Day 12.252 No I Can't

I wake on a couch that feels like an old raincoat. It is warm, worn and satisfying. It has, as if by memory stored on some soft, fluffy cloud, provided support for my back and cushioning at the stress points. I hear the hum of the central heating and see the glow of the festive lights hung professionally outside. I remove my arm from the down comforter and find the light button on my watch hopping I have another hour.

I don't.

Hurriedly now, I scramble downstairs to make a quick pot of coffee for the ride. The rain is splashing sideways against the kitchen window. I can't find the filters so I empty the used grinds into the plastic lined can and put it back in the machine. I chuckle at my feeble attempt at recycling as I pull phone from pocket to see if anyone in the world needs my help before my first cup of joe.

They don't.

I drive through the pouring rain in the middle of a vehicular procession snaking towards downtown and the ferry terminal. Lights in the opposite direction (where are THEY going?) obliterate my night vision with regularity. Why don't we all just take the bus?

We can't.

I pull into the drive of my client to execute our workout. It is 0645. He isn't feeling well so we decide to 'take the day', as in off. As in no workout. I am momentarily irritated thinking about that extra hour I could have logged on the couch. I drive back towards the new digs, stopping along the way to get a $1.25 coffee refill. In the convenience store my buddy shows me a picture cut from our local paper from 1973. We look at it, identifying the two rows of softball players, all with hair too big for their caps. We look at the picture, then at each other as the obvious emerges. Several of the guys on that team are gone. Wish we could play once more, he says.

We won't.

I get home and prepare to start my sure to be hectic day. The phone buzzes on the glass-top desk like an angry yellow jacket. The text asks me to do an emergency substitution for a sick spin instructor. The class is scheduled to begin in 25 minutes. I could say no and concoct some lightweight and lame excuse.

No I can't.