"You Can Run..."

I had been up for hours – a full moon, along with an anticipatory restlessness, had kept sleep from being mine.  Television had been pointless, reading had not helped, and music only made me more agitated.

Going for a run, my usual morning routine, had briefly crossed my mind, but I could not work up the necessary enthusiasm.  The neighborhood dogs would have to chase car tires for a change.

Just before dawn I staggered into the bathroom, brushed the disgusting night taste from my mouth, swished around some Scope to clear out the toothpaste residue, and spit the detritus into the sink.  Glancing up I looked at myself in the mirror.

You look like shit, my friend.

Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.

A shower and shave would help me on the road back to normalcy, but first I felt the need of an assessment.  I was thirty-five and, outside of my red-rimmed and sleep-deprived eyes, didn’t look too terrible.  My body was still firm, my weight – at two-fifteen – was heavier than I wanted it to be, but still in line with my large frame and six-two height.  My brown hair with its sun-bleached streaks was long – extending below my shoulders – and in need of a trimming.  The split-end thing was causing it to look a little wild at times.  Glancing down I saw my legs were hard and solid.  Years of running had kept them in shape.  My pecs were solid, my stomach was still flat, and beneath that ....

Enough of this shit.

The shower did wonders as I allowed the nearly scalding water to pummel my body from four different showerheads.  A good fifteen minutes in the shower, where I shaved and tried to force my mind to deal with the day’s events, brought a slightly better attitude.  Back in front of the mirror, while using the blow dryer on my hair, I looked again into the hazel-green eyes staring back at me.

You’ll be all right.

You’ve run before, and you can run again.

Yeah, but I’m older now.  I have a business.  I like it here.  I don’t want to run.

Tough shit!