Running. With Restraint. And With None of It.

~ Live & Learn

What do you excel at?

A) Habitual repeating. (Professional kind)

Consistent, effective execution. Compulsive in following through on commitments. Dependable. You can count on him.

And that’s life isn’t it, the antithesis of what makes you effective at “A”, makes you a disaster a “B”.

B) Habitual repeating, in bulk. (Personal kind. Random, exculpatory list below.)

  • Thoughts. (Swirling, incessant, dark)
  • Doubts. (Many)
  • Food (Binges, sugar, fast food, anything).
  • Running ‘paths’ (Note emphasis on paths and not running, there should be zero inferences to mastery in frequency, distance or pace.)
  • Blog post ‘themes’. (Note emphasis on themes. And no mention of original work.)

How many times can you spout on about the same sh*t? Let’s see. Let’s use metaphors, not your own of course. Because that would take talent, effort. How many times? Richard Powers, “A thousand—a thousand thousand—green-tipped, splitting fingerlings.”

So here we go again.

6 am. I’m running. 73° F, and God’s heater is climbing to 94° F by mid afternoon.  I could applaud the effort of doing something, being out, running when not a stitch of me cares to do so, but like Juansen Dizon in Warfare, “I am my greatest battle. I am a thousand small victories. I am a thousand large defeats” – but unlike Juansen, defeats swamp the victories.

I’m running 1/2 the distance of what I ran 3 months ago. At a pace 1/2 as quick. Middle age? Lack of sleep? Don’t kid yourself, friend. You stepped on the scale again this morning, with ridiculous hope surging, and you were trounced. It’s laughable, really, you thinking it’s going to fall day over day based on that show you put on. How do you spell Delusional?

A late evening run to Chick-fil-a. It’s a Spouse-chauffeured ride to the drive-through because DK is giddy from anticipation for the Spicy Deluxe Chicken Sandwich and Waffle Potato Fries. Texting, cell phones and Chick-fil-a – distractions so big, so dangerous, one just can’t take chances.

Then, it’s headlong into a supersize bag of Cape Cod Kettle Cooked Potato Chips.  Hand selected potatoes. Salt. Pure vegetable oil. Cooked to golden amber hue. Fingers glisten from so much goodness.

Stomach groans, a signal to stop for most. I loosen the belt, let the muffin top flop over the sides, and get onto the main event.

The Fixer: Talenti Gelato Mediterranean Mint. 

“How many of those do you think you go through in a week?” ~35 years of marriage and she knows exactly what wires to pull to set me off. Why do I take the bait?

I raise my head, lift my eyebrows.  Irritated. She called me out on it for breakfast. She saw me with it at lunch.

I ignore the question, but it hangs. Irritating. Irritated. The body is poised, like lightening to slash back with a bolt, but no. No. This skirmish will not be the cause of ruination of this. I smile, pleased with the restraint, so unlike you DK, a sign of maturity, after 50+ years of childhood, and you resisted stomping your feet.

The pint, cool in my left hand grips the cylinder tight while the right turns the lid, manufactured with thin ridges for easier gripping. Forget the weekly count. That’s a large number. Let’s say 1 pint per 1.25 days. Note the decimal precision. I have thought about this.

For the less than 180 seconds it takes me to down a heaping cup of Talenti Gelato, I have found my Peace. The bangin’ thoughts cease. My spinning world slows.

The spoon scrapes the last chocolate chip nestled in the softened gelato in the corners, and it melts on my tongue.

Life is good. For three minutes before Regret comes marching in.

Nap Time.

Notes:

39 thoughts on “Running. With Restraint. And With None of It.”

    2. Ray, your thought reminds me of Eiseley’s passage – so good:

      Make no mistake. Everything in the mind is in rat’s country. It doesn’t die. They are merely carried, these disparate memories, back and forth in the desert of a billion neurons, set down, picked up, and dropped again by mental pack rats. Nothing perishes, it is merely lost till a surgeon’s electrode starts the music of an old player piano whose scrolls are dust. Or you yourself do it, tossing in the restless nights, or even in the day on a strange street when a hurdy-gurdy plays. Nothing is lost, but it can never be again as it was. You will only find the bits and cry out because they were yourself. Nothing can begin again and go right, but still it is you, your mind, picking endlessly over the splintered glass of a mirror dropped and broken long ago. That is all time is at the end when you are old – a splintered glass. I should never have gone to that place, never have accepted the engagement, never have spoken…

      ~ Loren Eiseley, “The Rat That Danced” from “All the Strange Hours. The Excavation of a Life.” (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1975)

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  5. Ahhh DK… Stop beating yourself up. (Must be that Canadian that is still in you…) And thanks for sharing your vulnerabilities…
    I am a fan of Miss Vickie’s Black Pepper and Lime chips over Cape Cod (got sick over a bag once, so I can’t touch ’em no more…) I open a bag of those suckers and practically lick the bottom of the bag…. ok, technically I do as I wet my fingers, slide ’em along the bottom and bring them back to my awaiting tongue…
    I believe I would do the same for ice cream… well, using a spoon of course.
    And of COURSE you use a teaspoon… you get more bites 😉

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      1. the allure of yummy sweets calls my name too and often, esp last evening the choc.chip birthday brownies with HD vanilla bean with choc caramel sea salt topping on the side…

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  10. Me thinks you are too hard on yourself, my friend. We are the same yet different every day. Let that go and be what it is. Give up the regret…it leads you nowhere. Ever. And I love gelato!

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  13. Well. It doesn’t get any easier as we get older. Fast food will not help you age gracefully, but not my circus. Only to say that corporate food wants you addicted. Nasty stuff that Will end up piling on the weight, raising both blood pressure as well as sugar. There, I’ve said it.

    But I will NOT have you trouncing your own writing or talent with words. You are one of my favorite bloggers on wp for your Own work. Your own style. 😌

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    1. 1) Fastfood I can control. Sugar, not so much. Sooner I admit I’m addicted and solve this problem, the better off I will be.

      2) And thank you for the encouragement on the writing Bela. These thoughts coming from you mean a lot.

      Aloha!

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  15. Just popped back to re-read your writing. Not that I agree with all the ‘overdoing’ (and knowing only too well my own huge shortcomings I don’t need to be reminded of all the things I should do better 😉 ;)…. but hey ho!) but because I so like your writing style, the freshness, the intimate description of your everyday life and its struggles! Go on, be good t yourself 🙂

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  16. Sorry David; I hadn’t quite finished, because after reading through the above once again, I was reminded of what I often say to my Hero Husband when he is on one of his (too) frequent sugar surge searches: OK, go ahead, kill yourself – just don’t cancel your life insurance yet….. 😉 It’s always a ‘riot’ when we go ‘there’ because we both are not serious but so far he hasn’t cancelled his life insurance !!!
    We spouses are nagging you guys NOT because we are mean-spirited, or because we love nagging you – but because we are deeply concerned for your ‘bien-être’, your well-being. We are ‘carers’ not naggers…. now go and throw away your mega tubs of ice cream 🙂

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  17. If you’re doing all of those things, it means you’re still a teenager at heart! I’m very boring. When my hormones switched off, I stopped craving sugar and therefore stopped binging, and gave up running for more gentle exercise. My husband is still a teenager, as he loves ice cream, chocolate, heaps of sugar in is coffee, tea, on his breakfast cereal, and on fruit that’s already full of natural sweetness. It would probably kill him to take up running, but he has real gladiatorial turns in the garden and the allotment that leave him dripping with sweat.

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