At least my corpse would smell minty…for a while. What started as an impulsive need to finish a forgotten movie treat quickly became more sinister when a hasty glob took a wrong turn and, once lodged, leaked mint ooze deep into my bronchial realms. While thrusting my head under the faucet for water, I heard the Junior Mints box hit the floor and I envisioned my chalk outline nearby.
Earlier in the week, after only thirty minutes of cardio at the gym, I staggered into the restroom and tossed my breakfast with perfect aim. A rare display of athleticism after several weeks and dollars invested in personal training. I breathed deeply afterwards, found my land legs, and departed in quiet defeat.
Eyes now watering from minty vapors rising past my nostrils and into my brain, I saw my guitar on its lonely stand in the corner of my living room. Lessons had been taken. Chords sorta memorized. House of the Rising Sun almost recognizable. A fine layer of dust visible on the fret board in early morning sunlight after months of neglect.
Sugars dissolve quickly in water. Coughing ensues. My chalk outline fades into the floor tiles. Thoughts turn towards paper towels and cleanup. A ravenous coyote will not savor my minty flesh this week.
Thank God I know the feeling of a guitar nestled close, the ring of our high E sounding in the Star Spangled Banner. Thank God I walked on burning quads beyond my physical limits. And yes, thank God I prefer softer sweets.
At 44, with the horizon visible on the horizon, there is no wasteful pursuit except allowing pursuit to waste.