I am more than “into” truth; the truth permeates my very being. I’m bathing in truth. It saturates every cell in my body. If I could be wrung dry, truth would be a puddle on the floor in front of me. Seriously.
An unoriginal truth: I have discovered that my life’s purpose is to serve as a warning to others. I’ve wallowed in the sty of humiliation for a long, long time. You don’t even know . . . many of my “best” moments are known only to me (and maybe a few strangers).
So, it’s not too difficult for me to confess some of the truths of my life. Here’s a truth for ya – I’m not a good blogger. I’m way too easily distracted.
I’ve also suffered writer’s block, although that is a fairly generous description inasmuch as it presumes that I’m a writer. It would be more accurate to say that recently I have encountered “blocks” of several varieties included among them is my inability to think of anything worth blogging about.
I get about half way through a draft post and I decide that it sucks and I lose interest in trying to find a way to make it suck less . . . and then I just sort of wander off to look at some shiny object. My mind wanders and it’s hard to focus on . . . I wonder if zombies have taste preferences. I bet they prefer to eat people who routinely eat spicy foods because whoever saw a zombie take time to add salt and pepper to the intestines of the person that they’re consuming? Maybe I should change my diet to make myself less appetizing to them during the next zombie apocalypse. Wait . . . what was I talking about? Something about truth and the meaning of life . . . ?
Another truth: I’m not an athlete. I have no God-given talent or natural ability. None. I’ve never deluded myself about this, but even if I wanted to, recent events confirm beyond any doubt that I was made for the couch. The purpose of my life is to serve as a warning to others . . . from my couch.
I’ve been working hard, you guys. I’ve routinely went to gym class and done Spin class twice a week. These classes are no joke folks. We’re talking HIGH INTENSITY and are led by Ivan the Terrible’s granddaughter.
Last week I went for a run. It was my first run in a couple of months. I TRULY thought that it would be better than my previous runs. I GENUINELY believed that my physical condition was improved and that a 5K on the trail would prove it. WRONG! Here’s the humiliating confession. I “ran” a 5K in something like a 12.5 minute mile pace. I had to stop to walk FOR THE FIRST TIME after one mile. It went downhill from there.
It’s unbelievable, really. How can I be this bad after working so hard to get better? In what universe does that happen? Nowhere. It’s me.
The next day I tried another 5K on the treadmill.
That didn’t work so well.
Fear not. I’m going to keep trying. I will give it another 6 months before I throw in the towel and resign myself to living the rest of my life as a fat slob who can no longer run. After all, it’s only been 5 months and 24 days since the surgeon cracked my chest like a walnut and moved some of my cardiac arteries around. Even though I feel fine – like nothing ever happened – I’m going to allow myself to use that as an excuse for six more months.
All is not horrible. My work has reduced my walrus-like dimensions by about 10 pounds. Don’t jump to any conclusions here. There’s not a queue of people waiting their turn to see my abs. I’m still a fat bastard.
My size has not visibly reduced. But, I have reduced a bit. That’s something. And that’s the truth.
I’ll try to be a better correspondent. Until next time,