Provisional

Last night was the perfect antidote to the weekend.  I did not need to go to the gym, for it was not a day of lifting, but I left work early and wondered what to do.  I thought about simply going for a long walk, but the skies were cloudy and rain was not far off.  I decided that I would be a superhero and go to the gym to run on the treadmill and follow up with the elliptical machine and some serious stretching.  That's right. . . I have become a middle-aged soccer mom.  Whatever.  I am pleased to say that I am running an unbroken mile and a quarter now without significant knee pain, and I am ready to do a mile and a half next run.  You haven't any idea how pleasing this is to me who has not run for over a year.  I love to run.  It makes me sane.  And soon I hope to be doing this outside in the actual weather amongst the lakes and the trees. . . but I don't want to jinx myself. . . . Yesterday I did my mile and a quarter cranking up the speed each lap, then I got on the elliptical and wore myself out.  Sweat.  That is the thing.  I was dripping with it.  Not a soccer mom after all (they never seem to sweat no matter that they go faster and farther than I). 

Then it was home for a what I thought to be a well-deserved dinner.  I had leftover steak from the Sunday meal with mother.  There were greens and beans.  All so healthy, all so good.  I was happy to have no need of going to the grocery store.  I had worked out and it was still early.  I would have a good, long night ahead.  So when I got home, I eschewed water and poured a Dale's Pale Ale, sat at the computer to check on some things I had missed, then hit the shower.  A glass of wine.  I put on the greens and looked to get out the steak.  What steak?  There was no steak.  Apparently I had thrown it out that morning when I was cleaning the refrigerator.  It was garbage pick up day. 

The storm broke like a monsoon.  I was not going out again. 

Fuck.  I don't keep food in the house.  What could I eat.  I found a big can of chicken.  Chicken and what?  The greens were cooking.  I found the last of some veganaise and cubed sweet relish and mixed them with the chicken.  A glass of white wine.  It was not a dinner.  I had no crackers but I, having missed lunch, was hungry.  I ate it down with a spoon in mere minutes.  I could eat the greens when they were done, perhaps.  Shit, fuck.  I would have a whiskey. 

The bottle was empty. 

The storm continued to pound. 

Drinking rye is not the same as drinking scotch.  But it was a makeshift night.  It would have to do.  I tasted the greens.  They were not a thing to eat by themselves.  I decided to fry some eggs.  Eggs and wine.  I still couldn't eat the greens.  Rye whiskey.  I sat at the computer and began editing images.  The music, though, carried me away into the night.  Rye and music and making pictures.  It was late.  I was hungry-isn, but I would sleep. 

Provisional.  That is the only way to describe the night.  I have become too locked into what I do.  I need some catch-as-catch-can living. 

I look forward to dinner tonight.