Rubber, Meet Road

I am presently consumed with a lethargy so powerful that any comets passing through my orbit will slow down and stop, as if caught in a giant space net. This is not the fatigue of a man weary from life’s unending battering; no, this is the good kind of fatigue that one enjoys from a day well-conducted.

I began my day with a hot shower and a piping hot mug of coffee jacked up with enough flavored creamer to send most people into a diabetic coma. Heart pumping gallons of caffeinated blood throughout my body (I don’t know if that actually happens), I rolled down to my regular Saturday morning step meeting, where I recharged my spiritual batteries and consorted with key members of my tribe. There was more coffee involved.

Returning home, I leashed up the hounds and out into the sunshine we went, passing wordlessly by the carnies and their overpriced, genetically-engineered, lawn-defiling dog. We strolled throughout the neighborhood, pausing endlessly so the dogs could push their snouts into the cool grass along our street, carnival of exotic scents and secret messages left by the dogs passing before us.

Hot yoga followed. Six days into the year, I decided to throw down the metaphorical gauntlet and accept my yoga studio’s challenge to attend 20 classes in the remaining days of the month. The challenge actually began on the first of the month but commitments of this magnitude require pause and reflection. Also, I wasn’t sure that I was up to the challenge and, like a sprinter who didn’t hear the eruption of the starter’s pistol, I started late.

Arriving at the studio early, I claimed a spot in the corner and stretched out in the darkness for a pre-class meditation. Yes, the studio was dark, save for an array of battery-operated candles offering a warm halo across the floor. With the temperature steady at 104 degrees, the instructor arrived and my fellow yogis and I pushed, pulled, stretched and balanced for the next 60 minutes, wringing out impurities and regrets like human dishrags.

Driving home, I listened to Don Winslow’s The Power Of The Dog, a twenty-hour colossus of an audiobook at which I have been chipping away for the past ten days. This is not, incidentally, the Benedict Cumberbatch film of the same name — this is the wholly-arresting fictional account of the United States’ involvement in the disastrous War on Drugs, stretching from the 1970s forward. I’m probably sixty percent done and, at the moment, would recommend it to any audiobook enthusiasts.

The dogs and I baked on the back patio for a little while, drinking in glorious rays of Vitamin D, even as the temperatures barely ticked past 60. I devoured a protein bar and a plate of sinfully-buttered sourdough toast. Don’t you dare judge me.

The Houston Texans faced off against the Kansas City Chiefs at 1:30, but as I stretched out on the couch, a pile of pillows beneath my head and my stupidly-plush Lola blanket draped over me, my only goal was to enjoy as much of the game as possible before the inevitable visit by the Nap Gods. It was glorious.

A snout in my face roused me from my stay in the parallel realm and we suited and leashed up for one more patrol through the neighborhood. No sign of the doodle.

For dinner, I made Beyond Meat tacos with shredded Mexican cheese and eyebrow-searing amounts of agave and chipotle street taco sauce. Because I am a grown man with the dietary sensibilities of an eight year-old, I chased two tacos with a bowl of chocolate moose tracks ice cream and repaired to the sunroom for a bit of reflection and meditation as the cool breezes passed through the canyon and in through my open window.

And now, here I sit, typing this away because a half hour ago, I remembered that I committed to writing 365 pieces for this site this year and today has, so far, been a wash. I considered robbing Peter to pay Paul and doing two pieces tomorrow but, impelled by some inner creative force, I grabbed my laptop and began typing about my day.