An Indian in Cowboy boots

Reiko has fallen in love with me, my girl is mad at me, and I’ve pulled my groin.  Yes, it is all true.  The good news is the groin pull is not that bad.  I’m over a month into my  training and my body is starting to feel sore.  Not anything harmful but when you are carrying around guns like these all day, it is taxing on your body.

After month one of training

The combination between the boot camp and swimming classes really has created a nice balance between my workouts. My swimming coach says I have swimmers’ shoulders, whatever the hell that means, and I have come to find a certain solitude in my time beneath the water.  Swimming has always been in my blood.  My grandmother, who we called Mamere, swam everyday day for 30 years or some crazy shit like that at the Lower Merion High School pool.  Lap after lap, I can remember watching her as a young boy from the side of the pool.  I can also remember when I was real young having to go into the ladies locker room with her to change and seeing all the naked women.  Shit, by five I knew swimming and naked women were awesome.  As the years moved on and I traveled away from her and from Philadelphia, I would write postcards to her of all the places I swam.  I wanted to show her that I was a “worldly swimmer.”  In 2006, I swam in the Pacific, Atlantic, Mediterranean and Adriatic Sea in three weeks and one day.  I was so proud to show her all of the pictures from my travels and how I kept our swimming tradition alive, all over the world.

Talking myself into a chilly swim at Iguazu falls, Argentina

This past year was the first year without her,  When I arrived on the beaches of Australia I immediately thought of her.  I looked at the waves and the tides and the buoys set up for the swimmers and thought of how much she would have liked to swim here, or even how she would have enjoyed the pictures of me swimming here.  There is something about grandparents, some kind of warm comfort.  When they first passed away, I thought I lost it.  But now, as I march on in my life, I can feel them cheering me on, feel them with me.  That is how it is when I swim now.  The other night at class I swam 1000 yards, 40 laps.  It was the first time I really felt in a zone with swimming. I could feel my Mamere smiling down on me, swimming the strokes with me. Now I’m getting too deep, and even my Speedo won’t be able to swim me out. This class has refreshed and re-taught me the basics of swimming; strokes, breathing etc..  I actually feel as though my body is moving together in one motion.  Basically, I’m like a fucking torpedo out there.  My swim teacher calls me Maxwell because she thinks I’m amped on caffeine every class — I don’t even drink that shit.

The groin could be a problem.  As of now I think it is just a pull but I have to keep an eye on it and rest it for a few weeks.  My strength has increased but I’m worried I’ve plateaued in regards to my stomach. This is not acceptable. I need to eat healthier and those 40 chicken wings I ate during the Super Bowl didn’t help.  As for the drinking it has been OK.  This past Saturday night we stopped by my buddy Ben’s birthday party in Culver City.  I didn’t know too many of the guys there so I kinda hung with the girls, which was fine, as most times I prefer girls’ company anyway.  I sat there with Katherine and two of her friends and listened as they talked and laughed and did cute girl shit.  Then, all of the sudden, as if it was a vampire talking to me all Gary Oldman Dracula like, I heard something calling my name sweetly.  Crowley. I looked around.  Crowley, I love you. I looked around again.  What the fuck?  Who is it, I said in my head.  Down here silly. I looked down and there she was, cold, glistening, like a maiden fresh from a mountain lake. Our friend Heather’s martini stared back at me with a silvery smile.  It was a dirty martini, accessorized with two plump olives.  The sweat from its sexiness dripped along the curves of the glass.  The room was hot, laughter echoed through the halls, all I wanted was to grab that martini and say “Fuck it, I need a drink.”  The waitress came by and left disgusted with my soda water request.  I sat, and sipped, and watched that martini.  All I wanted was a taste.

Later that night as the crowds dispersed and we said our goodbyes I saw my wild romance sitting there empty, alone, used.  The sensation, the madness, had passed and I was happy that I didn’t give in.  There have been a few times I’ve questioned why I’m doing this.  120 days dude?  Why the hell couldn’t it have been 50 days or one month?  But, as of today, I am 40 days in.  One-third of the way there and I am pretty damn proud I’m sticking to my guns.

My Grandmom used to tell us we were descendants of indians and pirates. Yes, those are bubbles on my chin for the extra bearded look.


1 Response to “An Indian in Cowboy boots”

  1. 1 Jack
    February 10, 2011 at 11:51 am

    Hey old friend. Just wanted encourage you to keep going and I look forwared to these updates!

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