But health-wise there's not a choice. My environmental allergies are back in asmathic-Jewish-boy-before-coming-of-age-in-American-summer-camp-movie force and the only thing that keeps them at bay is lots of cardio, and when they're kept at bay I have a lot more energy and good mood to spend on Godzilla than I would otherwise.
Anyways, in a few more months, I'll pick up a running stroller from Luke Duke's awesome wife in Canada and start taking him with me.
And then there's needing to get in trim before I make any attempts to produce another fearsome behemoth. I really believe that getting into terrific nick is what allowed Godzilla's birth to be so comparatively untraumatic for all concerned, given my age and the gestational blood pressure problems. And I'm not getting any younger, and the countdown is on . . . I think I've decided to attempt to produce more progeny AFTER we've moved. And settled in a bit. Which means two years. Two years to get back into perfect nick, whilst juggling work, Godzilla, the next intercontinental move, getting rid of the house, the final Mandarin course in my certificate, and then German language study. I think that's possible.
In shittier news, Elvis and his lady are splitting. At least, now, I hope they are, which I wouldn't have hoped before, given she's a pretty admirable sort of person. They've been in trouble for awhile but now it looks as though she's caught up with someone else. While they're still living together. Well, I don't judge people who can't keep it in their pants before the corpse is quite buried. I screwed my way out of my relationship with Bluebird and it worked really well. But I'm pretty disgusted all the same. It's my brother.
Sometimes I think one of the reasons I moved away is so I could go on loving my brothers as gods, and not have to see their embarassments or mistakes until they'd had time to compose themselves, and turn everything into a funny macho misadventure. I could still make fun of them for being foolish or drunks or any other manner of things, but still keep adoring them as larger than life awesome types without the frailties and vulnerabilities of normal people. But now that we're all approaching middle age I guess the facades can't stay up like that anymore. Ten years ago they were still so much older than me - not anymore. Not when we've all got such a big collection of years.
6 commenti:
It's better to just have it all out with the brothers.
We, meaning men, never really do compose ourselves...we really wouldn't be men if we did.
Lot of bad splits around here...one is especially bad. Of course, we are all being forced to deal with my Daddy's second wife's* inability to get over the fact that she left him. Her episodes come and go like a bad rash.
It's good your running again. One of the break ups was with a fella that obviously spent to much time basking in his mothers stare. He's never been able to pull himself away from it.
*Some call her my mother.
I have to admit it - I have a horrible, horrible fear of seeing or hearing my brothers cry. I have a feeling huge swathes of how I've constructed the world will be demolished if it happens. But this isn't about me anymore.
Yeah. I don't care what anybody says...a crying man can be a tough thing to take. You're right on that one.
I've seen my Daddy's eyes get red discussing the fact that at 70 years old his entire world was flipped upside down by wife 2 and when the Gators lose a football game...profound things like that.
The only time I've ever seen him really cry was right after they lowered my Grandaddy into the ground. I was maybe 12 and for a split second it horrified me. It still causes a reaction in me today.
WHOA. At seventy. Good for him for going on kicking. I worry a lot for men who lose their women around that age. But it's like pet budgerigars; if they can make it for three years, they can just go on forever.
Yes ma'am. We worried about him for a little while.
He's just now past the three year mark. He's got 'im a new girlfriend too. I don't even think she's in her 60's yet. He's a young lookin' septuagenarian...pretty smooth too.
Oh, good show!
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