Monday December 5, 2011
When I started this blog, I was fully aware that I’d have to be sincere and candid for it to ring true. How was I to know, however, that my subject matter would get so weird? If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this outcome, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.
So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because the window behind me is cracked open. And exactly why is the window cracked open? To accommodate the social needs of a feral cat named Snowball.
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| Snowball chilling on the windowsill. |
See, our cat issues go way beyond the inside of our house. As Fluffy admires himself while luxuriating on a feather blanket, and the rest of our cats do what they must to stay in his good graces, a parallel feline universe is flickering outside. At some point after I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Snowball (named such because she’s a white ball of fur) started hanging out on the windowsill outside the dining room. She drops by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.
But it doesn’t end there. God no. When I walk to the other side of the house and gaze out at the patio through a set of sliding doors in the breezeway, sometimes l see a strikingly regal cat (Magnificent Cat), a rough-and-tumble gray cat (Grey) or a tiny black cat (Blackie). They drop by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.
Back at the dining room table, I’m getting colder by the minute. Cracking the window open wasn’t a big deal in September, but now that winter is upon us, it’s a frosty proposition. What better way to warm up than to go for a lunchtime run around the perimeter of the golf course? I haven’t jogged since I tore up my groin playing racquetball a few weeks ago with my friend Bennett, but the injury seems to have healed. I’m ready to let loose.
As I gallop down some side streets along the golf course and turn onto a busy stretch of road, my groin feels great. In fact, I don’t give it a second thought—especially after I feel a painful pull in my right calf that causes me to pull up lame. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter to myself. “Yet another injury.” Unshowered and unshaven, clad in a particularly tattered set of sweats and cursing under my breath, I hobble onward with all the dignity of a homeless person. I figure it’s only a matter of time before a squad car pulls up and takes me away, but I make it back to my blustery dining room table without incident.
“This is starting to get ridiculous,” I say to Cassie of my mounting injuries.
She rolls her eyes and says, “What do you expect? You’re 50.”
“Forty-seven,” I remind her.
“Same thing,” she says.
Either way, I’m not ready to concede anything to aging. I attribute the sudden and systematic breakdown of my body to a run of bad luck that started when I was laid off from Crushed Soul. It’ll pass—and I’ll be able work out as vigorously as ever.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Why wait for this storm cloud to pass? I decide to take the initiative and push the damn thing out of the way.
My lower body might be shot, but I’m good to go from the waist up, so I head to the Y to lift weights. Included in my regimen is an endorphin-releasing bench-press exercise I’ve performed for over a decade without as much as a twinge: two sets of 10 reps at 225 pounds, one set of five to seven reps at 275 pounds, one set of three to four reps at 295 pounds and one set of two to three reps at 315 pounds. As I pump through my first set at 225 pounds, I’m feeling fit and virile, until there’s a pull in my right triceps that’s identical to what I experienced in my right calf a couple days earlier.
Now my upper body is shot, too. Fifty, I hear Cassie say in my head as I go home in defeat yet again.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Whenever Cassie reads these entries, she reminds me that this is supposed to be a career-oriented blog—hence, the title—and that it might be nice if I wrote about my work situation every once in a while. Problem is, blogging about job stuff can become tiresome, especially after three-plus months. If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this dilemma, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.
Suffice it to say, I’m in career purgatory right now—I’m neither unemployed nor employed. I’m just trying to stay afloat doing freelance projects until (1) a suitable full-time job materializes or (2) I grow my freelance business to the point where that is my full-time job. Fortunately, I have some promising irons in the fire, though I don’t want to get into specifics for fear of jinxing them. (Being sincere and candid can only go so far.)
Friday, December 9, 2011
So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because I have the window cracked open for Snowball, who has stopped by for some conversation and perhaps just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast. For the sake of art, or whatever this is, I’ve written another brutally honest (and mostly embarrassing) blog entry—especially where Snowball, Magnificent Cat and the rest of the feral gang are concerned. I just hope our neighbors don’t read this one.
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