- I have a couple of pending work commitments that have to be done this week, or I'm likely to be re-located to a Major Metropolitan Area That I Loathe And Fled Screaming From Last Summer. Hate it when that happens. Doesn't leave excess time for mindlessly surfing the 'net or training.
- Said employer also has been rather tardy in resolving an issue with my medical flexible spending account, which means I'll have to pony up the effin' $180 three-month gym membership on my own dime for now (I know, tax laws say you can't use an FSA for a health club, but this is different. I have a prescription).
- Finally, and more to the point, it's supposed to fall well into the shrieking brass monkey zone tomorrow morning. Like, -40 wind chill shrieking brass monkey zone. Part of me says, it's about damn time, since it's been nothing like a New England winter. Other part of me says, run five miles tomorrow? Maybe not so much ...
Excuses, excuses. So I'm starting this blog because, frankly, I'm not disciplined enough to do this without being called a wuss by large numbers of people. And I get cold easily when it's below, oh, -15, and curl up and cry like a little girl and eat Ben & Jerry's instead of doing the Sunday morning brick.
Brick. How freakin' pretentious is that?
A bit about me, because that's what a blog is all about. And the rest of the world, and everyone in it. Remember that. It's all about me:
I'm 43, and I've never done a triathlon before. I ran a marathon a few years ago and didn't completely disgrace myself (faster than Oprah, faster than P. Diddy ... not quite as fast as a speeding sub-4:00 marathoner, though). I've swum a mile, but that was in Boy Scout camp and under duress; if I didn't finish, my brother said he'd drown me. And I've certainly ridden 112 miles on a bike, although that was in elementary school, and I had a red Schwinn with a banana seat and cards clothesline-held to the spokes so the whole deal made a really cool sound when you went down the street with your hoodlum friends to rampage and pillage along the bayou.
A hint for the geographically impaired who may have missed the bayou references: I'm not from New England. I just fled here. A token Texan, if you will. It's probably not unlike being the only Sunni at the Fallujah Shi'ite Gun Club.
More about me: I'm married. I have a 20-year-old stepdaughter who's going into the Air Force next month; odds are quite good that her contributions to military philosophy won't be appreciated by drill instructors. I have two boys whom I adore. I like to think it's reciprocated; one is 15 and still thanks me when I clean his room and go to the grocery store. The other will be 13 later this month and also thanks me for cleaning his room and going to the grocery store. I think it's odd behavior, but in a sweet sort of way.
Like a lot of people in this totally retarded economy, I'm looking for something else to do with my time that doesn't involve work. So I've ordered 50 chickens to keep in my yard (we live on 10 acres) and will probably sell the eggs at a local farmer's market. I'm learning how to can and preserve. I'm putting together plans for a vegetable garden, assuming the snow melts this year. Finally, I'm working on a textbook for kids who've killed enough brain cells to think there's still some sort of financially viable employment that doesn't involve economic rape and pillage.
And, of course, I'm training for a triathlon.
The picture posted is me about two years ago. I would like to look like that again. I'm not that far off; maybe about 10, 15 pounds and 5 percent body fat. Which means about six to nine months.
I think.
I hope.
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