Shadows of Prognostication

I got a COVID vaccination and a flu vaccination this Friday. I timed it for ten in the morning so that the chills wouldn’t hit me until around midnight. My body must be getting used to the COVID vaccine, because the chills and fever response has been getting less extreme every time I get the shots. At least this time I wasn’t cold and shivering for what seemed like forever and wrung out with sweat afterward. This time it was just some minor random chills, no real fever (I never felt hot enough to take my temperature), and a desire to sleep through most of Saturday, with bouts of comfort reading old Mercedes Lackey novels (“…for Evil’s still lurking / and that’s the next book!”).

The act of sleeping while my body generated new antibodies seemed appropriate for Saturday’s new moon, and gave me an excuse to feel tired and like a not-very-creative, inactive lump. In sweatpants and my bathrobe. And a hot bath was in there, somewhere.

Coincidental with the new moon came the news that one of our friends has a serious health issue. I’m still processing it, and thoughts, feelings, and images — departed friends; memento mori; actuarial tables; appropriate rituals; the tension between wanting a long, healthy life and knowing that living beyond ninety means that one could be the last of one’s old friends left standing; the Six of Cups, the Eight of Swords, the Hanged Man, the Tower, and various other imagined tarot cards — have not settled down into static clarity. As our friend texted, “treatment is going to suck.” This is one of those things one does not want to Google. I’m not ashamed to say that I ran to my health app to double-check my records for various tests, and I guess I’m glad after all that my recently retired primary healthcare provider was old-school and lab-panel-happy.

I suspect tonight’s scrying ritual and meditation for the new moon will be interesting.

Knots Untied

The Halloween weekend brought three undoings with it.   

A few weeks ago, I bought some blue dichroic glass earrings.  They sit closer to my earlobe than my original green zircon studs, are less pokey than my silver star earrings, and less dangly than my crescent earrings.  And they flash between sapphire and cobalt.  

I have a tendency to fiddle with whatever earrings I'm wearing; Saturday night, I reached up and discovered that the blue glass sphere on my right earring had fallen off of the post.  (At first, I thought the glass had been partially pulled through my earlobe.) Presumably, it's somewhere in the house.  

Later, I was eating a power bar in preparation of going out dancing with Mark—it doesn't do to have a carb crash thirty minutes into the night. I regularly consume a power bar about an hour before working out to keep from fading out during exercise sets.  After three high-protein bites, the sticky mass of the power bar lifted a crown off of my lower back molar. Luckily, I didn't swallow the crown and my tooth wasn't causing any pain.  (Although at first I wasn't sure if my molar was topped with tooth decay or decades' old dental adhesive.  Thankfully, it was failed adhesive, and the dentist glued the crown back on Monday.) 

Mark and I went dancing anyway and got back home shortly after midnight and before the change to standard time.  

Sunday, I slept late, and had a lazy morning in the bath reading The Two Towers.  I wondered what the third thing to come undone would be.  Would it be something connected to my elderly parents?  Would a button pull away from a dress shirt?  Would it be another inconvenient loss?  Would one of my unicorn socks develop a hole?  Would it be a sudden memento mori punchline?  

I wouldn't discover until I found a parking citation (for nine times the cost of a daily permit) on my car Tuesday.  I typically order parking permits Sunday—it's apparently a universal law that university parking is complicated and a pain.  Somehow I missed reminders on various devices and failed to order a parking permit Sunday (and Monday) morning for Tuesday (and Wednesday).  

An earring, a crown, and a permit undone on Autumn's cross-quarter.  It sounds like a nursery rhyme or fairy tale.  Fingers crossed for a happily ever after ending.

Sexagenarian

Soon I will be a sexagenarian. I think this requires that I get a faux ivory figurine of Death blowing bubbles with the legend “Memento Mori.” When I entered the cohort of pentagenarians, it was much easier to pretend that I was still forty-something—and in any case, I still had half a lifetime in front of me to write and create and be generally crafty. Now The Great Transformer feels much larger on a horizon that seems much closer. And the ancient Egyptian impulse to have spoken prayers for the spirit of So-and-so is more relatable. I suppose I will also need to get a faux ivory figurine of Ozymandius.

