Just Do It

Just started a new book, given to me by the thoughtful (and younger) Ms. Muse. This is not at all unusual for me, as I start a lot of new books. Finishing them is a different story. Ironically, I could write a book about all the books I never finished. 

I bought the 600 page Confidence Man by Maggie Haberman when it came out about 2 years ago. I have yet to crack into the 300's. By the way, if you think Trump was a scumbag president, you'd be wrong. He's been a scumbag way before he was president. He' s been a scumbag since he emerged from his weird-haired Scottish mother, his whole miserable, gold-plated life. 

He may take back his place in the White House -- thanks to the unfathomable stupidity of the American right -- but once the embalmer sprays that final coat of bronzer, this monster is going to the Hot Place.

But back to the book.

I should add that it's not unusual for Ms. Muse to hand me books. In fact, at the conclusion of our first date , she passed on two books to me: a Steven King novel, and the Official Twilight Zone Compendium. I didn't get to start either of those books. Because I promptly lost them!

An inauspicious, but now funny, beginning.

But I'm off to a good start with Younger, Next Year (the book pictured above). I cracked the book open this morning and have already made some good headway. 

It could be the subject material, which is near and dear to my heart. As well as my lungs, my muscles, my bones, my brain and my other brain. In short, it's a manual for longevity. And while I'm not afraid to die, I'd like to put it off for a while. I have people to meet, places to see and adventures to be taken with my kid's inheritance money.

I also have a shit ton papers that need to be organized before my demise. And I'd like to be above ground long enough to see Him/It go below ground. 

The good news is I've already got a head start on the I'm-Going-To-Outlive-Fascism Plan. Turns out the best gerontologists on the planet concur that "movement is the best medicine." In short, they're long on exercise. And believe most Americans get too little of it.

I count myself among the exception and probably get too much. About 2 hours plus. A day. Because now that I'm no longer writing half-assed social and digital crap for PayPal (or anyone else willing to meet my exorbitant day rate) I've got a lot of time on my hand. 

So, when I'm not doing laundry, picking up after myself, or installing a new bidet in any functional toilet I can find in the house, I'm exercising. Dr. Lodge suggests making exercise an addiction. I'm well past that and now into obsession mode. 

I haven't spoke about my grief journey in quite a while. Probably because I wrote about it too much at the beginning. 

However, I can attest to the fact that if I wake up feeling down or melancholy, I know it will dissipate the minute I get on the Peloton. Or in the pool. Or in the garage to pump some iron. Or even on the yoga mat to contort my body in ways that are more painful than any of the aforementioned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to strap on my walking shoes. ChatGPT can write a reasonable fascimile of these blog posts but it can't put 12,000 steps on my iWatch.