A very busted up morning

They didn’t leave for their Shiner trip until late, like at around ten. Gone are the days when Pop would be up at six and out by seven-thirty for such a trip. After all, Pop doesn’t go to sleep until about three. He’s also a lot older now, though I marvel over his vitality, as he moves and acts like he is still in his fifties, and I hope that I can be like that in my seventies, notwithstanding the question of how I would be supporting myself, as Pop would presumably be long gone.

By the time they left, I was in the mood for a major wank. And now here I am, drying off after my shower, and it’s lunch time, almost twelve. A very busted up morning. I’m not particularly upset. I’m back into that one-thing-at-a-time mode, however long it takes, knowing that it doesn’t really matter, as my life is apparently only my own self-indulgence. Why get stressed over my schedule?

my gut hangs on top of my lap

God, the way my gut hangs on top of my lap when I sit down at the computer. Maybe I need to get serious about this.

But how? One coke a day and no sweets? No more heavy meals? Snack on fruit? Is this even possible?

I don't know...

And now that I am nearly fifty, I have my age working against me. The idea of embarking upon a serious workout program, or anything resembling a workout program, is ridiculous - not going to happen. Though, I feel myself longing for those teenage days in Yokota, playing basketball with the guys for sweaty hour after hour, jogging down the flightline with friends in the evening... I sorely wish I could try that as a workout program. I don't know about you, Gary, but those were my best days, the very best.