I cannot say how refreshed I was when I woke up this morning. Probably not much. I dragged my raggedy butt out to the gym. I was pathetic there so I left. I went for a run. After about half a mile, a glorious sun rose but did not improve my performance and, at about a mile, as several severely old people (age-ism?) passed me, I gave up that ghost and went home.
I showered and went back to bed.
My soccer season starts tomorrow. I’ve been trying to cram six weeks of preparation into two weeks and I’m only succeeding in getting myself injured before the season even starts. We’ll be the defending champion. Again.
Last season, although ultimately successful, was bruising and grueling. I hung my cleats when it ended in November and did not play or workout until February. Gym work, which is valuable but could never take the place of getting on the field and playing.
Oh, the invoice to renew my home subscription of The New York Times arrived in the mail today. $265.20. I wish I knew how to quit the Times. That’s $530 a year. I’m not saying it’s not worth it but the invoice almost always arrives when I’m either too broke, or broker than that.
On the other hand, I could buy the paper on the newsstand, which is actually the best paper to have because it should, technically have the latest news and final sports scores from the night before. But it costs $1.25 for the daily paper and I don’t know how much on Sundays, probably $5. Whatever the pressures, the Times should have resisted the urge to go over $1.
Maybe when Murdoch starts a Sunday section for the Wall Street Journal and prices it like he prices that abominable rag, the New York Post. I may give up the Times then.
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