Two Out of Three

Now that I'm convinced spring is arriving (soon), I'm trying to get back into my 'I Want to Live Forever Or Die Trying' regimen which consists of going into a nearby gymnasium around the corner from where I work on a daily basis. Attention Fitness Buffs: going past the gym does NOTHING for you, you have to go in; trust me.

It's not that I'm training for an Iron Man competition or to run with my brother Adam on one of his escape attempts (yeah, like no one noticed that's what all this is about. Bust. Ed. Kidding aside, good luck Sunday in AP.). I'm trying to not be (quite so) visible from space--the NSA guys actually use me to calibrate one of their satellite spy cameras when I'm out on weekends (all I wanted was a couple of lousy wallet size prints but no....).

Between the health issues and replacement joints I have, I've long since conceded the best I can do is stage an organized retreat in the face of old age (hell, I am the face of old age). I have surrendered gracefully those things of youth like much of my hair, my teeth, relatively clear skin, tuna, clean air as well hair-free ears while I await history's final judgement.

I'm not at my sharpest when I get up in the morning. Or before I turn in at night ('turn into what?' asks my daughter-the child I haven't (yet) told we purchased from the gypsies. Oh dear, that just slipped out). Or, now that I think about it, during daylight and night hours.

Anyway, my point is I have a routine for 'doing the gym stuff' that involves wearing the gym clothes and carrying (on hangers) the very nicely pressed trousers and shirt (and belt and tie) my wife lays out the night before for me. I get into the car and go to work. So simple a child can do it, you say. Why don't you send that kid over to my house because I need all the help I can get.

Again one morning this week, I got to work, parked and exited the vehicle, opened the back door while reaching for the work clothes' hangers above the passenger window. Of course, the clothes weren't there. That was my visual to remmebr I'd left them on a hook in the house.The good news was of course I hadn't lost them, I knew were they were; we just weren't in anywhere near the same place.

For reasons that make it genetically impossible for me to spend an entire week NOT forgetting my change of clothes, once or more, I have in my office a surfeit of work-out togs, just in case. Like maybe the problem is gym clothes. As a result of the problem NOT being gym clothes, my offcie looks a little like a locker threw up, except neater. People who wander the hall just assume, I guess, I'm having another casual Friday even if the calendar says otherwise. I am grateful they don't ask and suspect they're grateful I don't tell.

So I spend (I'm rounding down) at least one day a work week looking like a high school Phys Ed teacher which is far funnier than you will ever know. I'm in my sweat clothes, all clean and neat but never to be confused with my Geoffrey Beane button down or Van Heusen oxford shirts with complementary ties and dress slacks. I have access to showers with more hot water than the common sense to use it wisely or well, and have started lobbying to get a silver whistle on a lanyard for my birthday so I can grab a few extra bucks reffing pick-up games at the gym during lunch.

As long as I don't start forgetting the gym clothes on days other than (or even the same as) the ones when I forget the work clothes, I won't have to hide behind my desk all day. Even then, as long as nobody plays the National Anthem, the day should be like butter though it could get tricky when I frown at the crumbs of the crust of bread....
-bill kenny