i’m not 80. i never have been. it’s something i plan on trying out, but not for a while.
and yet, about six weeks after i was released from St. Joseph’s, upon what otherwise felt like a total return to my former health, it dawned on me that every move i made was done with half the quickness of my pre-hospitalized self. even though in all other respects, i seemed to be completely “recovered.” but speed? forget it. at work, i just couldn’t pick up the pace. it was impossible. i had no energy. at all.
even when i got enough sleep, i still dragged like a rake.
i wasn’t sure which was the case: either my weeks of sitting and lying down had left me pathetically out of shape, and so everything i did took twice the effort. or, somehow my devastated head had left me, at least temporarily, ritarded. in the musical sense. SLOOOOOWWWW. i felt fine in every way. but expediency? i just couldn’t make it happen, couldn’t hurry it up, couldn’t put the pedal to the metal. i wanted to be a Lamborghini. instead, i was my friend’s dad’s foliage-colored station wagon, otherwise known as The Green Bomb. putt. putt. putt. no matter how hard i tried. i could crank, but that was it. i was slower than slow. my muscles were useless. it was ridiculous.
The Green Bomb. i remember it being filled with garbage bags the last time i saw it. got some engorged and unwanted hefty bags? at least for the time being, i’m your man.