The Fly

Fracoise Delambre famously said of his brother Andre and sister-in-law Helen, "They wouldn't harm anything... not even a fly." Obviously the genetically challenged couple of the seminal 1950s classic horror movie by the same name never hung out with me.
I never was one of those kids who was big into bugs, especially the flying variety. To this day, if a bee or wasp gets within 10 feet of me, my heart rate quickens, my palms become clammy. The anxiety always seems to lure them to me as if I was a honey-coated sunflower on a May afternoon.
Now let's get one thing straight right now. I don't easily back down from confrontation, and I'm hardly a wall flower. But when the attack comes from a flying insect with the ability to sting like a, well you know, the flight always overcomes the fight.
But things are decidedly different when my adversary is benign. That's why I hunt flies, gnats or other such disease carrying vermin. Even Mosquitos better watch out. I hone my skills, apparently, by living at the beach.
Black flies and gnats love beach dunes where it is damp and fungus and decomposition thrives. To test this theory, try running in the sand near beds of washed-up kelp or large beds of ice plants farther from shore. I've been known to karate kick a swarm of gnats while running on The Strand, which let me tell you elicits some strange looks.
Needless to say, these little buggers can be quite irritating, especially when leaving windows open to catch some nice breeze. When spring arrives, the onslaught begins, with the crescendo hitting some time in late summer. I think the real reason they call late August and September the "dog days" is because of the flies.
But, this winter with its recent 80-degree temps has introduced these pests earlier than normal. One particular unwelcome guest I've been chasing for the past day. Every time I think I have it dead to rights, it zigs that way, zags that. Where's Mr. Miyagi when you need him?
It's seemingly a futile attempt every time, but once in a while I realize sweet victory. Infestations are the worst. But I'll stop there, lest no one will ever want to come over again.
Flies really have nothing to do with slovenly living (well, sometimes they do), something that certainly does not describe my lifestyle, but, rather, as with many things in life, circumstance. I choose to live at the beach, so I've accepted certain truths, one of them the occasional fly or gnat infringing on my personal space. So, I make sure the windows are closed when I'm not home, my bananas remain fresh and my house plants not overwatered. And that old, thoroughly read copy of last October's issue of The Atlantic or Men's Fitness within reach.
Splat!

Back in the Fitness Saddle

So 26 days into the new year I venture one again to updating this dastardly deed called blogging. It's all the result of the infamous past time of broken promises: the New Year's resolution.

Some would say three and a half weeks of tardiness constitutes a broken resolution. I say nay. I might be lazy but I'm no quitter.

Perhaps I've been too busy making sure I stay on course with another resolution, that being physical fitness. After a 6 year hiatus I once again joined a health club. I told myself I'd never again belong to one of these meat markets, but, as I have learned, paying a bit more a month for exclusivity makes all the difference. So does never waiting for the ellipitical machine, the stability ball, the dumbbells...underground parking!

It's not like I've been a complete couch potato these past several years, having fully trained for one marathon (and missing the actual race because I tried to register too late but ran the distance on race day to a crowd of seagulls) and completed another (Los Angeles 2010). But try as I may, I just can't seem to fall in love with running distance. I still do from time to time, but I don't have that gene that my friend Sandy's husband has, or that of a college classmate and fellow Daily Wildcat alum and a current Charlotte Observer columnist.

Springsteen had it right that some were just born for it.

I, however, was not.

I proved to myself I can do it, I just don't take particular pleasure in doing it. But I've, relearned, that endorphin rush at the gym is what I've missed.

Now, to get back in the saddle of my non-fiction, away-from-work writing that translates my soul's thoughts. At least I have 11 months ahead of me!