I know it's been awhile. I have been a little out of sorts. So, for whatever reason, call it shame (the kind that’s featured in the Seventh Inning Stretch Song), I feel obliged to begin this entry with a formal acknowledgement of my grief about the Mets losing their last game of the season, their last game in Shea Stadium, the last game where it was possible for them to head to the post-season. Yes, I know. They lost. Okay, okay. Enough. Moving onward…
Today during a Video Teleconference I attended, one of the participants, sporting a speech impediment, described an operative's claim to flame as detecting bombs before they blow. That cracked me up. I didn't laugh, but, man, I wanted to. Next time I am going to be sure NOT to sit directly behind the person who has the camera trained on him. That way everyone from Bhagdad to Honalulu isn't saying, "Hey look at that Navy Chick falling asleep or making funny faces!"
Today for my workout I banged it out on the treadmill. I do that when I want to make myself run fast. On a ship we don't have the option to do anything BUT derive our exercise from machines. Here, there are nice paths nearby, and still I often find that the machines are always heavily populated. When I leave the building for a run, though, I guess I do see a lot of people doing that too. The path and sidewalks extending from the back of the Athletic Center to the surrounding paths and bridges across the Potomac are well worn by the determined strides of the inmates of the Polygon, busting out for their regular constitutional only to be methodically reeled back in within an hour or less.
Treadmillland is different, though. In treadmillland faces are more blank, all plugged in, tuned out, going through the motions of "the workout" as though it is another action to process. Me, I feed on that turpitude. When I enter treadmillland I think, "look here motherfuckers, I am about to let the dog out of the house." The outdoor runs are for my soul, the treadmill runs fire up my heart. I start out a little easy, but I am not satisfied until my sweat is spraying everywhere like the music dripping from my ears; my stomach starts to feel a little upset and my little legs can do nothing more than pray like a cartoon character: "feet don't fail me now!"
A guy I used to run with in college got hit by a car once and cracked his femur. He couldn't run for a very long time. One day I saw him coming around the block, looking like he had just finished up a run. I said, "Hey, Jon, you doing better? I thought you couldn't run?" He grimaced at me, wagged his finger and said, "Sometimes you just gotta let the dog out of the house."
Later on this afternoon, Bingo (one of the guys I work with) said, “Geez… [#2] you were making me tired just watching you on the treadmill. How fast were you going?” That is what I do on the treadmill at least once a week, just to break up the monotony and remind myself that I am still alive. I go crazy and wonder if those around me are really so fixated on their news program or their iPods, if they stop for a moment or more and think, "Look at that bitch run!"
I am not a bitch, just a dog getting out of the house.
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