I'm Getting Wimpy

What the hell is going on with me? I am becoming domesticated, mature and adult-like. That might be overstating it a tad, but still I am developing habits that were once as foreign to me as kissing corporate ass. Could that be the next step in the evolution? NEVER. Corporations must die. Sorry, I got off track there a bit.
Goals. Suddenly I have goals. Fortunately I am not the type to make lists or to put together a detailed game plan on how I am going to accomplish my goals. That would just be too damn organized. I am not organized. I am a dreamer.
But I'm all caught up in this exercising fetish. Can't get enough. I have been dogged, consistent and determined in 2011 and it has paid off. I lost one quarter of an ounce in 7 months and four days. The funny thing is, true to my nature, I didn't become Jack Lalanne II to get healthy, I did it to lose weight, to look pretty. Carol is deeply in love with Jacoby Ellsbury and I must compete. Currently, I'm losing. Anyway I feel guilty when I don't exercise and I immediately figure out when the next opportunity will present itself and how I must organize my time that day to get it done. Deep down inside I know the new regimen is doing wonders for my heart, lungs, circulation etc, which is a good thing; maybe I'll be around for another 40 years to torture my family.
Work/employment/$/career. Whatever the hell you want to label it, I am obsessed. Goal oriented. I want my freedom and I want it NOW. Want more money so Carol and I don't have to eat cat food three days a week any more. Want dignity. Want stability. I want to achieve my dream of making a living from writing. I am working hard at all of this, pursuing a phony baloney career in the NHSLC, writing, writing, writing, and consistently buying Powerball tickets. Stay tuned.
I wear a seatbelt. I used to think I was cool because I didn't wear one, as wild and reckless as a Hell's Angel, and it was annoying anyway. Say you have a mini bar set up next to you on the passenger side seat. Ice bucket, cocktail shaker, strainer, swizzle sticks, mixers and a couple of bottles of booze. A seatbelt can only get in the way as you try to concoct the perfect drink at 70 m.p.h. Carol had been campaigning for years to get me and my sons to wear our belts; she amped up the argument when a seatbeltless tragedy occurred to the son of Carol's boss. She won. Now I buckle up every time I climb into the truck, as docile as a little lamb.
I floss my goddamn teeth. Can you believe that? It's been going on for about a month now and I am deeply ashamed. One day my gums just started to hurt. I mean really hurt. I was chomping on a magnificent steak, fresh off the grill and my gums were killing me. Everywhere. There was no part of my mouth where I could chew pain free. I was pissed because the steak was glorious so I defiantly devoured that thing and then went upstairs to swallow some Advil. And that's when I started flossing. My first thought was fatalistic as always, cancer of the mouth. But on the outside chance that maybe I was wrong, I started massaging those gums. After wiping the residue off the mirror I became convinced that it was a good thing to do in general. I am now a convert.
I cook at least three times a week, sometimes four. I enjoy this tremendously; I see it as another creative outlet. As I was writing this I was cooking up some chicken breasts in the oven. At 7:30 in the morning. I am making chicken salad tonight and I want everything ready to roll when I get home from slinging booze all day. I am slipping into the abyss. By the way, as a recent devotee to the world of cooking, I find things like chicken salad and meatloaf and omelets absolutely inspiring; you can do anything with these babies, and I do.  Weekend breakfast has become an event; omelets, sausage, toast. Because I do almost all the cooking I also do the food shopping. I also wash the dishes 99% of the time. I package up the leftovers in the fridge with the date they were cooked duly noted, and I clean out the rejects when their time has expired. Other chores include cleaning the kitty litter box and emptying the rubbish. And I don't mind doing any of this, most of the time. What the hell has happened to me?
Thank god I still have my addiction to and abuse of Crown Royal to keep me from disappearing completely. The day I give up whiskey is the day you can start calling me Ward Cleaver.