Feet Feel Any
Saturday. Thus and so, here we go, into another weekend. Still, the sun is out, the early morning weather is warm without discernible humidity and the traffic was light on the way to breakfast. Best to get to breakfast early on a weekend before the working folks, who can't afford the time to go to breakfast during the week, arrive en mass and the place gets crowded. And the parking meters start running. Silly me, avoiding the weekend now that I'm retired. Just an observation, no complaints: no sorrow, no regret as the white noise grows louder. And louder.
Ah, better now after an hour's nap, awakening with the day starting over again at eleven. What happened earlier? Something about breakfast: a memory as dim as any of the last week. What was I doing last Saturday? I could go back and read the entry - strange thought - but why on earth would anyone want to subject themselves to that? (Oh, god. I actually did: a deathless screed best left with the rest in a cold dark corner of the Internet.)
Later. A bus downtown, a crepe at the crepe place in the City Center, a walk part of the way back and then a bus all of the way back home. My feet ache. My legs ache. Can't be from walking or lack of walking. I move around when I've sitting overly long in a chair. I lie down, get up, flex the muscles. Why the aching muscles? Why so tired? Why, when I'm reading this, do I wince? Why do I have this urge to run to Beverages & More and purchase their advertised special? In the beginning of June? In Oakland?
No alcohol? You walked, as you always walk, but not that far? You got some sleep last night and a nap this morning? Why all the bellyaching?
Well, it's after seven now in the evening. The feet feel better, the legs ache less, I've just returned from a trip to Safeway where I purchased cheese and crackers, Merlot and sake in small easily consumed containers, but not so many as to get in trouble. No reason to get myself into trouble now that I've spent this last week re-calibrating my head skipping all things alcoholic and discovering, whatever's going on, sake and red wine don't factor into the equation.
There's probably a one paragraph warning in the twelve step program that describes your conclusion.
I'd read the damned thing sitting here listening to A Prairie Home Companion if it made my feet feel any better.