I hate that bathroom scale. Why do I even have it when it only infuriates and berates and depresses me?
A heating pad provided some solace and recovery for whatever the hell I did to my hamstring. However, I’m still opting to skip the run today, hoping against hope that such a decision will benefit me in tomorrow’s marathon out in Jacksonville. But given the holiday cookies and treats I’ve overindulged in, this may be a Pyrrhic victory. That damn scale is mockingly telling me as much, groaning under my ballooning girth and heft.
Man, I’m in a cruddy mood. I’ve never liked this time of year — Christmas, New Year’s and in the not-too-distant future my birthday. It always seems like a triumvirate of depressing endings. I know there are many who view it as celebrations and renewals, of one year’s end marking the beginning of a new, of hope not hate. But I’m a glass is three-quarters empty kind of guy and all I can see around this time of year is how much I failed to get done in my time spent, the regrets I have too many to mention, and while I did it my way it increasingly seems like my way is no way at all.
Harrumph. Harrumph harrumph.
This is a particularly lousy blog post so ya know what? Here’s a picture of what I apparently am emblematically at the moment:
An Eeyore/Debbie Downer hybrid.
Horrifying? Funny? Funnily horrifying?
In the revised Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, this entry should read simply “mostly sad.”