Once upon a time I was a fairly active guy. I played volleyball, softball, basketball, ultimate frisbee, golf, tennis and swam when I could find water. I mountain biked, backpacked and ran trails. I kept an arsenal of athletic gear and several changes of clothes in my trunk in case the mood struck while I was driving around. I had an enviable resting heart rate and cholesterol levels to die for. I was healthy. Physically.
Emotionally? Not so much. Married to the wrong woman. Hated going home — not that it mattered, since we barely talked to each other for the last years of our marriage. Not pointing fingers, just saying.
So, to summarize, healthy? Yes. Happy? No.
Then came Sandi and, soon after, Thomas (see last post). Happiness came with them (see last post again). But being a dad is, like, the definition of a full-time gig. Sleep deprivation sapped me of any energy that could or should have been dedicated to fitness, so my regimen lapsed as my free time waned. Then, as if to add gasoline to the fire of happiness, precisely 1 year and 30 days after Thomas’ birth, Ethan came. Memories of this time in my life are fuzzy, but I have vague recollections of watching a show about Navy Seal training and yelling, “Quit your whining, ya fags!” at the TV. Dudes, that’s fucked up right there: To be in the shit so deep that you think Seal candidates have it easy by contrast.
Needless to say, my days of physical health and exercise were over. There was no free time. There was no recovery. There was no me. And the weight came. Don’t want to say how much because it’s really embarrassing, but I will say that it landed me comfortably in the “obese” category.
Now, 7 years down the road, life has started to ease up to the point where I can begin to get back in shape. I’ve started working out again and have seriously altered my diet. In the past 6 weeks I’ve lost more than 30 pounds. (Stop that whistling, I’m involved.) My wind is coming back as is my muscle tone. I still have a lot of work to do, but I feel so much better about myself that I’m not worried about sticking with it. I’m starting to remember what it felt like to feel good.
Except that I don’t really feel that good. Every yin has a yang, and if my yin is a thinner body, my yang appears to be extreme irritability. And not like “if you do that again so help me I’ll roll my eyes when you’re not looking!” irritability, but more like “I WILL RIP THE BEATING HEART OUT OF YOUR FUCKING CHEST AND EAT IT WHILE YOUR DIMMING EYES AND YOUR LOVED ONES WATCH!” irritability.
What’s really fucked up — and maybe I’ve just been too fat (ergo, jolly) to notice for awhile — but stressors/triggers are EVERYWHERE! Seriously, I find myself wondering if people have always been this fucking annoying and I just never noticed. Whatever the case, however they got here, they are legion and they apparently believe that while I slumbered in a Ben and Jerry's coma, they inherited the earth. Yeah, well I'm here to tell you that your reign of assholia is officially over, bitches.
And just to be clear, I’m not talking about garden variety assholia, like accidentally cutting me off because you didn’t see me, or bumping into me with your shopping cart because your kids distracted you. I'm not roid raging or anything. I’m talking about the guy who rides up on my ass in standstill rush hour traffic flashing his lights and beeping his horn because he can’t get by, who then gives me the finger when traffic starts moving again as if it’s my fault that somebody broke down a mile up the road.
Guess what, butt munch. Daddy woke up. And if you don't lay off that horn and get the fuck in line I will go so Grand Torino on you that you will believe a band of Gypsies has taken up residence in your asshole.
So now, like oil and water, happiness and health seem once again refuse to mix in my life. I know it's possible to achieve both. I have friends who live it every day -- one particularly amazing, peaceful, mellow gentleman who I'm proud to call friend who was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago and now runs triathalons. With role models like him, I'm confident that I'll find a balance soon. But for now I feel like the best way to put this newly found hypersensitivity to assholia to use is to identify a few case studies so that one day when Thomas and Ethan get around to reading this, they'll be able to use it as a textbook. "Daddy's Official Guide To Asshole Avoidance And Maintenance." Subtitle: Or, Worst Case, How To Dispose Of The Bodies.
Next stop: The Little Fucker Next Door. Stay tuned.
"I be walkin' god like a dog, my narrative fearless. My word war returns to burn like Baldwin home from Paris. Like Steel from a furnace. Calm like a bomb." — RATM
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