Sunday Mundane

More of the mundane. The deck.  Tennessee gave me these stunted agave plants months ago, and I have done nothing with them.  I don't really have enough sun to plant them.  I need to find them a new home where they can thrive.  They don't go with my landscape anyway.  

They are symbolic of something, I guess.  Hmm.  

After sleeping about three hours Saturday night, I had to make a decision about Sunday morning.  I decided to go back to bed, but that didn't work.  At nine, I had to choose between going to breakfast or going to the exercise course.  I put on my running shoes and shorts and went to the park.  I thought that if I felt lousy, I'd walk a couple laps and go home.  But I picked up quickly, and the next thing I knew, I was running.  O.K, O.K., making a stumbling trot.  But somewhere in my broken body is an athlete, or the memory of one, and I could feel my running muscles waking up again.  They remembered what to do and I had to keep telling them to slow down.  I'd trot from one exercise station to another, lap after lap after lap, my big belly bouncing less than last time, it seemed, my stride marginally longer (by millimeters, perhaps), my pace increased.  I wanted to be ginger with my knee, but it wasn't giving me any big pain.  I was running as well as I had before "the injury". . . when?  How long ago now?  Hell, I was as good as I was after the accident before. . . 

Which wasn't very good. 

But my VO2 max. . . oh, my.  It is terrible.  I thought I might puke.  I was sure I'd pass out.  But I pushed on 'til the end. . . and then I celebrated.  

I stopped at the 7-11 for Gatorade.  Then. . . I stopped at McDonald's and got an Egg McMuffin.  It may have been the best thing I've eaten since I got the breakfast sandwich from the Turnpike Wendy's on my way home from Miami.  

Now you may be thinking that I just undid my workout, but consider this.  The sandwich was only 310 calories with 17 grams of protein.  Weigh that against the $17 breakfast of 3 eggs, an English muffin, grits, and bacon.  Better, right?  And it only cost $4!  

I was on a real high.  I think I may have gotten an endorphin.  

Into the tub, onto the shower, then. . . I iced my knee.  That's what I should do all the time but never do.  I iced my knee and it felt o.k.  It was a little stiff, but not much more than usual.  My limp was no greater than before.  

The only bummer was that I was feeling thinner. . . until I stripped down and looked in the mirror.  I seemed to have gotten fatter somehow.  Maybe everything was just busting loose.  

I quickly turned away.  

Afternoon.  I went to the cafe.  There was a long line, mostly young girls come to play in the Photo Booth.  It has become some kind of rage.  They wore funky outfits, of course.  And they slowed up the line for food and drinks.  I waited.  The frowning girl behind the counter looked unhappy.  She looked as if she was ready to quit.  The couple behind me eventually bailed, then the couple in front of me.  The man I was standing behind now was maybe in his forties.  He had a stubble, uncombed hair, and blah clothing.  When he got to the head of the line, he asked the frowning girl in too chirpy a voice, "How are you today?"  She said, "I'm doing well.  How's your day?" without looking up, her face expressionless.  

"Oh, well. . . I got rained out today."  He was pressing.  He wanted her to ask what got rained out, I guessed, but she said nothing.  He really wanted conversation.  He seemed anxious. . . desperate.  

"Poor guy," I thought with the self-realization that I was often not so unlike him.  I knew the condition.  I had sympathy if not pity.  If I am this man inside, however, it is why I try never to initiate anything with anyone, why I am so very closed off in public.  It is why I have never asked a woman on a date.  It is that pitiful man inside I don't want to let out.  

And that is what I was thinking when he took his order away.  

"Hi," said the girl at the counter.  "Large mimosa?"

Was that good or bad?  

"No. . . um. . . a large latte."

"Oh!" she said and smiled.  

Now, see. . . here's the thing.  That man in front of me, the one I keep locked up inside, wanted to say more.  

"Yea, see, I'm trying to lose weight.  I went to the track today and. . . . "

I strangle that guy so he gets no air.  I feel foolish enough wondering if it is a good or a bad thing to be the guy who the counter help knows what he orders.  I think my ears were burning with embarrassed confusion.  But then I remembered something.  I don't care anymore.  And I grinned.  

"Thanks," I said.  

"Sure," she smiled.  

Again. . . it could be the gratuity. 

 I sat.  I wrote.  I write the things that I wouldn't write here.  But I am as silly as those costumed girls.  

Yea. . . it is silly.  An illustrated journal.  If I could draw for shit, of course. . . . 

TMI?  Ha!

Of course, Sunday night dinner with mother.  She was making dinner, but when I got there, she wanted me to cook the meat, thin slices of pork.  I seasoned them with salt, pepper, and teriyaki sauce then put them in the pan.  Steamed broccoli and potatoes and carrots.  A garden salad.  We drank the entire bottle of wine.  "We" not so much, perhaps.  

"This pork is great.  You're a good cook."

"Yea. . . a good cook."

"It's tasty."

My mother is not so much a good cook.  She doesn't season anything.  Her food is pretty bland.  

Home just before sunset.  A whiskey and a cheroot.  I wasn't going to, but I do.  Later, I am settled for the night.  At nine-thirty, the phone rings.  It is mother.  Her a.c. isn't working and she can't find the phone number for the service we use.  I look it up for her.  She calls, then calls me back.  She is not sure they will get to her tonight.  They are very busy, they say.  I ask her if she wants to sleep at my house.  She says no.  She tells me that in the afternoon, there was a clap of thunder and all her appliances went off then back on. She had to reset everything.  

"Did you check the breaker?" I asked her.  

No. 

She goes out to check, but it is too high for her.  

"Jesus, don't climb up on anything.  I'll come over."

I probably shouldn't be driving.  When I get to her house, she is wide eyed and says, "The a.c. came back on.  Just all of the sudden.  I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry.  I'm glad you have a cool house to sleep in."

I hug her and tell her goodnight.  

Back home, another whiskey.  An ibuprofen.  A Tylenol PM.  

I don't wake up during the night.