The Chronicles of Henry, Part II
It is time.
I have to apologize, loyal readers, for leaving you all in the dark these past months. Lately, 40 has been rearing its ugly head in my direction. I hit The Big Four Oh in two months, and since my last entry middle age has assaulted me with more bad ankles, kidney stones, a broken wrist, and several yards of impassable snow. So I have reacted to this onslaught the best way I know how: Sit on the couch, eat lots of snack food and nap a lot. Sadly, none of these activities make for very good blogging material. Hence, my absence.
In addition to my lack of blogging, I have to admit mild depression has set in. I didnít think 40 would bother me when the time came, but I guess it has a little. I blame my various recent ailments (and the snow) but whatever the reason, I have come to realize I am now beset with a full-blown case of Mid-Life Crisis. This has led me to consider how exactly to deal with said Crisis.
My first option, research indicates, is to find myself a young floozy and have a wild sordid affair in order to feel young and strong and virile. However, there are several sticking points one must acknowledge upon closer examination of the Floozy Option. First of all, Iíd have to leave the house. Secondly, Iíd have to find a floozy. Lastly, and this may be the most significant stumbling block, I donít think my lovely bride would support this option for long. Sheís pretty cool and understanding, but, well, that might be pushing the limits of her patience just a little.
The second option is to go out and buy myself a really expensive man toy, such as a completely impractical sports car, or better yet, a motorcycle. The Man Toy Option is slightly more doable for me than the Floozy Option, but there are still a few red flags that popped up when I considered it: ĎExpensiveí generally means Ö expensive. Also, I donít know how to ride a motorcycle and I donít really drive stick, so Iím not sure how much fun that would be anyway.
Another, more appealing option is to just start drinking heavily. This is an option I seriously considered, and may use as a fall-back plan. However, I am tabling the Heavy Drinking option for at least a few months, mainly because these days two beers gives me a hangover.
So, having eliminated all of the obvious choices, I had to dig a little deeper. It didnít really come to me until my wife asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I knew I could ask for something pretty big this time, me entering a new decade and all. And for a long time I was stumped. Itís a lot of pressure to have to think of something worthy of so lofty a number, and I did a lot of stalling. Then a few days ago I was sitting on the couch, balancing a bag of cheesy poofs on my ever-growing mid-section, watching TV. I decided to rest my feet on the coffee table (as sitting on the couch with my feet on the floor had become an effort) and I noticed they plunked down on an old book of mine. With considerable strain, I leaned forward to see the title: ďThe Non-Runnerís Marathon TrainerĒ by Dave Whitsett and Forrest Dolgener. I hadnít so much as cracked it open in quite some time, it having been ten years since I ran my marathon, after all. And then I realized, itís been ten years since I ran it. Ten years.
It is time.
It hit me. I knew what I wanted for my birthday.
For the past six months The Beast has had me in its grasp. Itís been mocking me and laughing and turning me 40 and I havenít done a damn thing about it. What I wanted for my birthday was to find The Beast, grab him by the Mid-Life Crisis and smack him right in the kisser. What I wanted was to trample the bad ankles and the broken wrists and the four decades under my feet.
What I wanted was to run another marathon.
It is time. I am going to run another one. And Iím starting right now.
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