Tonight I went for another run. It wasn't anything spectacular. It was probably only about 4 or 4 1/2 miles long. But here's the catch, according to the weather report, even though I went out late, after 7:30 pm, it was still above 90 degrees out with a brain-frying humidity level of 90 percent. So it was hot and it was nasty and damp and the air was thin.
I hit 3 solid hills, with the first one being exactly 1 mile away from the house, so that I hit it at just the perfect time, as I'm beginning to loosen up and sweat well. It's steep as hell, but not the steepest or the longest of the 3.
Another half mile or so away is the second hill. It's not the steepest either, but it is the longest, seeming to go on and on.
After that I run probably 2 1/2 miles around and come in from behind, where a road climbs the hill in the steepest and most rapid ascent by far. It's a heart attack paved with asphalt and concrete, but my heart is healthy so it's all good. At the top I start to think about my pace. It's lousy. I've been running entirely for the hills, not really caring how fast I'm going throughout the run itself. So I've been slow. I'm done with the hills now, so I pick up the pace. I try to do something respectable for a change, something that might be worthwhile in a race. My energy is shot so I focus on my form. If my form is good and I'm moving along at a good clip then that's the best I can do. Normally I work my way down all the hills and then throw in some intervals all the way home, bursting into sprints between telephone poles followed by slogging along as I rest in between. This time I just decided to try to hold a good pace to the end, which I did.
Throughout the entire run there wasn't a soul in sight. Cars passed me, blinding me with their headlights, but other than that I was the only person out, which is how it is on most nights, especially in July and August when the heat is unbearable and the humidity is just plain gross.
By the time I got home I was soaked from head to foot. My shirt was glued to my gut, which only helped to remind me of why I need to run so much in the first place. I went inside the house and did some ab exercises. Then I jumped into the shower.
After my shower I called My Wife. It was around 9 pm and hadn't gotten to talk to a friendly person all day. It is difficult being here, living away from home. I am constantly lonely, and I had hoped that My Wife and I might have a reasonably happy conversation and perhaps cheer me up a bit.
My Wife has blamed me for years for being "responsible for bringing us to Memphis" due to my job there. She insisted that it was I who brought us there and it must be I who gets us out. Several times I had opportunities in nice cities like Nashville, Austin, Dallas, and Denver. Always there was some reason she had for us not moving to any of these cities. She insisted that we must stay close to family, whom she never talks to, and limited our choices to a few cities. One of those cities was Rocketown, Alabama, which is my hometown and the city where we met.
2 months ago I was offered a job in Rocketown, complete with a moving package included. It was a heck of a deal considering that we wanted to move to Rocketown anyway, and moving is extremely expensive. I accepted the offer.
Accepting this offer means selling the beautiful house we just bought and moved into last year. My Wife knows this, of course. She's not stupid. Oddly, last week she informed me that she was taking off from work this week to paint the rest of the house in colors that she likes.
"But we're selling the house," I remarked. "And that is a lot of work. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes, I hate these colors in here," she insisted. "I want to make it my house."
So she has been painting. Last weekend I drove all the way home to Memphis and spent my weekend helping her.
Tonight I called her on the phone to talk. "Hi, how's the painting going?" I asked.
She told me about how she thought the hallways might only need the one coat that she had put on. She then made it a point to tell me that it had taken her 5 hours to do it. Then she complained that she thought the woman at Home Depot may have given her the wrong color red for the kitchen.
"Was she an idiot? What did she do that you think she gave you the wrong color?"
"No, she's not an idiot!" My Wife yelled. "She was doing the best she could considering she was helping 12 people!"
Okaaaay.
We talked a bit more, but it continued along these lines. Nothing I said was ever right. She always found a reason to yell at me. I gradually talked less and less. It was quickly becoming apparent during this conversation that no matter how hard I tried to keep it nice and friendly, My wife didn't want to. And she wasn't going to let me be on her side, either.
"OK, so you've decided to paint the kitchen red then, I take it?"
