The Last Ten Pounds

The plan had been when the calendar was half gone – June First – the old man would declare a new year, full of promise and action and progress and production.  At his age, he figured, couldn’t afford to wait for December Thirty-One to get his act together once again.  If he kept striving upwards even when he was fading backwards, he figured he’d end up where he was going anyway.  But at least dammit, he’d be longer making the trip.  He was in no hurry.

Then he fell off his bike, that was a real wakeup call.  Then he figured out the year wasn’t half over.  But by then was too late.  He had already begun.  He was early really.

Cleaning his office, he decided to throw out USAF Form 572 General Military Training Record from 1967.  The old man planned to donate his running memorabilia to Northern Arizona University to be fondled with awe by future generations of young men and women athletes who will learn failure and injury are part of life.

The rest of his papers to Willamette University where generations of future students will study his Times cover about being held a sex slave on a Coast Range cannibis farm – as well as other adventures – and promptly quit law school and do something useful with their lives.  Like marathoning and writing and, well, that’s about it.

The old man remembered serving in the Air Force but recalled nothing about Disaster Actions or Accident Prevention.  His  philosophy might have originated here: Stay out of jail, stay away from the hospital.

A copy of his father’s Honorable Discharge.  Kinda hurt your heart to throw that away.  No surprise he was born exactly nine months later.

The divorce papers from the crazy second wife.  Should be a ten-year-rule.  She hadn’t found him yet.

Well, that’s enough of that for today.

The old man had sensed himself getting comfortable.  That would never do.  Never do.

Time to lose the last ten pounds.