Pain is there, or it’s not. Physical pain; where in the brain is that memory stored? Show pictures of emotions: sadness, joy, anger, despair, fear, surprise.Then pain. And it is all of these, the most recognizable expression that is not a feeling.
We baby boomers have two topics: pain and medicine. Bill Clinton: “I share your pain.” And to look at him, to hear him perform, you could almost believe it, but no more: fool us once, shame on you; fool us twice, shame on us. A politician couldn’t run on that promise; she would be run out of town. Our pain is our own, not even the closest among us can share it. To talk of it, eyes glaze over. Ask Nielsen, what’s beyond the 18- to 49-year-old group? Losers lane, narrowing toward the void. And on the way, pain and medicine. Yawn. Do you feel sleepy?
Running, though, stops that. The aging thing. Or at least it gives the illusion of forever young. I’ve not run since Monday (Feb. 21), took my second day off today to rest my strained hamstring and as I sit here writing on the subway, I almost feel okay, looking around me, checking out the faces, no emotion to speak of, some gestures, the crossed-arms, wandering eyes of boredom, one of mild ecstasy (earpod-music listener), but nothing large, and definitely no wincers, no one showing pain and even me, when I’m sitting down the hamstring calm, second day of Aleve, M checked first with the pharmacist if its side effect of internal bleeding applied to me because I’m on a blood thinner, a drug that keeps the clots at bay, and the pharmacist says not to worry, so since Monday I’m taking a daily Aleve to try to settle the inflammation, and yes, I’d have to say the pain in the fat of my leg, still there though and I’m doing nothing but walking, and gentle stretching, because I don’t want it to get worse; patience is mandatory, when it comes to this, the aging thing, and let’s face it, that’s it, isn’t it?, My friend G telling M to be thankful L found this marathon kick to embrace as his midlife crisis – that he isn’t dipping into the home equity for a Corvette, looking for a mistress half his age.
*
If I must rest, let it be at The Morgan: the solace of the diary-maker. Publish if you can, but keep something for the mind. And mark it down, on paper, not just on a keyboard. Think Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) whose work is now on display through May at The Morgan. http://www.themorgan.org/exhibitions/exhibition.asp?id=42 Everything in Shelton shorthand, so much to get down, so little time, famous for his account of The Great Fire of London in 1666, but he just kept at it, doing the shorthand, and, according to The Morgan display, it was transcribed by others, readers could not get enough, and now three and a half centuries later, the shorthand itself is behind a glass case at this show of the jottings, reflections, doodles and story fragments of Charlotte Bronte, Bob Dylan, Emerson, Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Sophia Hawthorne and the creative doubts of John Steinbeck as he puzzles over his notes for “The Grapes of Wrath” . . . and we, the people of letters are in thrall.
*
A body needs a little help. At times, M and I will go to the gym http://www.bodyreserve.com/ Normally I treadmill-run on the “bank” balcony on the Fifth Avenue side – and look out the window, the automatic door of the Associated grocer, whooshing open, a study could be made, the doors from a recent renovation, my guess is two years now but in the routine of an ordinary life those details aren’t sharp, as the years advance the occasions dim, no time stamps to the milestones, my father-in-law’s passing, the publication of my novel, “The Penalty Box,” http://www.larryoconnor.net/ K’s college graduation, M’s broken ankle and soon the publication in The Atlantic of a story of dark wonder and manic inventiveness, “The Cross Word,” but there across the way from the treadmill at Body Reserve, with a surveillance camera and a grant for a student-counter so much would be known, because now the grocery doors swoosh open constantly and at off-hours too, 2 p.m. Friday, noon Saturday, more young people than old, sometimes two, three, four people at once but in the beginning, say, the first day of the renovation, dramatically different patterns: Hispanics, African Americans and Boomer hippies, or so my mind wanders as I watch the doors as I run swoosh open and then close, sometimes prospective shoppers stop short and don’t enter, they’ve only set off the automatic door function – and are off (Did they forget their wallet, decide to get the wine first, see their husband inside and they’ve the scent of their lover on them?). But today (Feb. 24), I’m doing low impact on the aerobicizer, The Elliptical, mindful of my hamstring pull, from the rear balcony of the former bank where below rather than see the depositors, it’s the weight and tension machines, and finally I’m well into my workout, breathing hard, sweat dripping, and I don’t feel the pull, no pain, while below me the men, because they are primarily men, lifting and grunting directly in front of wall-to-wall mirrors, bringing back to them the pumped-up versions of themselves, and I wonder what Samuel Pepys would say about this, dashing his squiggles and curlicues and straight lines across his notebook like I am doing now, on the subway, waiting for my work-stop at Rockefeller Center.
Next: Running for Your Life: Week Two
0 comments:
Post a Comment