Thursday, March 18, 2010

My day so far.

Awoke just before 5am, and arose shortly thereafter. Did some stretching in front of the mirror. It’s a good place to stretch, because the image staring back is one that inspires further exercise, simply from the standpoint that shame provides impetus. My stretching is stretching my stretch marks. After 3 push-ups, I’m ready for a hot shower. Turn on the water, take a moment to swing an imaginary golf club in front of the mirror. Grimace at the unsightly form twisting unnaturally, a grotesque caricature of athleticism. (Note to self: For pre-exercise warm up, turn dimmer switch down to romantic).

Return to shower prep, and feel the water. Still cold. It’s taking its time this morning. Continue golfing. Try to focus on keeping left arm straight, getting hands high. Instead become entranced by man boobs swinging rhythmically, flowing pendulously like two water balloons changing direction. (Note to self: work on setting swing rhythm from motion of mammalian fun-bags. Must use whatever is at my disposal to improve.)

Return to shower. Water still cold and getting colder. Reluctantly conclude water tank is kaput. Make way to basement, now clad in underwear and rubber boots. Pop cover off water heater, and peer inside. No flame. Try to read warranty information, but glasses are upstairs. Squint harder, and make out “farting instructions…” Don’t need help with that. Move light closer and work it out. Context….context…Starting instructions. Think of how Keith used to do it. A long set of pliers and a match. Groan inwardly at the thought. Remember that these units are all hot start ignition nowadays. Unplug unit. Wait 30 seconds. Realize it’s not a computer. Plug it back in. Watch as igniter begins to glow. Relieved, but not out of the woods. Poof!. The burner fires. Watch awhile to ensure it doesn’t go out. Replace cover and head upstairs, unduly proud of my troubleshooting prowess.

Make coffee by the light of the microwave. Resist urge to wave, through open blind slats, at neighbour, who is outside starting his car. Note how even small successes make one more sociable, if only from the need to share our triumphs with another soul. Stop in mid-wave, and yank blind strings, still clad in underwear and boots. Neighbour must think I’m a recent escapee from a mental institution. (Note to self: this first impression could be more effective than a high privacy fence. Be certain to repeat performance tomorrow.)

Add to Technorati Favorites