SlapDashittery
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Pushing the needle of physical exertion repeatedly into the red zone is a summertime right of passage, happily, and the consequent overheating and temporary breakdown of the mechanics involved are not just to be expected but savored, like awaiting the sensation of jaw muscles recoiling from the temerity of a spicy enchilada. Triumphant trumpets bellow songs of victory after each completed task is rewarded with gallons of water, with sitting, with crisp breezes crossing against the sun to create a placid, wind-swept atmosphere that both relaxes the psyche and invigorates the hardening joints. With the system operating at near-peak efficiency, and certainly more correctly used than it had been in years, the only outside agent that could pose even a minute threat to ideal employment would be an airborne toxin, that undetectable poison that seems to gestate in the boiling cauldrons of hell itself, the father, sister, brother, motherfucking flu.
I’ve recently shredded my tricep, torso, shoulder and lower-back muscles improperly swinging a sledgehammer, cracked a toenail horizontally and friction-burned my elbow almost avoiding a takeout slide at third, took a one-hop bullet that danced around my glove off the inside of my thigh that left an orange-sized yellow-green welt as attractive as it was painful, but I obviously haven’t been touched by influenza in quite some time. No, the flu has always been more the slightly extra-ferocious older brother to the common cold in my mind than the shitstorm apocalypse that it turned into. I’ve since realized that viewing any flu in this manner is the equivalent to anticipating refreshment from a 50-foot tsunami.
A week ago Sunday, I developed a headache, for me about as rare an occurrence as watching a tolerant and compassionate discussion break out between a braless crack-whore and that guy in my neighbourhood who always seems to have burrs stuck in his hair. Astoundingly, I carried said headache into Wednesday before a brief respite allowed me to inventory my ailments, which I began alphabetically until the headache returned and proved that any complexities beyond that of standing to urinate were far, far more than my meager, diseased brain was capable of sorting through. My eye sockets began to pulse; a little tickle developed in my throat that produced spasmodic coughing, each hack a crumbling mountain of throbbing agony in my skull; my skin became sensitive as though my insides were held to my bones with nothing more than translucent paper hurriedly scotch-taped into panels of arguable tautness; my internal thermometer fluctuated like an hourglass in the hands of an undersexed baboon, and for every blissful fever there was an immediate reversion to chills so severe that thousands of thumbtacks found their way into my clammy back and ever-sweating scalp. Then, of course, came the mood swings.
Temperamental to begin with, I’ve made great strides this year in allowing inconsequential, insignificant bullshit to fall away from me like girls at a dance-club overwhelmed by repugnant aftershave, but these advancements have been harrowingly undermined by the galaxy of dynamite surreptitiously buried in my embattled cranium, little volatile globs of plastic-explosive with the fuses cut short and awaiting but the faintest of sparks. Unfortunately, hormonally-decadent pregnant women do not produce "faint" sparks, and the clash of the deliriously demented and the effusively emotional produced a cataclysm that was nothing short of extraordinary. I deviously managed to both hoist the white-flag of reconciliation and lob tear-gas at her in equal doses until I exhausted myself, leaving her to presumably stand above my prone, sleeping form imagining what, exactly, it might feel like to strangle the life out of me.
Suffice it to say, and despite the fact that there has been more Advil popped and apologies offered in the past week than in the totality of our previous seven years together, things are running smoothly. The girlfriend is glowing and giddy with child, and I am head down in my writing. Also, for the record, I am currently completely shitting the bed at softball.
Thanks for waiting.
I’ve recently shredded my tricep, torso, shoulder and lower-back muscles improperly swinging a sledgehammer, cracked a toenail horizontally and friction-burned my elbow almost avoiding a takeout slide at third, took a one-hop bullet that danced around my glove off the inside of my thigh that left an orange-sized yellow-green welt as attractive as it was painful, but I obviously haven’t been touched by influenza in quite some time. No, the flu has always been more the slightly extra-ferocious older brother to the common cold in my mind than the shitstorm apocalypse that it turned into. I’ve since realized that viewing any flu in this manner is the equivalent to anticipating refreshment from a 50-foot tsunami.
A week ago Sunday, I developed a headache, for me about as rare an occurrence as watching a tolerant and compassionate discussion break out between a braless crack-whore and that guy in my neighbourhood who always seems to have burrs stuck in his hair. Astoundingly, I carried said headache into Wednesday before a brief respite allowed me to inventory my ailments, which I began alphabetically until the headache returned and proved that any complexities beyond that of standing to urinate were far, far more than my meager, diseased brain was capable of sorting through. My eye sockets began to pulse; a little tickle developed in my throat that produced spasmodic coughing, each hack a crumbling mountain of throbbing agony in my skull; my skin became sensitive as though my insides were held to my bones with nothing more than translucent paper hurriedly scotch-taped into panels of arguable tautness; my internal thermometer fluctuated like an hourglass in the hands of an undersexed baboon, and for every blissful fever there was an immediate reversion to chills so severe that thousands of thumbtacks found their way into my clammy back and ever-sweating scalp. Then, of course, came the mood swings.
Temperamental to begin with, I’ve made great strides this year in allowing inconsequential, insignificant bullshit to fall away from me like girls at a dance-club overwhelmed by repugnant aftershave, but these advancements have been harrowingly undermined by the galaxy of dynamite surreptitiously buried in my embattled cranium, little volatile globs of plastic-explosive with the fuses cut short and awaiting but the faintest of sparks. Unfortunately, hormonally-decadent pregnant women do not produce "faint" sparks, and the clash of the deliriously demented and the effusively emotional produced a cataclysm that was nothing short of extraordinary. I deviously managed to both hoist the white-flag of reconciliation and lob tear-gas at her in equal doses until I exhausted myself, leaving her to presumably stand above my prone, sleeping form imagining what, exactly, it might feel like to strangle the life out of me.
Suffice it to say, and despite the fact that there has been more Advil popped and apologies offered in the past week than in the totality of our previous seven years together, things are running smoothly. The girlfriend is glowing and giddy with child, and I am head down in my writing. Also, for the record, I am currently completely shitting the bed at softball.
Thanks for waiting.
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7 Comments:
Nice to know you're still breathing.
Mostly.
so you're batting "clean up"?
Nice to see you again! At least you've got an excuse for disappearing. Me? Not so much.
good to hear herself is doing well.
You, you'll live.
The other day I used bolt cutters. Took a lot longer to cut a padlock than I thought it would. In the movies they're all, "Boom. Gone. Eat it."
I guess this has nothing to do with shredding muscles and fighting with preggers, but I'm just saying.
Physical exertion is hard.
Wha-da-wha-da-whaaaaaaat? I really did think you were dead.
Boomer: I see what you're saying: it's almost nice I'm not dead.
Jamers: I will bat "clean up" on your face. I will also advise you to visit the burn ward, because that was at least second-degree.
Wolf: It's more fun when there's no excuse.
Xbox: The girlfriend is waddling - it's awesome.
Rass: I've actually never used bolt-cutters. Now, after hearing that it isn't like the movies, I probably never will. I have no need for that kind of disappointment.
Mongogogirl: Nope - still kicking. Literally.
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