These days, it’s all about finding that former stride.
Paul says, “get back to where you once belong.” He’s a wise man, that Paul. Everyone heralds John, which is true and mostly deserving, but I like it when Paul has his moments. Goes beneath the boyish arrogance and saucy mouth and lets you see something that sparkles. Something that pings. Kind of like when they allowed George write a song or let Ringo speak.
It’s a declarative moment, really, to come out and say, “Hey self. You’ve wasted a least a month of your life, if not more. You used to rock. Now, what were we doing again?”
Inch by inch. Look at my sass. I’m getting there.
I think I have that hat.
I feel odd in this skin. Perhaps because there’s currently too much of it. Mind you, I’ve learned to embrace my curves, valleys, and swells. I will never be a size 6. I can’t imagine myself as a size 6. I think the big fat head inherited from my father would topple me over. I would have to get one of those cone-dog wheelchairs to get myself about. I like my ass, too. It’s deceiving firm, so I’ve been told. However, I do not embrace mountains. I do not embrace jowls.
The first step. I’m supposed to wake myself up at 6am for a solo-gratis run, which seems laughable at 3:53am when I kind of want a chocolate covered pretzel. Something carb-y. Something asur.
The second step. Numbers. The 18th. 23 years. T-minus 10 pounds. I’ve done worse to myself, I think.
The third step? I’m not sure. Running up hill. Sweat trickling into your eyes. Inhale, exhale. BREATHE. Forgetting Wii-related knee injuries. Configuring the Nike app on my iPhone. Embracing the blur. Ce n’est pas une Flo.