HEADER PHOTO DESCRIPTION:
HEADER PHOTO DESCRIPTION: Desert Storm
NOTE: Open post and then Single Click On first Post Photo to view an album in a more detailed, larger format...
Thursday, September 3, 2015
It's like the Wizard of Oz in reverse, as if plucked from the canyon bosom of Lovely Oz by some twister and thrust on to the tedious, featureless plains of Kansas. Behold, our vertiginous mountain surround lies hidden behind a dreary pall of clouds that hover just above city limits.
Still on Injured Reserve and not having mustered a single exercise endorphin in over three weeks, I'm feeling about as hopeless/helpless as Jonah in the belly of the whale, all wrapped up in emotional seaweed, darkness, and gloom. Just like my old '69 SS Camero with solid lifters and a full race Cam, I run smoother at redline than "idle." I'm getting all carbon-ed up on idle for crying out loud, and without a regular endorphin fix my wretched mindset is but a launchpad for missiles of negativity. Endorphin withdrawal is hell. Somebody break out the Methadone.
So yeah, only three weeks into an eight week sentence of "lift no more than 10 pounds, walk only level surfaces (like that's possible in Ouray), don't cough, sneeze, blow your nose or push when you poop," I'm carbon-ed up and fending off rust.
I'm so tired of this "straight jacket" that I could almost spit in the face of the Great and Powerful Oz. I say "almost" because I learned last year that, as marionettes, insulting the Puppet-Master only get one's "strings" clipped. That, and now this, has me calling into question the very existence of a Great and Power Oz. If one does exist, surely He is a charlatan. So now I become the Box Elder atheist, cause this modern day Job doesn't have the balls to risk pissing off the Big Guy behind the Curtain, especially after last year's Hell-on-earth (two surgeries followed by internal bleeding followed by another surgery to fix that, followed by another Oz Damned hernia on the other side and subsequent surgery from which I am now recouping). Recall Job's best friend, after seeing his torment, said, "Oh brother, just curse the Great and Powerful Oz and die."
I learned from recent trail and error that 9:00 am is too early to start drinking. So I decide to brave the weather for a morning walk on the River Trail. Can't hardly do myself any harm walking a level trail of pea gravel (note to self: Don't wear open-toed sandals again). I opened the door and was greeted by a gust of cool, damp, pine-scented air. A swirl of Box Elder leaves rustled in the driveway. WTF, Ms Autumn? It's barely September. But you know, Box Elders are the Barney Fife's of trees, always the first to turn yellow and surrender leaves well before winter's first frost. Cowards. Anyway, it lent an autumnal augur to the scene—perhaps the beginning of the end of summer—which only served to further aggravate my foul disposition because I treasure our brief mountain summers with their numbered days scarce as gold.
I carefully baby-step my way down our precipitous, washed out driveway. Clouds maintain their defiant slump to the upper reaches of town—obliterating mountains which, in my mind, are pretty much the only thing that distinguishes Colorado from Kansas. That and the stench of stockyard feed lots. Safely down I cross over to the River Trail and set off boldly in search of a promiscuous endorphin or two. It begins to rain, as in cats and dogs.
Since the top 10 activities on my priority list seem to be off limits, I now have time to catch up on some of those mundane tasks down further down, you know, things like: Dust behind TV; Clip toenails; Get quotes from competitors on car insurance; Read AARP article on "Sex after Seventy!"; Re-Revise Last Will and Testament (I keep flip flopping on cremation… it seems so final). Also, given the past year, I'm mulling over whether or not to add the "Do Not Resuscitate" clause to my Medical Directive. I already added the "Unplug Me if I'm in a Coma and likely to wake up a Vegetable" one, last year, right after the blood clots/internal bleeding fiasco.
Oz damn it. If there's one thing worse than getting old, grey, and wrinkled beyond recognition, it's getting old, grey, wrinkled, and incapacitated beyond mobility. If I can't move—and by "move" I mean do those activities that bring meaning, joy, and satisfaction to my life—I'm not so sure I want to be around anymore. Especially now, that I'm finding out what it's like.
Reluctantly idling along in The Land of Oz,