Circle of Despair

tennisTomorrow I play tennis for the first time since October. One comment was made: “You’ll never find your balls.”

It took me a minute to realize she meant tennis balls in the snow. I thought she meant… never mind. For the record they have not crawled back inside my body for winter.

I’m starting to get the first rumblings of concern about the increased sedentary nature of winter in general. I have looked at my cross country skis. They looked back, as if to say, “You’re not going to stand on us, are you? Fuuuuuuuuuu…” Oddly, the year that I got them was a year pretty much without snow. Perhaps if I go skiing I can stop this snow nonsense, but more likely true environmental change would require a new sacrificial cash outlay, one I am not prepared to make.

Tennis now and then in the winter won’t make much difference for me anyway, too infrequent and too time limited. I will probably overplay, packing in as much pseudo-ball whacking glory into an hour as I can, as though the calorie burn could be stored, squirrel-like, in my cheeks (yes, an homage auntie e), but sadly it doesn’t work like that. It should.

So with the Christmas Gorge-Fest staring me in the face, I think I better talk to Kathryn about some personal training tips. If you think I was afraid of the clothes, I tell you you know nothing of my fear.

So Kat… I think I’m ready. Provided I survive tennis.

Advertisements

WTFriday

Yeah, I’m taking the day off. Asked daughter for a man’s issue to write about. She suggested this:

Should I be worried?

I will have to keep this in mind the next time someone accuses me of having too much time on my hands.

Happy Friday.

Published in: on November 19, 2010 at 7:56 am  Comments Off on WTFriday  
Tags: , , , ,

Mr. Bad Example

I like my red shirt.

I have reached a level of age and maturity wherein I no longer require the sartorial input of relatives senior to me. TA&R Guyhat is, I am old enough to dress myself.

I am comfort driven. I am charitably described as burly. In the summer, it gets warm and shirts with no arms afford ventilation.

Bright colours are fun.

Something of a graphic designer every second Thursday, I designed a logo for a band to which I once belonged that was a combination of iconic images: Boris Karloff as Frankenstein and John Lennon playing at the Larry Parnes audition pre-Beatlemania, Liverpool. I am proud of the logo. It’s on the red shirt.

I am somewhat ornery, established within myself and I often (okay, mostly) don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me because I am convinced that I am basically all right, good, decent and in all an upstanding citizen, friend, father, member of society.

There’s some resistance to my red shirt from outside sources.

I feel, really, like I am being entrapped, lamb to slaughter, kickingly and screamingly dragged from the world of my design, of my comfort, of where I find myself after a five decades long battle for acceptance and self-acceptance into… well, I don’t know. If I could comprehend what I’m in for, it wouldn’t be scary now, would it?

Here’s the deal: LB (my friend) has this friend, Kathryn, of Katalyst Image Consulting, a consultancy that offers “males an opportunity to discreetly and confidentially address and conquer elements –appearance, behaviour, communication– that may be hindering their social or professional balance and excellence.”

I didn’t FEEL hindered this time last week. Now I’m not so sure. Charm school? At my age?