it is day three of home alone and i haven’t set the fire alarm off yet with my aggressive, oven-top grilling, or killed the dog somehow.
pretty, pretty good couple of day for bob, i’d say.
anyway, i decided to get my 7.5 mile walk in before meet the press—i know.
that required i do dog duty and be on the road to my walking path by 8:30 am.
so i did, wearing regular shorts and a light gray t-shirt—the type of outfit that shows sweat real well.
i also grabbed a large bottle of homemade, filtered water for hydration.
by 3 miles in, my shirt was starting to show significant signs of hard work, just the look i was shootin’ for, showing all those joggers, suited up in their fancy dan running outfits, a thing or two.
by 4 miles in, my sunglasses were steaming, making it hard for me to stay on the path.
by 5 miles in, i looked like a disoriented, rabid dog.
mothers were clutching their young, as i passed with my arms swinging about and spittle spinning around from the corner of my mouth.
in short, i had 2.5 miles to go and i was an embarrassment—a soaking, sopping, foaming, stinking embarrassment.
but like any other self-absorbed, 50-something boomer, i pressed on, taking one walking step at a time, as dr. dyer would have me do (see #380).
somehow i made it to the car, having eluded the tranquilizer darts of the animal rescue squad during the last half mile, and drove home shirtless, a rather uncomfortable state of undress for me.
showered and ready for a full day of tv sports, i pressed myself to make a rachel ray 30 minute meal in less than 113 minutes, a modern record, in preparation for the start of another ny giants football campaign.
what a day it was—sleep would come easily at it's end my friends.
oh yeah, meet the press was so-so.