Waiting for Godot

Just to be clear, I hated the play "Waiting for Godot" when a professor in my freshman year of college forced us to read it. Thinking back on the experience I can honestly say it still bothers me we had to read that "classic". I still hate it. Maybe Seinfeld based his television show on Godot, since they joke about the show being about nothing.  In a 1990 poll conducted by the British Royal National Theatre  it was voted the "most significant English language play of the 20th century". That's so sad. There has to be better plays out there that were written in the 20th century.

I can hear you saying, but Mike, what does this have to do with running? Probably nothing, like the play being about nothing. Two days ago I was at my allergist's office for a 3:40 appointment. When the doctor's office (or dentist) gives you a time does it really have meaning? I think not. It's an approximation, sometimes off by minutes, or other times by half-an-hour or more. At the counter I was asked a bunch of questions and then given a list of questions to fill out in pen, the same one I fill out every time I visit. It's my belief they use these questionnaires as fire starters for charcoal grills.

I turned the form in and waited another ten minutes. I like my allergist. He's a good man, easy to talk with, knows his field well, and is a runner/biker. He remembers things about my family even though it's been months since we've seen each other (he might have a secret notebook to review before every patient, I don't know, but it works). But why can't a 3:40 appointment be 3:40? Why is it the norm in doctor's and dentist's offices that we wait? I don't want to wait for Godot, or my doctor, to be free.

I need to get home to run, or bike, or swim, or lift weights. Maybe I need to get Jan's dinner ready. There's a host of things that need doing and sitting in a waiting room isn't helping. So the next time you are waiting for your appointment go ahead and complain to the receptionist or doctor about how they can take a reservation, but not hold the reservation (Seinfeld). Let's see how he/she treats you then. 

Muffin Top

Cute name, right?
Or maybe it's the name of a new bakery, ala Elaine from a Seinfeld episode? "Elaine: Oh yeah. It's the best part. It's crunchy, it's explosive, it's where the muffin breaks free of the pan and sort of does it's own thing. I'll tell you. That's a million dollar idea right there. Just sell the tops."

Actually Muffin Top is what Jan is calling my belly, because apparently I've put on a few pounds and am now shaped like a muffin top. This is not a complement. A zipper broke on a pair of my Dockers last week. For awhile I thought this was a defective pair of pants, but now I'm wondering, was it my muffin top belly breaking free and doing it's own thing, stretching the pants beyond limits?

Since I'm not opening a bakery anytime soon, I guess the cookie consumption has to drop, the alcohol cut to 2 or 3 days a week and the running mileage boosted upwards. Who knows, maybe I'll actually be able to run fast again.

Follicly Challenged

Our society takes the amount of hair on one's head (especially men's heads) much too seriously. Too much money is spent on hair care products (for those with hair, the bastards), combs, brushes- what mature male has enough hair for a brush? - styling gels, salons and other nonsense.

In my youth I had lots of hair; bushy, thick, brown hair. It hung out my football helmet, proved my manhood, was seldom cut, and actually curled more than I liked. Now I have a few strands in front and on the sides, a bit on top, just a bit, enough to make me think I have a full scalp, until the damn barber holds the mirror at the rear of my head to show me how well he cut the remnants, but really is only showing me skin!

I don't visit that barber much anymore. The young ladies at Supercuts never hold a mirror to this old man's head, which goes a long ways towards increasing their tip.

You may be asking what the hell does this have to do with sports? Supposedly if you are free of hair you swim faster, like a dolphin gliding through the water. I would like to glide through the water. The other night I found myself alone in the bathroom looking at the mounds of chest hair, especially the grey chest hair, on my body. "What possible use is this stuff anymore" I asked. "no use" was my answer. So I grabbed some scissors and began trimming.

This brings me to another point. Why do I lack hair on my head, the socially acceptable place to have lots of hair, but have a gift for growing hair on my chest, shoulders, arms, legs and ears? What curse has befallen me? Did I wrong some wizard in high school or college?

While my chest is not without hair, after all I did not shave it, there is less. Will I swim faster? Probably not, having my feet not act like anchors would help that more than losing hair. But I did notice today that my chest itches, like it was shaved. Now I'm really confused and feel like I'm in the Seinfeld episode when Jerry shaves all his chest hair off.

Kramer: Hey Jerry. What is this? Lady Gillette? What's going on?
Jerry: What? Can't I get a moment's peace?
Kramer: What are you doing to yourself?
Jerry walks into camera view with his chest covered with shaving cream.
Jerry: I can't stop. Alex thinks I'm naturally hairless.
Kramer: You can't keep this up. Don't you know what's going to happen? Everytime you shave it, it's going to come in thicker and fuller and darker.
Jerry: Oh that's an old wives tale.
Kramer: Is it? Look at this.
Kramer walks off-screen and opens his shirt. On-screen, Jerry reels from the sight.
Kramer: (high pitched voice) Look at it! Look at it! And it's all me. I shaved there when I was a lifeguard.
Jerry: Oh come on. That's genetics. That's not going to happen to me.
Kramer: Won't it? Or is it already starting to happen?

If you see me at the pool, please be polite and don't stare at my chest or scream.