Grievances of the soma
I burp. Its a witches brew of Raw Herring, Korean Red Kimchi and Sheep’s milk Kefir. None of these things, consumed separately are particularly… eh… noxious. (well, at least according to me) But ferment that combination in your paunch-pantry for a couple of hours and then crack the hatch and there are some pretty unique (some might say chewy) ‘texture’ notes to that venting. I share, because I care. And also because I don’t want to suffer alone. (my wife likes to promulgate that I don’t have to eat all this ‘gross’ stuff to be healthy, and this is all on me… she’s just lucky I don’t hotbox her)
My Christmas has been garbage. I feel like someone has taken a length of rebar, impaled me just left of my sternum and buried the pointy end somewhere behind my shoulder. Every time I cough or clear my throat too aggressively some magical force grips the other end of the rebar and violently jiggles it up and down.
Cracked. Broken. Torn. I don’t know. But definitely injured.
Also my hand is messed up. I’m not sure if this picture does it justice or not. Got caught inside someones Gi at jujitsu and rolled over it. Didn’t feel it at the time… whereas with my ribs, there was a distinct… *puts his index finger in his mouth and makes a popping sound*
I’ve been nursing my ribs since my first session. And really, I had this idea that I would just work out the kinks as I went. This has always been my strategy in the past… you know, before suddenly, at forty, things fell off the edge of a Himalayan cliff. (onto jagged stakes… coated in kerosene… that were then set on fire) [Apparently here are things that ibuprofen and Redbull can’t fix]
THEN (to add to my lengthy list of woes)… trying to get down the grassy embankment onto the beach with the dogs this morning I slipped. Imagine a black and white slapstick comedy of yore where someone slips on a banana peel. That was me… onto my head. *insert suitable onomatopoeia*
Made worse by the fact that I did this in front of…. maybe two hundred people who’d gathered at 6am for a 10km fun run. Ha ha. The stairs were log-jammed and so I attempted the grassy, dewy and steep traverse, barefoot with two dogs mushing it for the beach. Anyways, picked myself up and wobbled down to the sand, crossed the stream and pretended like nothing had happened. (the sounds of ‘oooooh-daaaaamn’ still ringing in my ears)
The psychological damage was strong.
And maybe also the brain damage.
I’m feeling old. And fucked up.
ON THE PLUS SIDE.
My brother-in-law has a boat. And while our beaches are packed with out-of-towners over the Christmas holidays we have been able to escape the throngs somewhat by hitting up a beach near us that is super difficult to get to without additional resources.
And so while my proclivities obviously lean towards whining… its really not that bad. And if you do enough long-division its pretty much all on me letting myself go completely to seed since lockdowns. (Even my Apple watch has now decided that my VO2 Max is quite deeply into ‘below average’… an indictment if ever there was one)
So I’ve started running again. (today was day three)
Well… I say running. But its like 7-8 minute splits and after 2… and a half kays I sounds more like a diesel engine bereft of oil than something approximating a homo sapiens.
But maybe I’ll get there again. Its tough starting at the bottom. Also I hate running.
Humphrey is good. By the way. (he says as some sort of positive outro)
I left some kitchen scraps out for him and the missus last night. They ate everything except the celery. Which… well, I don’t know what that means. I don’t want to posit any conspiracy theories just yet…. BUT… it was the only thing that wasn’t from the farmers market. (ie store bought and plastic wrapped)
Porcupines know stuff. (like taxation is theft)