It’s Saturday night.
Did you know we only have about 3,900 Saturday nights in our lifetime? I do, and ever since I learned this tidbit I think about it whenever I’m doing nothing on a Saturday night. Like tonight. A whole lotta nada. Dog sitting, drinking Ketel One vodka mixed with cranberry juice, arguing with the silence. The townhouse I’m in dogsitting all week is too quiet. I usually don’t drink by myself, it’s just boring. But try being confined in a small townhouse with 3 nervous Chihuahuas which I suspect may be haunted. The house. Not the Chihuahuas, although one of them is a grand disappointment to its own breed. No more about him.
When I was 27, I went through a phase where I’d stay home every Saturday night and watch Cops and America’s Most Wanted. I went through bags of sunflower seeds, seasoned lavishly with Hidden Valley Ranch powder. All my friends were out but I was happy at home for once, in a safe world of John Walsh being intense and scenic views of people being arrested from all over the country.
Sadly, I also used to work out on Saturdays. This is what this post is really about, isn’t it? My underlying feelings of extra largeness.
It’s clear as day It seems I gained weight over the past several weeks. Here we go again. I hate it, yes I hate all the phases of nothingness. Genetics: you are not so wonderful.
But really it doesn’t matter, not tonight. How many Saturday nights remain? Gotta go breathe it in no matter what. Wish I was in the desert, by the sea. Not in DC. Hasta Luego and have a great day. Go look up at the stars.