When It Rains...
It's a rainy day, here in NYC; glum and damp, and quiet. Quite lovely, actually. The perfect opportunity to grab a good book (Wyrd Sisters won!!), maybe pull a glass of my finest cranberry juice from the rack in the cellar of my imagination (the 2011 is just delightful; nutty, yet smooth, with the tiniest twang of a tingling after-bite), and crawl into a warm corner, right next to the fireplace.
Well, so one might think. Problem is, the landlord of my over-priced NYC apartment hasn't turned on the heat yet (and probably won't until icicles make it a sporting event to dangle from my nostrils, seeing which one can hold on the longest). And a fireplace (with actual logs crackling and sparking!), let's face it, is something I only know via fairy tale descriptions by the Brothers Grimm. And just to make the experience perfect, I've existed on bread, water, and Alka-Seltzer for the last couple of days. Yes, the sickness of doom (as my family calls it), once again, has me tight between its clutches. As every year around this time of changing weather, I welcomed it like an old buddy returning from his yearly summer vacation in the southern hemisphere. "Good to see ya again, old chum. BRCHL!!" I coughed gleefully.
Sick or not; rain or shine; daily duties won't accept rain-checks from anybody, least not me. So out we go, into the wet, cold, gray, grim, fall weather (but with golden,warm sunshine, and rainbow farting unicorns in my heart!), waiting to see who's going to win this time around. "Bring it, Fall. Lemme see watcha got!" I croak, with a reverberating cough and jolly sniffle every once in a while. Then I take another dizzy step, supported by the ropes of the boxing rink of life, just to let good, old Boreas know that I may be down, but I'm not yet out.
Perhaps I'll rewatch Rocky I tonight, just to get pumped up about drinking raw egg yolk with Tabasco Sauce, and running through the rain at 4 in the morn. I'll have to pass on the one-handed push-ups, though. Every time I try, I end up with a bloody nose... So maybe just another episode of Star Trek will suffice. They just poke a phallic looking utensil with an orange light-beam shooting out of it, up your nose - Problem solved. No push-ups, running, or egg yolks required. Now where's that remote?