i'm hiding.

behind my desk, behind my clothes, behind my car.

i'm hiding and exhausted. and distracted. very, very distracted.

to my co-workers, those interested fiscal year budgets and getting the new dell monitors, i guess i'm a bit of an asshole. a little self-absorbed, maybe abrasive. the fact that i don't know must signify it's atleast partially true. that, and the the fact that neither bother me.

it's come to my realization that i'm the most uncomfortable when i have to stop talking to myself long enough to notice someone else wants my attention. the worst of it is in the hallways. quite the familar scene, two people walking toward each other, neither speaking, neither attempting eye contact...exactly contrary to that as you all know.

i'm not trying to be seinfeldian or anything, but enough with the head nods and the "hey, how are you"'s...what are these little social reassurances?....

and of course, right at the tip of the ice berg, i get another one of these smug faced water cooler guys gladhanding right outside my door...

i know you're going to say


that 208 lbs at 5' 11" isn't bad. as a matter of fact, given the proper proportions, that's a good weight. it's just that, at this weight, running has become a chore. damn weights. it always seemed like a good idea--big chest, defined arms, wide back...shoulders that make you replace every jacket you own--it's all pretty hard to push around the track.

i like that show "starved" on FX. it sort of encompasses a lot of my day-to-day personal accomplishments and tradegies. just minus the hot chicks.

no one is in my office today, but rather standing right outside of it, in the corrider where the radio plays. this being Sunday, there is no jim rome show, but rather a lot of idle chatter between people who, only see each other once a month, two weeks a year, and remain interested in each other's lives.

it's 1:00,

and my office is empty again. jim rome is playing in the corridor right outside my door, at a collegue's desk, whom i don't mind being there because he's not in my line of sight, and doesn't often speak to me.

is curt schilling getting a double standard?...are the indians going to get the wild card?...are the denver broncos playing up to their potential?

are the republican-big business new york yankee's gonna beat out the red sox?...will the dishwater democratic national league be able to compete again this decade?

i'm sick of these commericals...cats named trixeybell, dead kids asking me to donate to their charity, the one that couldn't save their lives, but maybe you could save the next little kid whose internal organs decide not to work anymore....

and, here comes the crowd of people i'd rather not hear...

my office is empty...


and really, i couldn't be happier about it. there have been people in and out of here since about 8:00, when i showed up late. again.

wait...here comes someone.

the hardest part

about being fat and old is having to tell yourself,

hey,

you're fat and old.

you're slower, weaker, and not as valuable as you used to be.
your youthful sense of being superior, your superman complex is nothing more than leftover cockiness from those distance memories when you were the golden boy.

now, you're that guy who makes it awkward for his younger friends to not pick him in basketball or football, but is told "please come, we need you" when they can't reach anyone else.

you feel sorry for yourself, and that's the worst part.

it's just all this has taken you by surprize. you never expected to hurt the next morning after running the day before; never expected to wake up see all the food you'd had from the last month resting comfortably behind your belly button.

you still never expect to see a new gray hair everytime you get a haircut.

you thought your pants would fit forever.



this brings on a desperation you didn't know was possible.



not only are you worthless in a way that you used to be an asset, you feel helpless...
you've never not felt in control.

and you can't take that feeling.

it breaks you.

you take laxatives.
you're pulling over on long road trips just to gag yourself over the snickers bar you couldn't talk yourself out of 30 miles back...

you hate mirrors. you hate pictures. you hate the way your jaw and your chin are slowly becoming a rounded extension of your neck.

you always sleep with a shirt on because of the off chance that, in an emergency, the crowd of people standing around your collasping apartment building will take their eyes off the spectacle that is your buring belongings and stare at your fat, drooping gut.

the hardest part about being fat and old isn't being fat and old,

it's just realizing it.