This apparently set her off. She began going on and on about how clearly she's the only one who cares about this house and the colors and paying off the house early and on and on and on.
"I wanted a vacation this year," she screamed, "but now I'm having to stay here and paint! It's all your fault!"
I never asked anyone to paint anything. I was happy with the colors exactly as they were and I had said so repeatedly. But as usual she paid no attention to anything I said and did as she pleased. I hadn't even been told that she was taking this week off to paint until she casually mentioned it last week. But somehow it is all my fault, as is everything she decides to do.
She became increasingly hysterical as the 'conversation' went on, demanding that I sign some papers to let her get her tubes tied and how it isn't fair that I make so much more money than her and she wants to get off birth control because it makes her fat and it's not fair that I'm running while she chooses not to and on and on until she began to cry, at which point, and I could see this coming, she hung up on me.
I didn't bother calling back. There was no point. That was the conversation that she wanted. She chose to make it that way. I wasn't even really a part of it. I was just there as a sort of punching bag. And that is exactly how I feel most of the time lately.
This is my life. I work all day, sitting in an office by myself at 3 computers. Most days I don't see or speak to a single soul. Then I go 'home'. I can't afford to pay the mortgage on the house, all my bills, gas for my truck to drive back and forth between Rocketown and Memphis every weekend, plus rent and utilities for an apartment, too. So I'm staying at my parents' house with My Mother, who wants me there very badly.
Returning to this house, the house where I grew up, is painful. I was never happy here and I'm afraid a great deal of that unhappiness remains within these cracked and ragged walls. Getting off work and driving to this house, I can feel the weight pressing down on me as I draw closer and closer. When I come inside, it is always dark. The stairs creak and so does the floor in the hallway. My Mother is always sitting in her room watching TV. I say "I'm home" and she says "OK." Then I go into the bedroom where I am staying and I shut the door. This may have once been the home where I lived, but it is not any home to me now. It feels strange and I do not belong here. But I have little choice, and as my sisters tell me, Mom really needs someone here.
Meanwhile, the calls to my home in Memphis, to My Wife, are a random hit-or-miss situation. Some nights she's nice. Some nights she's hysterical and everything she has decided to do with her life is all my fault. I end up sitting on a crummy green couch with the phone in my hand saying nothing as she rants and raves. I feel as if she's pounding me into the floor with her fists with the jealous, hateful, spiteful words she's so fond of directing my way. It's never good enough. It's never soon enough. There's always some excuse for why she isn't going to keep her word to me on anything that really matters to me. But it's my fault somehow, at least in her mind.
I want to go to Australia. But there is no one waiting for me there. I will be entirely alone, although the beaches are said to be nice and the women very beautiful. I guess I could be the 'creepy American' who is always sitting on the beach watching everyone else. I know a few people there thanks to this blog, but they all have their own lives and I'm sure they won't have all that much time for me. Then again, that really wouldn't be all that much different than here.
And now for some international fun with drama and tears ...
Now back to your regularly schedule funny:
Three women: one engaged, one married, and one a mistress, chatting about their relationships and decide to amaze their men....that night all three will wear a leather bodice S&M style, stilettos and mask over their eyes .
After a few days they meet again.....
The engaged girlfriend said: 'The other night, when my boyfriend came back home, he found me in the leather bodice, 4' stilettos and mask. He said, 'You are the woman of my life, I love you, then we made love all night long.'
The mistress stated: 'Oh Yes! The other night we met in the office. I was wearing the leather bodice, mega stilettos, mask over my eyes and a raincoat. When I opened the raincoat, he didn't say a word. We just had wild sex all night.'
The married one then said: 'The other night I sent the kids to stay at my mothers for the night, I got myself ready, leather bodice, super stilettos and mask over my eyes. My husband came in from work, grabbed the TV controller and a beer, and said, 'Hey Batman, what's for dinner ?'
And now, as a double bonus for tolerating my whining, here is something ... um .... what the fuck ???
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