Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat. (empty). “What the fuck?”
Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat… Pat... Pat… Pat…(empty) “No fucking way…”
Pat… Pat... Pat… Pat… “Oh, there my phone is.”
Why do I do that. Why do I put my phone in one pocket, only to subconsciously move it to a more remote pocket I never use which will invariably cause me to have a minor panic attack when looking for it. It’s like my hands just start rearranging all of my personal items while I’m reading or listening to music, or walking to work. One day I’m going to be eating a club sandwich at my favourite jazz bar in Toronto (the Rex) and my hernia is going to explode as I reach for my double whiskey shot. I won’t be at all surprised when the diagnosis is revealed because frankly I’m mildly surprised my daily panic stricken leg, butt and chest patting hasn't resulted in a ruptured hernia yet.
A couple of weeks ago I pulled my right hamstring. The doctors said I would never play basketball again but I thought that was rather hyperbolic. In any case I proceeded to rehab the leg. My kicks weren’t as high, my dips weren’t as low, and my hamstring hurt like a mother. Fast forward two weeks and I’ve noticed a discernible difference in the size of my legs. Now, I wear big honking glasses and would never claim to have hawk vision, but my suspicions were confirmed when I bought a new pair of workpants and felt a slight tug of the fabric on my right side. The pants felt looser on the left. I really don’t know what to do. For the past two weeks I have been favouring the right side, and this has left me a deformed monster. Hopefully everything works itself out in that department of my life.
I remember when I was about seven years old (one of the best years of my life I might add) my mother took me out to buy me some shoes. I tried on a pair that must have been a 12 the way they were wobbling. I commented to the salesman that they felt snug. He looked at me with wide eyed amazement as my mother shot me a questioning glance. I had to admit I didn’t know what the word “snug” meant, I just wanted to use it.
As I signed into the blog this morning I noted that we have 13 followers and that’s pretty cool. I think maybe the number is inflated by two or three, but ten people who supposedly read this every once in awhile is, I suppose, what keeps me writing, and because I don’t want to forget how to write, it is a marketable skill.
Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat… Pat... Pat… Pat…(empty) “No fucking way…”
Pat… Pat... Pat… Pat… “Oh, there my phone is.”
Why do I do that. Why do I put my phone in one pocket, only to subconsciously move it to a more remote pocket I never use which will invariably cause me to have a minor panic attack when looking for it. It’s like my hands just start rearranging all of my personal items while I’m reading or listening to music, or walking to work. One day I’m going to be eating a club sandwich at my favourite jazz bar in Toronto (the Rex) and my hernia is going to explode as I reach for my double whiskey shot. I won’t be at all surprised when the diagnosis is revealed because frankly I’m mildly surprised my daily panic stricken leg, butt and chest patting hasn't resulted in a ruptured hernia yet.
A couple of weeks ago I pulled my right hamstring. The doctors said I would never play basketball again but I thought that was rather hyperbolic. In any case I proceeded to rehab the leg. My kicks weren’t as high, my dips weren’t as low, and my hamstring hurt like a mother. Fast forward two weeks and I’ve noticed a discernible difference in the size of my legs. Now, I wear big honking glasses and would never claim to have hawk vision, but my suspicions were confirmed when I bought a new pair of workpants and felt a slight tug of the fabric on my right side. The pants felt looser on the left. I really don’t know what to do. For the past two weeks I have been favouring the right side, and this has left me a deformed monster. Hopefully everything works itself out in that department of my life.
I remember when I was about seven years old (one of the best years of my life I might add) my mother took me out to buy me some shoes. I tried on a pair that must have been a 12 the way they were wobbling. I commented to the salesman that they felt snug. He looked at me with wide eyed amazement as my mother shot me a questioning glance. I had to admit I didn’t know what the word “snug” meant, I just wanted to use it.
As I signed into the blog this morning I noted that we have 13 followers and that’s pretty cool. I think maybe the number is inflated by two or three, but ten people who supposedly read this every once in awhile is, I suppose, what keeps me writing, and because I don’t want to forget how to write, it is a marketable skill.
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