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April 21, 2003

good grief

Easter morning began like every morning.  My eyes cracked open as I lay in bed thinking, He is risen!   I glanced at the luminous red digits of the bedside clock and thought,  he is risen at 3:00 a.m....once again!  He has become an aged insomniac surviving on four hours sleep!  He is thinking about himself in the third person and ending every thought with an exclamation point!  in italics!

I hopped out of bed in much the same way that a shedding snake hops out of its skin.  I wondered how I could injure myself sleeping alone.  Easter morning, it was my left wrist.  The day before, my right great toe felt neither right nor great.  I thought it might be gout which, to me, has always had a seventeenth-century, seafaring-ring to it, like scurvy.  Ahoy there, matey!  Methinks I awoke with the gout.  And perchance some scurvy.  Why don't we go ashore at the next port and pick up a wicked strain of syphilis?

I blame my decrepitude on divorce. Like most recently divorced people, I lost weight rapidly and, in the process, I discovered muscles.  Sure, they were undeveloped and useless, but they looked good and that was enough for me.  I ceased all exercise deciding, instead, to pursue a vigorous grief and self-pity program.  But like all good things, it came to an end.  Not only did the weight return, but I could no longer sleep, and I awoke each morning feeling like a gouty contortionist.

So I went for a run.  without warm-up or stretching or doctor's advice, I ran like the wind.  I ran like a breeze?  I ran like the breath of a newborn with SIDS!  Unfortunately, the exercise flooded my "system" with outdorphins.  Soon after the three minute run, I was stricken with gut-wrenching depression.  Oh, why couldn't I have endorphins like everybody else!  Why couldn't I be uplifted and jaunty, like that know-it-all woman in the Alleve commercial?

Perhaps my grieving hasn't been what it should be.  One can always grieve harder.  I can hear my Personal Grieving Trainer now:  You call that grieving?  You're a pussy!  Grieve!  Grieve, goddamnit!  You gotta want it!

©  2003 by the beastmaster