It's raining.
The good kind of raining where I make a fire, move my laptop to a table by the dining room window so I can watch the storm, and bundle up in cozy clothing. I went to bed adamant that my distance runners would have morning practice, rain or shine. But when I got up at five and saw the dark and wet, that felt a little obsessive. We can make up the miles some other time. I sent out a text canceling the workout and got back into bed, pulled up the comforter, and slept until eight.
Last day of 2023.
I don't get sick often but something wicked laid me low this week. I've been wearing a mask and secluding in the game room so I don't get Calene sick, too. I chose the game room so I could watch football on the big screen but pretty much all I've been doing is sleeping. I've worn the same sweatshirt and sweatpants for the last three days and I have no plans to wear anything else until this is over.
Dawn Friday. Ocean Beach. I force myself out of bed and log stiff morning miles. Sports park with too many holes in the turf, straight along the bike path above the estuary. Salt air blowing in from the dog beach. White herons standing up to their knees in low tide. Tomorrow is my oldest son's wedding and I have a toast to write
My wife likes to call me Mr. Magoo. Calene claims I wander through life in a state of mild befuddlement, flirting with calamity without knowing. I blame it on the way I arrange my days, traveling from one obsession to another: predawn dreams about the presidency of Teddy Roosevelt, straight out of bed to sunrise practice with my runners, then an hour with my novel before putting playtime away and turning my focus to historical research and writing.
Sitting in the cancer ward while Calene gets a PET scan. Not a bad place to write, all things considered — plush chairs, quiet, so-so WiFi. So far this morning I've checked and rechecked stats from Friday's cross country meet, cancelled a trip to London, read the LA Times, and checked my American Express balance. I didn't sleep well last night, doing the 3 am wake-up and not falling back to sleep. Sometimes when this happens and I struggle to find a comfortable sleeping position I remind myself that this is where "toss and turn" comes from.
"You'll never make it."
We were sitting on a taxiway at O'Hare. The guy next to me was a chatty hedge fund manager. Started talking the minute he sat down. In no time at all I had the ear buds in and pulled out my book.
But that was an hour ago in Traverse City. Now, knowing that my connecting flight home was boarding and I needed to hustle from the far end of the F terminal to the far end of the C terminal, I was in go mode. . . .
