Run Me Down

There was once a time when my brain was functioning up to its standards and life was in order. Well, maybe there wasn't. But, like any lucky baseball player past his prime, my brain had what is known in the world of sports as the "twilight of its career." Omar Vizquel is on the White Sox right now. He was a rookie for the Seattle Mariners when Ghostbusters debuted in theaters and spent his best days with the Cleveland Indians. He's currently 43 and playing as well as he ever has. His career and current standing is a prime example of where my brain once was.
As they will be for Omar one day, those days seem to have come and gone for my brain. The days of being proficient at semi-difficult crossword puzzles and reading 200 year-old Russian literature appear to be exclusively seen in my metaphorical rear-view mirror. Take this morning, for example: I spent a good half of an hour searching for my deodorant. In my better days, I would have come up with a clever way to extinguish future odors that may present themselves in the pits between my arms and torso. I definitely wouldn't have spent so long had been brain functioning the way it could (and should), the way I can't hold down a boring job for very long because routine bores the hell out of me. Maybe I'm okay with routine now? I don't know.
Anyways, I rode my bike down to Lincoln Park two nights ago. The root of my recent frustration may lay in the fact that I've been finding ways around exercising over the past month. I know the benefits of exercising: my brain works better, I feel more capable of... living my life, I suppose, and... I'm sure there's more. The trouble is that it's been far too humid lately, I've had a blast riding scooters, and obesity poses no serious threat to my physical health. If anything, exercising forces me to eat more. When I don't exercise, I tend to forget to eat or not allow time between sleep and work.
Enough of that. I need to get back to work so I can have a few beers before I go home and arrange my apartment.