Human, or at least my, limits reached?
by, May 29th, 2009 at 01:06 PM (1981 Views)
Yesterday, my 23rd consecutive day of punishing physical exercise, almost, but not quite, marked the end of the streak.
It was a dispiritedly humid day of the late spring, early summer gloom variety, the likes of which seems to promote so much depression and weltshmerz in the psychiatrically frail types like myself. I spent the morning showing our recently vacated rental properties to a prospective tenant, came back to the house in a state of exhaustion that had seeped like the cadence of a Poe poem into the core of me.
I lay myself upon the couch, turned on the TV in the hopes of finding some cheerful news about healthcare reform ("In a surprise move, Republican obstructionists today pulled pistols from their attache cases and fired bullets en masse into their temples.") Soon I had moved into a very deep sleep of the sort celebrated by Heinrich Heine in Morphine:
Sleep is good: and Death is better, yet
Surely never to have been born is best.
--Aus Der Matratzengruft
With a name like Heine, he's gotta be good.
During the course of this nap, which was indeed restorative--who knows how many obstructionists cheerfully immolated themselves in my happy dreams?--a storm front moved through our area. I was awakened by thunder and hail, realized that the likelihood of my tennis match being canceled two hours hence was exceedingly high, then immediately nodded off for more sleep and more promise of GOP slaughter and blood bathery.
I awoke again, so deep in sleep inertia I could barely move. I contemplated the rest of my day, for there was much remaining: it was, after all, only 4:20 p.m., a good eight hours before my bedtime. Perhaps, I thought, I could go to the Y and do some weight lifting to keep the exercise streak going.
Or I could hit the On Demand button on my Comcast remote control and watch 14 consecutive episodes of True Blood.
Then my tennis opponent called up and told me it hadn't rained at all where he lived, about 5 miles away. So I dragged my carcass down to the surprisingly dry high school courts--puddles at my house deep enough for sustaining koi or at the very least snakeheads--and played, remarkably well, for the next 2.5 hours, keeping the streak robustly alive.
Did He who made the Newt make thee?
I don't know why I played well, but it was altogether unexpected.
Is it possible John and I are actually identical triplets?
Anyhow, the streak as of now includes:
- 3150 yards
- 500 & weights
I stayed up late last night, relishing my tennis triumph, slept late this morning, my throat raw with a sore throat that has materialized out of the night. Who knows what has brought this new round of sickness upon me? Perhaps in the sleep world, the self-imolated obstructionists all rose from the dead, their bullet wounds and copious amounts of blood still in place, but now plodding about hither and yon with a zombie-like determination to obstruct all hope for the solvency of the likes of me.
Could this have caused a sore throat?
I need to buy some kind of sleep firearms to take with me to the other side the next time I visit the land of nod. I need to protect myself there from the Omega Men that are out to get me.
Zombie Youth Spawn: the future of Republicanism?
Practice tonight at the University of Pittsburgh, perhaps with the pool set up for long course. Sickness: you will not keep me from my practice! You are nothing compared to the fiends I face in the other world.