So far about the only thing that about reaching the milestone of sexagenarian is that I am looking forward to is being able to work the phrase “putting the sex back into sexagenarian!” into conversations. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure that I will age better than repeatedly saying “putting the sex back into sexagenarian” will. And I’m not sure how well the phrase will play in a decade when I am no longer a sexagenarian: “putting the sex back into septuagenarian” just doesn’t have the same ring and “putting the septum back” sounds unappetizingly medical. I suppose I will have to quote Calvin and Hobbes and say, “You can take the tiger out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the tiger. / The question is ‘can you put the tiger back into the jungle?’”

I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there, somewhere.

Aging

On the gym front:  went Wednesday (11/13) and managed to clear up some misconceptions with my trainer about the New Routine.    It's not killing me as much as it was the first two times, so I'm hopeful that I'll start to see some kind of results soon -- I already feel like it's doing something with my metabolism, but that might simply be light-headedness from all the heavy breathing.

On the writing front:  It's going slowly.  I feel like I'm writing a lot of setting with little to no plot (or at least low stakes).   Insert regular "I need to be more disciplined" rant here.  A flash piece has been short-listed at one market, and about five weeks ago they said to wait a month.  I'm hoping that's good.

On the music front:  Helium Vola continues to be on my heavy rotation music list.  I should make a master list with them, Stary Olsa and maybe Enya.

The other day, Mark and I were talking about my age.  Mark seemed a little surprised that aging is vexing me.  Usually, it doesn't, mostly because I really don't dwell on it.  But when it does force its way to my forethoughts, it strikes me as odd that Star Wars: A New Hope came out over forty years ago;  that I've owned a lizard lapel pin sine 1991, which is eight years older than my student intern, and only something like two years older than the World Wide Web; and that I'm slightly older than my dad was when I was a senior in college.  And it's not possible for someone who is still thirty-five in his head to have memories (and own objects) that are over forty years old.

Mark said that it's his job to remind me of my age, and then proceeded to talk in his toothless-old-man voice.  About things like dentures.  And bowel movements.  I've repressed the precise content, but I do recall that I didn't appreciate it.  I guess I'll have to get him an intaglio Death with the motto "Memento Mori" for him to wear.

Gym Time and Body Image

Went to the gym Thursday.   Did a set of regular and side-planks just before the gym.  15-20 minutes on the cable rowing machine for 200 calories.  3x12x60lbs on the pec fly machine.  3x13x70lbs on the lat pull-downs.  3x13 hanging curls on the Roman Chair. 3x12x35lbs barbell curls.   I think this has been a not-so-good week for eating too much junk food, because my belly fat seems more prominent and I've gained about two pounds.

The other day at the swimming pool when I was getting dressed, I happened to look up and saw my reflection in the mirror.  I look ... kind of stout.  Not fat, but jiggly like a serving of Spam.  Or like a retired wrestler.  I think I expected to look more defined, at least in the arms, after swimming (OK, sliding down the water slide). It was a "...my body's alright / but not at this angle / and not in this light" moment.  

Yes; I'm focusing on abs.  Yes; I know belly fat is hard to get rid of and you can't spot target fat.  Yes; I know I probably want a 10% body fat body without having to give up various snacks which are probably keeping me at 20%.  Yes; memento mori "and we all loose our shape in the end."  

I suppose it's time to eat more vegetables or something.

Gym Saturday:  Somehow I was the first person at the gym and for about five minutes I was the only person.  20 minutes and 200 calories on the elliptical.  10 minutes on the cable rowing machine for 110 calories.  3x12x60lbs on the pec fly machine.  3x12x70lbs on the lat pull-downs.  3x13 hanging curls on the Roman Chair. 3x12x35lbs barbell curls.  3x12x35 reverse barbell pulls.   

Sunday we had a nice visit with my family in Corvallis.  My dad prepared a hearty brunch for us for Mother's Day.  There was dog walking, piano playing, and computer consulting.  Afterward, we helped my sister with various craft projects for my niece's upcoming mermaid-themed birthday party.