My Butt Is Dragging
GOING UP AND DOWN STAIRS is difficult today because my butt is dragging and it makes a disturbing sound as it bounces on each step.
SHH-Thump, SHH-Thump, SHH-Thump
I’m in recovery from our vacation that covered 1600+ miles in one week, more walking/hiking than I’ve done in years and that, as of yesterday, I am one year older.
No wonder my butt is dragging. It may take a week of intense sleeping for me to get my sedentary mojo back.
Last night when I plopped down in my favorite chair I could swear I heard it whisper, “You’re home!” I was touched that it remembered me. The Rip Van Winkle Memorial Chair and I go back a few years. It knows that when my cheeks hit the upholstery that, while I may say I’m there to watch some TV, I’m really there to sleep.
Another reason that my butt is dragging today is the fallout from the feeding frenzy at the Red Lobster last evening. I think I might have inadvertently tricked my body into thinking that I was a bear loading up for hibernation. I ate more than enough to keep an 800 pound Kodiak bear alive through a long Arctic winter.
I mentioned our trip to the Red Lobster in yesterday’s blog and I have already gotten a number of comments suggesting various diets to help me get rid of this excess weight. I think the best way is for me to be selective about what I eat and to stay away from that evil Red Lobster. No offense to Red Lobster, but…
I guess that, now that I am no longer a “mere yute,” to borrow a phrase from the movie “My Cousin Vinnie,” I think that my recovery time is slower – considerably slower- than when I was in my twenties. Back then, in the Dark Ages, I could be out until the Clubs closed at 2:30 AM then go out with a few of the other comedians to some all-night cafes to let the adrenaline come down before heading home to sleep. The sleep was never more than two or three hours until I had to get up and shuffle off to “the day job.”
Nowadays, I find myself cuddling into the Arms of Morpheus before the 11 o’clock news begins. I have gone from being the hip dude about town into the old dude in the easy chair.
My plans for the 4th of July Weekend do not involve fireworks – unless the yutz who lives down the block decides to spend all night re-enacting the Battle of Tarawa in his driveway. I did see him parked outside of the big temporary fireworks store next to the Kroger’s.
“Buy One – Get 7000 FREE!”
Indiana and Terre Haute (That’s French for “Let’s watch the kid blow off his thumbs.”) have very lax laws and regulations about fireworks. Any idiot can buy “fireworks” that the detonation of would be an act of war in most countries. Every July 4th and for a few days afterward this town sounds like the War of 1812. Francis Scott Key would have felt right at home inner-tubing on the Wabash River and seeing the “bombs bursting in air.”
So, on the days that I need the most rest I will have to contend with neighborhood noise levels comparable to the jet wash of a B-52.
I’ll be fine. I know that. I just might be a little grumpier than usual and more likely to nod off in mid sentence than I normally do, but I’ll be OK.
So, if you will now excuse me I am going to walk around in a circle a few times and curl up on the carpet for a little nap.