chapter 25B: GRAMPS

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.

why?

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.

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