RIGHT?

You ate them both RIGHT?

The best of intentions are nothing but fantasies until put into action. 

Yesterday was weird. After a particularly grueling hour of power in the infamous House of Mirth, where I watched my heart-rate monitor indicate frequent visits into and out of atrial fibrillation (henceforth AF), I spent the remainder of the day feeling as if my remaining time here was a matter of minutes, not weeks, months or years. Lightheaded and forlorn, I assembled a rambling, messy, distressed and worst of all, an altogether uninteresting combination of nouns, verbs and way too many adjectives. My intention was to make sense of an impulse purchase of two donuts at the local Safeway the day before and how that simple action contained both the cause and effect of my current situation. I do now have a better understanding as to why they call it comfort food. 

From the literary standpoint it was to be an exercise in detail. What was I thinking at the time and how would that factor into answering the big question of what happens next? In screenwriting parlance this is known as a storyline, where a talented writer can walk us through what is happening (ever so slightly under the surface of the action), or be crafty enough to tell us enough so that we can make up our own minds about the characters motivation and intent. Many times I have stood before the glass doors safeguarding the cache of deep-fried sugared dough and considered a suitable camera angle to capture the intense drama of this decision making process. True confectionery conflict. 

BUT, by the time my oxygen starved brain had completed a single sentence, I was off into a random stream of consciousness rap that ran with high anxiety through and around the thorny ground of pity, power, simple carbohydrates and motivation 101. A mushy mash-up of instant gratification that not even a dollar re-fill of coffee at the gas station could mask. Bad enough that I was fighting the physical but now I had to negotiate the emotional as well. 

However THAT was the whole idea. Thinking that my training, rest and recovery, management of what seems like an escalating onslaught of relentless stress, a blue-plate load of small but important tasks and the reconciliation of their sum to pragmatic, positive and successful conclusions, should give me the OK to ENJOY A FUCKING DONUT. 

I wanted to talk about how important this is, the donut as metaphor, when it seems like shit is falling out of the sky with GPS accuracy on your poor fucking head. One can do worse. I could have bought a jug of Jack, a couple of edibles, gone for a happy-ending massage, headed to the casino or any number of other nefarious distractions and vices designed to numb the reality of the circumstance. THIS IS TOO MUCH TO DEAL WITH - SOMEBODY GET ME OUTTA HERE. 

So I select two of those cinnamon-sugar things that I think they call a Bear Claws. I put them in a small plastic bag and walk slowly towards self checkout. On the way I hear a voice in my head (very Tarantino) suggest that I ditch the dough in the cheese section and walk out the front door and run through the parking lot to the safety of my van. Overruling this I go through the plan which at this point is to prove to myself that I can enjoy this simple treat, sans guilt, perhaps as a sweet reward for my effort in class, and not die on the spot from excess sugar clotting in my femoral artery or from some socially mandated gross embarrassment symptom.  

With this as a quasi-scientific test of my current state of emotional equilibrium and ability to match temporal awareness with reality, and after a lengthy conversation with an old friend while in line for coffee, where we naturally talked about racing and training (dude I have two donuts in the van), I am finally ready for the moment of truth. Will I be able to actually enjoy the donuts and coffee, be grateful that this is not a regular addiction or mindless bad habit and be thankful that I do not suffer from diabetes of any type? Will I enjoy the moment and then simply (and triumphantly) wipe my face and move along with my day, satisfied and guilt-free? 

This is what I wanted to explore and investigate yesterday. Somewhere along that road I got lost. The day ended up on the grill as a complete nothing burger. I am not productive when frustrated with AF and irritated by the failings of my body. This, in turn, compounds the situation in my head, where my value and self-worth is reduced to barely above slug status. No pity just fact. 

But at least I enjoyed the donuts right?

RIGHT?