A life with no sauce

It’s 4 a.m., raining, and not easy to sleep. I’ve maintained radio silence here long enough that it’s doubtful anyone comes here regularly anymore.

So how ‘bout some self-indulgent navel gazing?

A week ago, I was eating dinner with Sam, listening to one of his CDs play through a song about Dad Fish and Son Fish going up to the surface of the ocean to check things out. My meal consisted of brown rice, tuna and peas. Sam was going through his macaroni, marinara sauce and chicken, cheese and some kind vegetables. I couldn’t help but notice that he probably was getting more calories than me, and it tasted better to boot.

I figured that my meal – plain, healthy, boring as hell – was a pretty good metaphor for my life for the time being.

My daily schedule:

1. Drag myself out of bed by 10.
2. Eat cereal.
3. Talk myself into my five-mile run.
4. Run, if talk was successful, or eat lunch if not.
5. Run, if unsuccessful the first time.
6. Dinner preparation, household chores.
7. Dinner.
8. Dishes.
9. Put Sam to bed.
10. Should I sleep or do treadmill work? Hmmmmm ...
    

Throw in there: Three or four sets (if I’m being good) of push-ups, sit-ups and planks; reading-on-demand for Sam; talking to Meredith about frustrations with work/school. Try to throw in: Something to prepare for the massive life-change we’ll be making next month.

The result -- of the monotonous schedule and the focus on the Army -- is that life has become very dull, very tense. Or maybe that’s just the state of mind I’m stuck in. I don’t like myself much lately. I’m too snappish with my wife. My son has fully entered the terrible twos stage, and that’s been an adventure. “Adventure” as in something that’ll be funny about 16 years from now.

I’ve banned myself from making comments on Facebook because I just tend to pop up and rain on everyone’s parade. I.E.:

Some Person 1: Wow, is it still Monday? Why can’t it be Friday!!

Some other person: ROFLMAO!!! U R hillareous!!!

Me: I realize I only knew one of you briefly at Evans Junior High, but let me invite both of you to kill yourselves.

(Besides it’s unfair. If people don’t have a right to complain about Mondays on Facebook, I don’t have a right to spend an hour talking about the weather in Hico every time I see my Dad.)

If I had an 18-year-old body and no responsibilities, I’d be able to blow off steam in the typical juvenile ways until my shipping date. But I have responsibilities, and my diet has cut out alcohol to the point where the smell of beer gives me a second-hand buzz.

Basic training is a big unknown. You kind of know what you’ll be doing – running, getting yelled at, tear gas training, waking up really early – but you have no idea how that’ll translate into a day-to-day existence for nine weeks. I’m stuck wanting to get it over with and wanting to take more time to be in better shape for it.

Every now and then I’ll go to the Army web site, look at some videos and see the guns that I’ll be shooting. That gets me psyched up. Still, the whole thing still seems unreal to me and Meredith.

I guess it’ll be real enough, very soon.