I'm not going to lie to you, I'm going through some withdrawal pains.
Truth is, they don't help that much and only tend to make me sleepy, which does allow me to make up for the deficit I incur every night when I'm strapped into a foam rubber stockade to keep my legs from crossing.
Stupid orthopedic rules.
Nor is the withdrawal related to alcohol, which has been off the menu for the past two weeks. Ditching the nightly bourbon and/or beer has been incredibly easy. And I've noticed the clothes even fit a little looser.
My withdrawal is more innocuous.
I miss my exercise.
You wouldn't know from my girthy stance and excessive poundage, but I am seriously addicted to exercise. Borne from my triathlon and marathon days, I would often do two to three workouts a day. I'm now paying the price for all that pavement pounding as evidenced by the dwindling of the cartilage in my hip joints and my knees. All of which are looking forward to titanium and carbon fiber implants in the not so distant future.
As of late, my workout routine, and when I say routine, I mean 7 days a week, consisted of weightlifting in the garage. And relentless Peloton riding in my daughter's abandoned bedroom.
The Pelotoning had gotten to the point where I was often in the top 10% of most classes I took. And I took special pride in beating the results of anyone younger than 44 years of age.
If I had my druthers, I'd hop on the Peloton this second and knock out 14-15 miles with Sam Yo, my favorite instructor. Or do a solo ride through the streets of Sydney or Singapore. If any of you have a Peloton, I strongly recommend the ride through Singapore. You'll see 8 cops within the span of 4 minutes. And the streets look cleaner than a hospital operating room.
Of course, I don't have my druthers and won't until Dr. Sassoon gives me the green light and I can get back to my addictions.
Healthy. And not so healthy.
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