I got in about three AM from a first call, which is shop talk for picking up a deceased loved one and bringing them into the care of the funeral home. I e-mailed Christie just before I turned off my light. I really wanted to know where my Clint Eastwood was, or maybe my rodeo king? Or maybe my Gulf War Veteran who was tough yet tender. Maybe someone who had a past, an understanding of the value of life, and someone who could take care of business? And could she answer this for me?
My pillows were fluffed and I was ready to drift off to dreamland, but I must have missed the ferryboat. I stayed in the same position for what seemed like an hour, contemplating the concept of time. I want more time. I am trapped by the active, intelligent person’s ongoing dilemma, which is the lack of time. Life simultaneously seems too precious to waste in front of the television, and too precious to let slip by without enjoying leisure time and purposeful contemplation.
I want time to reflect. I want time to nap. I want time to pursue and develop a great relationship with someone. I want time to explore my fascination with canned foods. I want time to visit my father and niece. I want time to bake cookies for a deserving guy, and learn how to cook a great steak. I want time to get in my Jeep, drive somewhere pretty, and snap a roll of pictures. I want so much time that I might, just might, find myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, so bored that I wish I could die, like I did once when I was seven.
I finally turned my head to see what time it was, and I was quite surprised to find 5:37 staring back at me from the digital display. I would have heard my alarm ring in twenty minutes, so I decided to spring the coup early and get in a smidge longer morning workout. It was power-lifting day of my regular exercise routine. Yes, I had an actual workout schedule—a list of all the exercises I’m planning for every day of the week.
I’d incorporated a simple plan that allowed me to view the day’s exercise and just do it. No need to track anything, or try
to come up with something beneficial at five or six in the morning. Every week the workouts changed to prevent my body becoming accustomed to a routine, hence I could always keep my muscles “in shock” like the pros say. And I always keep my excitement level high. Or as high as it can really be doing dead lifts to Abba with no one else in the gym.
I had been counting my reps on the Hammer Strength plate-loaded iso-lateral upper body machine (don’t I sound cool!) when I sensed a man standing near me. Exactly where did he come from? I swear I was the only one in the gym. He grunts something about noticing my form and says he can help correct it. I’m open to his suggestion and wait to see if this is merely a training tip or made up reason to chat me up.
Within mere moments he’s boldly chatting me up, and standing much too close as he “corrects my form.” He fills me in that he’s a former boxer, and he works out Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the gym we’re currently at. And he loves red meat. A dinner invitation is up to bat in record time. Oh, and his name is Tony.
There’s a fine line at the gym of being flirty or being the Creepy Guy, and so far my big Italian gumbah fits into the innocent, mere flirt category. I quickly assess the situation, giving him gold stars for being built, outgoing, and having good annunciation. Time for some questions from the invisible list in my head, and we’re off with a bang.
He’s from the area, works out said days with his brother, and instinctively knows to mention the fact he thinks he forgot to lock the toolbox in his truck bed. I overlook the bonehead for the brawn in that sentence. He’s yummy!