Monday 5/6/24
Walked past a guy yesterday outside of a lobster place on Atlantic Avenue who was wearing a Barstool sweatshirt, sucking on a cigarette, and who looked about fifty-five, but who can tell with the horrible shape many people keep themselves in, so he could have been thirty-seven.
He starts coughing such that you can hear how he's made up of like fifteen percent phlegm, but in that way someone does when they want to be noticed for how rough and natural they are, a man's man, like, "You got that right, I'm a guy who lives hard, badass that I am, staying up late drinking whiskey and humping women because I'm in demand, at least in my head anyway and when I'm drunk at home and ordering Barstool merch, with my coarse and 'don't give a fuck' manly ways, and this is just the price I have to pay, being this man's man that I am."
Unenthused about walking through this nasty-ass meatball's spray of germs, I said, "Sounds great, man. No need to cover that mouth, right?"
What's he going to do? Pudge me to death? Have a heart attack on me? He'd already blasted out his vile bacteria.
I see the I'm-going-to-spray-my-germs coughing technique regularly now. Manners and civility are basically non-existent in today's society. This woman was standing in the middle of the City Hall stairs, waiting for her daughter who was taking photos of herself for ten minutes--moronic narcissist that she was--in front of the rainbow-colored Boston sign up above, and she just kept coughing and coughing and coughing, with me going by again and again, and never once raised a hand to her mouth.
It really is like no one gives a thought to anyone but themselves.
Transitioning to fitness things:
Ran 1000 stairs and did 100 push-ups on Thursday--didn't feel at all like going out there, but thought I'd break a sweat at least. Ran 3000 stairs and did 100 push-ups on Friday. Then on Saturday I ran five laps around a big field, did 105 circuits of the stairs outside the Bunker Hill Monument at the Connecticut gate, did 300 push-ups, and walked eight miles. Then yesterday I did 105 more circuits at the same spot, did another 300 push-ups (twenty sets of thirty over the weekend in total), and walked twelve miles. Was out there with the birdsong of the morning, because I like being out then. It does you good to have the birds singing all around you. Seventy-five is my regular number of circuits at the Connecticut gate steps, so I pushed that a bit. 105 circuits puts you just above 5000 stairs.
From Chestnut Hill to Charlestown, I have five stair-running spots and a regular workout I do at each one. That workout often changes, of course, but there's what I think of as the standard. The standard workout at these steps outside of the Monument is the hardest. It's the incline. Yesterday I had a windbreaker on over my sweatshirt, and it was like a sauna inside of my three layers above the waist, which made it somewhat harder still. You want that. The more you sweat, the harder it is, the better.
No pain nor aches to speak of, really. Mild soreness on Sunday afternoon, so made myself a cup of peppermint tea and then I was good to go like I hadn't done anything at all.
Cranberry juice actually stings when you drink it if it's cold. Which is also what you want.
I feel like I've always felt. Inside, I mean. Being in me now, if you will, feels like it felt to me when I was whatever age. A teenager. There is no, "Can't do that," or "This doesn't feel so hot." There aren't limitations.
Got a Mother's Day card for my mom.
Yesterday marked 2856 days, or 408 weeks, without a drink.
I've touched on this before, but why must everyone say that they want to "do" their food and drink? What is it with that? "Yeah, I'll do a steak and cheese sub."
You'll do it? Inevitably, my mind conjures an image of this person fornicating with said steak and cheese sub.
"Let me slip it between the sides, under the meat. Oh, yeah, gooey. That's what I'm talking about."
But women say it as well. No one says, "Can I get a medium iced coffee." Why? What is with this do thing?
"Yeah, can I do..."
Yesterday I saw four sparrows at different times of the day gathering materials for their nests. The first one was a male sparrow at Bunker Hill. This is what makes me smile. To see life going about life. Creatures more pure of the spirit of life than we often are.
One of these sparrows was very selective as he looked for just the right blade of grass. He was like, no, no, that won't do, maybe, not quite, ah, perfect!
I watched him fly off with the blade in his beak--it had almost a bushy top--intent on seeing where he was headed. He went about twenty yards down the road that leads up to the Monument on the side with the main gate, and alighted at the top of a building, where I assume the nest was. A bird just going about his day, doing what he needs to do.
