I kept a diary right after I was born. Day 1: Tired from the move. Day 2: Everyone thinks I’m an idiot. – Steven Wright
At the marijuana dispensary, the second thing they ask you is your age.
“Three score and eighteen,” I offer brightly. “The first half of the last century.”
Seventy-eight. 78. Nine hundred and thirty-six months. Too addled to break it down any further.
Possibly. Old. Now. Most people would agree.
On the eve of my birthday – Christmas Eve – sprung awake when I heard the loud CRACK! of dawn.
The old bitch kept quiet this morning.
No, not the wife. Her ancient canine.
She’s on the downhill side, the dog, so we handle her with care
Weigh in at 168 lbs. Up two pounds. I blame climate change.
Turn on the lights, start the coffee, get dressed.
Rub one dog, snuggle, tummy scratch another. Who let the dogs out?
It was me.
Bark! Two Barks!! Because who knows what manner of creature is out there. Give any potential malefactors a chance to run before facing the wrath of Ragnar and Lily.
Write this on my birthday eve. Which would have been my parents’ 79th wedding anniversary.
Yes, I was born a day after my parents were married.
“A year and a day,” Mom was always quick to add. Often from across the room. “A year and a day.”
Awoke feeling better than I have since The Fourth Of July – Independence Day – half a year ago. I’ve been waiting. Hoping. Praying. Patiently.
To be honest, these days, ‘feeling good’ is almost troubling. Startling, so somehow foreboding, which I will choose to ignore. Been watching too many movies since I gave up the news. For health reasons.
Feeling good, enjoy it while it lasts.
Something Mom said to Dad doubtlessly 79 years ago.
Wondered what I was doing half a century ago. I can guess.
Flagstaff, Arizona. It was a Monday and I weighed 161.5 lbs. Must be careful as Grandma has sent many cookies. Thirteen degrees at 4:30 p.m. Snowing with approximately four inches already on the ground. Ran ten really tough miles. Not fast, of course, but worked rather hard nonetheless. Icicles, on my moustache, hanging off my sideburns and the hair on the back of my neck. Had to stop once to open one eye where the lashes had frozen together. I love to run like this, he said. In retrospect. Once he warmed up.
Surprised I hadn’t done a morning run.
December 24, 1974. Tuesday. My 28th birthday! 161.25 lbs. Eleven degrees at 4:30 p.m. Very windy! WIND CHILL FACTOR must have been -35 at least. Penis “froze” under three layers of clothes. Ran ten miles. At least medium effort.
Not surprised no morning run.
These old running journals are like falling into a time warp.
Christmas 1974 the weather improved. Then Friday, temps reached 36 degrees and I wore shorts.
Finished the week on a high note, let’s call it. Getting ahead of myself, I know. Reminiscence can do that to the elderly.
Age is a deep hole.
Sunday the 29th, I have ballooned to 163 lbs. 10:30 a.m. Thirty degrees. Six miles through the snow. Did not run fast but kinda hard. (wore basketball sneakers!). 3:30 p.m. Thirty-one degrees. Six miles on the road. Day = 12.0 miles. Week = 70.3 miles.
Seventy-eight is 546 dog years.
Sadly reminded of Mac and Major and Money and The Dude and Shane and Hagrid and Dixie and Andy and Jaxx Good Dogg. To name a few. Sad now, but so much joy. Wish there’d been more dogs.
Anyway, a half century later, I am up five pounds and this morning managed to cover a half mile in under twenty minutes.
So, it’s not the shoes.
Inhaling, exhaling, one big foot in front of the other. Repeatedly.
I am still that guy. Happy Birthday to me.