Jeremiah's School of Levitation

8:06 AM--Freeway! A friend of mine drew me up a way to commute to the Big Giant Software Giant that would most definitely take my stop start freeway stress and crumple it up and re-de-un-crumple it into a handful of silver lace butterflies that would flutter about my consciousness and I had visions of college parties where I "took something" and, sometime later, I was standing on a beach, shivering, and wondering if possibly I'd dreamed up my entire life up to this point. No, this new route was to carry me over winding rivers, verdant hooded hiways, through the shadow of state parks, and, most importantly, nowhere near the back of the Freeway Beast. Un-freaking-fortunately, I missed a crucial turnoff and, as a result, ended up on the back of the beast. One thing I did notice, though, as I lurched through the dewey commute--the fog descending upon (or rising from?) the freeway looked like the hem of angels' gowns, me a creepy crawly that had invaded the misty debutante dance of wispy beings and all my mortal eyes could focus on was the gentle wave of filigree tracers left by the slow dancers of the morning. I suddenly wanted to just go to sleep.

12:31 PM--Lunch at my desk. I have been gnawing on the same smoked chicken from the local Complete Foods Market since Monday. I have devoured both legs, a good bit of thigh, and am now working on the breast. It has been a strange relationship, me and this smoked chicken. I've needed to douse its meat with salt to get more than a burnt match taste out of it, and, in the nether reaches of its bones, I've encountered uncooked meat, which, on a chicken, spells Fun On the Toilet. I'll spare the details, except to say that maybe next week, when I visit the Wholesome Eats Market, I'm going to get the Completely Cooked Chicken from the section that actually had a lot of people buying from it, and I'm going to end my short, but torrid, affair with the toilet.

9:14 PM--The Gym. I'm lifting, admiring myself in the all-mirrored walls of the gym, sweat beading in my gray-speckled hair, and I realize that I have no idea why I'm doing this. I'm am far past the age where I can turn anyone's head that wouldn't turn unless I either physically reached out and turned their head, or, if they turned their head because I had something hanging out of a hole in my own head that should not have anything hanging out of it that isn't part of a piercing. Sure, I need to stay healthy, but I could do that with brisk goofy walking along the river, or with a strict fiber diet, or by spending a few minutes a day thinking about Rachel Ray. But, I pump on because if I don't, I go to the complete other extreme and think of myself as Jabba the Hut, before he dieted to look like the slim specimen that appeared in Star Wars (oh no, another Star Wars reference--is my geek showing?). So, now I look buff in a tank top as I buy milk and bacon at the local A&P and I can hold the hand basket with only one finger. And, if I wanted to, I could hoist a case of water on my shoulder and not even grunt loud enough for you to hear. And, really, when will I ever need to bench press something? "Honey, can you lie down and push this jar containing a lifetime supply of peanut butter over your head and then open it for me?" Not likely. But, I pump on.

Case of water? No grunting? Oh no, the ultimate is doing it without allowing a gaseous anomaly to escape. That shows serious control my friend.

I'd opt for a scenic drive over a freeway anyday. What a fabulous description of the fog.

I am, by far, the oldest person at the gym (damn college town). When I'm on one of the bikes in the line and on either side of me are hot young 22-year old guys, I fantasize that they want me, they want me BAD. Then I realize they're probably thinking about me, "What's my mom doing here? Won't she break a hip?"

I think the fortunate situation of men is that no matter what their age, if they keep in shape, they turn heads. When men get older, they get distinguished. So worry not and pump on. Besides if you like it, that's all that counts.

Angels hems. Wow.

You're on a roll. Silver lace butterflies. Angels' gowns. Fun on the toilet. (One of these things is not like the others. One of these things doesn't belong. Can you tell which thing is not like the others, Before I finish my song?)

An inappropriate relationship with a chicken is bound to come to a bad end.

Better the back of the beast than the belly, I suppose.

And if you give up on turning heads at the gym, there's always your prose. ;-)

I've had Fun on the Toilet this week with my herbal de-tox cleanse. No raw chicken necessary!

WRT pumping iron, 2 things:
1) weight-bearing activities keep your metabolism revved and the body svelte.
2) I've seen some pretty hot looking grey haired types in my gym. One can almost do full splits... which might actually be creepy if it weren't so damned impressive... Even the young girls catch him out of the corner of their eye.

So... pump on, buff boy.

Susie-oo: I did take the s-cut and it actually was very nice. It made me like driving again as I was this close to throwing my car in the lake, and since I'm so pumped, I can do that, you know...

Emma: Haha! Not that I haven't been the producer of public GA's on a couple of occasions. Note to self: blog about your GA's...

Mona: Yeah, you're right. I do have that "I'm the chaperone" feeling when I'm at the gym too.

Maggie: Now that you mention it, maybe I should just shoot for the Sean Connery aura. I'll work on my accent.

Lucia: Welcome to my brain!

Meno: Mom used to say that, but I didn't believe her. Why didn't I belieeeeeve her?!

Gwynne: Yeah, good point. Beast digestive juices are probably a lot worse than freeway fumes.

Sarah: Thanks for the inspiration. And, I once tried a herbal detox and, man, the result, I told a friend, was that my stomach packed up and moved out--literally.