Sunday Afternoon

I've lost five pounds in three days. My wife's been out of town three days. Coincidence?

No. I feed myself fine. I just don't go overboard with it. When on my own, a calculation ensues that takes in how many hungries I am, what food we got, how much time I want to spend on it, and what else I have to do, and the resulting output is make a sandwich. Now I'm having a big bowl of ice cream while Spain plays the Netherlands in 1080p.

So how to account for it? Apparently I worked my ass off yesterday. Had a great long day shaping a stack of OSB into hut parts. Sawdust was a-flyin'. Good crowd at the shop, too, including a few single young ladies whose presence served to remind us old farts that there are concrete social benefits to running a happenin' sort of Burning Man camp. We laugh at each other about it, because, you know. As if. But then, the finest one seemed to like the look of old Don, to paraphrase Flashman, in her subtle barely-into-her-thirties way: Lots of eye contact. And let's paint a picture: My BFI is ridiculously low these days, and when I'm carrying those wooden sheets around there are muscle groups popping out all over the place (yes, too hot for shirts). And not all the guys in camp are heterosexual, which fact sort of adds to the relaxing atmosphere. So good times all round, but I didn't need to lose weight. I'm barely over one seventy today. And though it takes a lot of work to hit and maintain one eighty, one seventy is a little light. I guess I have a weird physique. Most people my age don't want to hear about this problem.

It was interesting that we had to put Bailee down the same day my wife was taking off for a ten-day out-of-towner which we agreed was my chance to move. Not out, but only because she put the brakes on that, said just go upstairs. We get along too well to go do something so radical as double our housekeeping expenses. But moving upstairs (which I haven't got round to yet, naturally) is radical enough, especially with both boys home for the summer, and its significance is that it signals the end of our time as a mated pair. I need to be free of that, as everyone round here knows better at times than I do, and I set myself a deadline to attain a set self-definition some weeks before taking off for Burning Man; and there have been far too many deadlines passed to postpone any more.

So tears in mourning for Bailee could have served for tears in mourning for a good long marriage. They didn't; but they could have. And so I suppose an era ends, of a sort, though I don't actually feel it. Maybe when she gets home. Unless I haven't moved my shit yet. That would be awkward.

So's writing publicly about this shit, but WTH, it's on my mind.

Whoa. ¡Go-o-ol España! Sweet. I wanted Spain to win. No reason why except maybe that I live in a significantly Spanish-speaking part of the world and the Dutch annoy me somehow. They were bad-ass in the 1600s, give 'em that.

Oh yeah, and colonized South Africa, and now they lose in South Africa. Ha haaaa!

Ice cream's done, game's over, life to live, no more writing.