Plus, there is the aerobics of terror, from grocery shopping. My wife asked us to stop at the store, and pick up a few things. No problem. Normally she does not trust me with a very long list, so a basket is all that is needed. With a basket a shopper remains mobile, elusive, a moving target, bobbing and weaving, dancing around the malevolent, grabbing some coffee, and skipping out of the line of fire.
Monday, though, there were three 12 packs of soft drinks (I am not going to enter into that rancorous, venomous soda vs. pop vs. cola debate, nor I am going to endorse a brand unless they offer me some incentive (take that Coke, (oh, dammit!))) so I was weighed down by a cart. I was at the mercy of other, more experienced shoppers.
Cruising down the aisle for tortillas, and moving slow, cautious, I stopped and picked up our brand, on sale great! and moved on. A woman who was maneuvering her shopping cart behind me decided to take me on the left. She swung out, and began to pass me, so I stopped, sensing a multi cart pile up, and the ensuing chaos, plus, it might crush my Frito Scoops (also on sale, hooray!). The minute I stopped, she stopped, just to my left, glaring hatefully at me, her hand came up and she pointed her finger at me, the nail long, filed sharp, and painted blood red, her hand was shaking with homicidal rage. Angrily, bitterly, indignantly, she said "I want to get a bag of salted pretzel twists behind you."
Anyway, I went to the gym last night. I tried something new. Instead of listening to a podcast I turned on some music. A bad idea.
I am too easily influenced, too prone to suggestion. I started with a little Van Morrison, slow, melodic, and pleasing, the treadmill and I were one. Southern Cross, came next and we hit our stride, a nice pace, just cruising. But, next was the Blues rocker James Cotton singing "Cotton Mouth Man." We were rocking, and rolling, by the time he sang "People shouted mercy, these blues can not be healed," I was going about 45 miles an hour, people were staring at me, probably because of my joints screaming in protest.
Bad news, my boss has given me permission to write a company newsletter, and once it is finished I will post it here, with her permission of course. So, keep your eyes open for that, if you dare. See, Mike, I told you I was going to start my own newsletter.