I did a bad thing. I deleted my former blog, www.excruciatinginertia.blogspot.com. It's not what you think, though. I always figured that it would be hanging around in the ether and I could reach down into the primordial soup to reclaim it at my considerable leisure. Alas, this is not the case, and the tech people at google seem to have way too much going on to do a few mouse clicks for me or for the millions of others bleating for their attentions for one thing or another.
So I re-rolled my character and here I am again. I still look good, I smell good and I'm still broke. And that's the way I like it. I like to run lean, live close to the bone. It's when the skin is a little too close to the bone, so much that my ribs start showing, that I feel like it isn't worth it anymore. I'll gorge on carbs and choke down some cow muscle, medium rare. I know how that game is played. All that to say this: it's time to eat again. And as every fan of Ronald Jenkees knows, ain't no reason to be riding dirty. But enough of that kind of talk.
I don't really have a whole lot to say about anything right now. I'm being battered from pillar to post by the hideous math classes I'm taking on top of an accelerated-3-times-faster-because-it's-the-summer-version 2nd year Spanish class. My reflexes are shot, my friends. My legs are gone. My eyesight is weak and I can't take it to the body anymore. My boxing gloves are nothing more than ornamental appendages, for I've thrown my best shots at these classes and they just keep coming. I'm punched out and looking for a warm place to fall. Then suddenly I hear it; the bell rings. Once again I've made it to the weekend, and next thing I know they are carrying me to my stool and breaking out the smelling salts.
It's the early rounds yet and my opponent hasn't broken a sweat. I can see down the hallway that he's mangled better men than me, left them as no more than quivering lumps of living tissue curled up in the dark recesses of the tutoring center. When it comes to Sunday nights and I'm tucking myself into bed I almost can't bear the thought of answering the bell again. What moves am I going to put on him that he hasn't seen before? On the other hand, every move this guy puts on me is the first time I've ever seen it. React, adapt, go forth and conquer, the professor says. He's got a PhD in Mathematics, the equivalent of entering the ring with an uzi. Calc 3 won't even get in the ring with a guy like that. But let him lay eyes on a guy like me and the next thing you'll see is a mathematical proof of the Pavlovian response. I'm the dogfood in this little comedy and Sir Isaac Newton has rung the bell. I have no chance, really. It's like taking square roots from a baby.
I'm a club fighter in this realm, stepping in with the champ every day. He's teeing off on me, playing target practice with my head. Oh, I've found ways to survive, to buy time. I've gone low once or twice. I'm not too proud to clinch. I've thrown an elbow, just to keep it real, but the champ keeps coming. Still, I won't give up. I won't. We've all seen this kind of story before. I just need a reason to go on, I guess. Fortunately, there's inspiration everywhere if you look. Profiles in pop-culture Courage; Never Say Die! Down with the sherry and on with the chase. When I'm feeling down I can always look to the ones with the Right Stuff, the warriors with true grit. The kind of folks who inhabit Robert Service's poems.
We all saw the moxie in Hillary going toe to toe with Obama; it didn't matter what the polls said, she was staying in that race until she crossed the finish line, even if the wheels had come off 40 miles back! If that don't move ya, then look to the moving picture, Grasshopper. For though he was in over his head on a whole lot of levels, Balboa kept coming against Creed, even when he could only see out of his left ear. And when it was all said and done, the Champ didn't want no rematch.
It kind of reminds me of that Schnauzer across the street, taking yet another run at the postman. That dog doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit". Every time he starts his shift you know that dog is thinking maybe today is gonna be the day. And no matter how many times he ends up nursing a crushed windpipe you know he's going to go for it again tomorrow. All out. That dog has a job to do and he means to do it. Nothing is going to keep him down. Not repeated failure. Not asphyxiation. And certainly not some rusty chain that somehow ends up being just a bit shy of the proper length every single cotton-picking day. Not to worry; the postman will be along tomorrow. The schauzer will bide his time. And at just the right moment, he'll make his move...
I don't know yet if I can go on with the fight or not. Some fighters, like the late Arturo Gatti, never quit. Those kind are always stopped by the referee, never by the opponent. But this isn't boxing, this is Mathematics. Maybe my case is more like Muhammad Ali, who still thought he could get it done no matter how late in the day it was. Maybe I'm like him in a way. In the end, he reached down inside himself and came up empty. He couldn't even fake it. Math is like that. You know the answer or you don't. I barely beat the count after the last mid-term. Maybe this is where I should get out. After all, tuition is going up another 7 percent next year. When the chips are down, they figure they can always soak the student. Heck, most students are rolling in dough, right? That's why they are in school, because they need a place to spend money. Who better to take it from? I might just take up golf instead. It looks like an old Master is taking them all to school on the links across the pond. Is it too late to take up golf?
