When you're a writer, sooner or later you have to put thoughts to paper, or in my case today, to a computer screen, so I can catch up on some blog posts I've been missing. The older I get, the faster it seems time flies, especially my off days. I barely have time to work on one project, work on, not necessarily finish, mind you, before something else comes along to demand my undivided attention. Now I know everyone gets the same twenty-four hours a day and I'm no different than anyone else.
Still, when I say a new book is almost finished and weeks later it isn't out there for the Lorefans to
read, someone has to man up and take the blame. Not me of course, but someone.
After all, my part of Book Thirteen has been finished for weeks. Can anyone else say that? Of course not. Not that many people work at Loredagger, so I'm sure the average Lorefan will figure out quickly who is slacking and who is not. I admit, I did take some time off from writing this Thursday
so I could visit the emergency room for a few hours. Make that a lot of hours. Don't worry gentle
reader, I was out by 2 pm or so Friday. Not only is my ticker ok for the moment, but I think I
just made my personal best time running in socks only on a treadmill. Well, not really socks only, but without shoes. Am I blushing?
Actually, it was my only time running in my socks sans shoes on a treadmill, so I know it was my best time. How did such a thing come about? Well, my doctor thought some of my medications might make it difficult for me to properly stress the heart for the test. Therefore, he decided to stress the heart via drugs only. No running for me or so I thought. When the transporter arrived with the wheelchair (No, I don't mean Jason Statham) I asked my lovely wife to toss me my shoes. "Why do you need shoes? You're only going to lie on a stretcher while they shoot some medication into you." Oh, my lovely, lovely, clueless wife. You civilians have no idea what goes on in hospitals in the background.
As a nurse I knew better, but I left my shoes behind.
Dropped off at the stress test lab, I quickly learned the error of my ways. "Your doctor wanted you to be stressed via meds instead of the treadmill. You look like you can walk ok," began the technician. "What say we just put you on the treadmill? We can get you finished about an hour quicker that way.
You look like you're in pretty good shape."
The saucy vixen had me at "pretty good shape" especially since she didn't say "for your age," at least not loud enough for me to hear. Leaping to the treadmill, grasping the handlebars firmly between
my muscle knotted fingers, I gave the lady technician my best Clark Gable smile. "Hit it," I cried. In retrospect, my smile was more akin to that of Clark Griswold as I meekly moved to the treadmill
and began my run. I was spectacular. Moving like the athletes in Chariots of Fire, I trotted like a
Kenyan in Kingsport, easily outpacing every imaginary runner competing against me. I was smooth, I was cool, I was, I was tripping over my jeans as the thick cotton hems slipped underneath my dashing heels. "Excuse me, can I stop a minute and cuff my jeans, before I trip?"
The technician laughed coyly. "Once I get started, big boy, there is no stopping. Can't you handle it?"
Another tech showed up, removing her eyeglasses, frame tip caressing her delicate mouth as she coolly assessed my stunning prowess. "Keep running, you wild stallion, while I cuff those naughty jeans for you," said the newcomer. I didn't even break my stride as her gentle, talented fingers swept over my churning legs, accomplishing her stated goal in no time. Did I detect a discrete, yet firm cupping of each of my massive undulating calves? Well, well. Obviously, this wasn't her first rodeo. It wasn't mine either.
Grateful for her unexpected assistance, I was free now to run. Run like the wind. Run like the stallion in me was meant to run, wild and free! "Okay big guy, Give me all you've got. Just remember, you've got to tell me one minute before you're ready to give out," said saucy vixen number one., "so I can get what I need."
"Give out? You've got to be kidding lady," said the Clark in me, Gable or otherwise. "I can do this
all day, maybe even all night."
"Give it to me," she cried, tossing her hair in a frenzy. Her face froze in sweet agony. "Oh stop, stop, that's enough!"
"What," I asked, shocked that the vixen would be done so soon.
"I said, give me the harness. You're finished old timer. The transporter will take you back now."
I would have preferred letting her down easy, but then tech number two was already waving a tearful goodbye as I gunned the motorcycle and sped away. There's no time for tears, no time for farewells. I have a mission to accomplish and Jason Statam will not hog all the glory this time out.