New Year, New Me?

2025 is the year of my 40th birthday, which I regard as approximately the halfway point of life. I’ve heard the optimistic types tell me that no, it’s not midlife! One should expect to live much longer than 80. To that I say, one should expect nothing, but a little hope is probably fine. Look at the median age in America: it’s right around 80, though it depends on a lot of factors. And the odds of maladies increase exponentially in the later years. I measure life by healthspan, not lifespan.

I’ve never been into resolutions and haven’t made any for 2025, though there are a few new habits I’d like to set (I consider it prioritizing, not goal setting):

• Creativity over profit. The problem with chasing “enough” money is that “enough” is a bottomless pit that can never be filled. It’s the closest thing to a vampire in the world today. It thirsts for blood, but each victim only temporarily satiates. I’d like to switch my view of money to a means of survival, not a means to meaning (not that I ever saw money as everything, but I do believe I let it dictate too many decisions the past few years).

• Sleep over screens.

• Self-belief over fear.

• Idle deep thought over task-oriented mindlessness.

• Newness over routine.

I’m sure there are other priorities I’d benefit in setting, but these are the first that come to mind.

A snowstorm is due in two days. The gaunt clouds overhead strangle the sun and paint the world in grays.

I went for a morning run that left my throat dry and ears numb. I finished the run feeling better. It’s a reminder that discomfort is refreshing.

Tonight I’ll buy some trailrunners so that I can hopefully run on snow next week.

The last film of 2024 I watched was Nosferatu. Hence the vampire metaphor. Beautiful cinematography, excellent acting, creepy narrative.

So long 2024… 40 is knockin’ on the door.

Affirmations

Yesterday I had my first visit with a Physical Therapist for my foot injury. After an examination I was told what I expected to hear, which is that the plantar fascia on my left foot is messed up.

“You can really feel the scar tissue and adhesions there. It’s no surprise you’re in a lot of pain.”

“That’s good news,” I said. “If all the problems are in one place, I know what to work on.”

About two weeks ago, in a bout of pain and frustration, I ditched all of my cushioned shoes and replaced them with more minimalist, wide toe box shoes. This seems counterintuitive for someone in pain just from walking, but I have my reasons, and desperate times call for drastic measures. I believe in acting swiftly and severely.

I had been wearing heavily cushioned shoes with elevated heels as daily wear for awhile, thinking it would keep my feet comfy outside of distance runs. My theory is that this has something to do with the injury. Simply put, a tendon became too weak to sustain what I was doing to it, and worse yet, there wasn’t enough blood flowing to the area to heal it. So, I’m seeking natural foot strength. Time will tell if my theory is correct.

I woke up this morning and spent a few minutes rolling my foot on a heated vibrating roller sphere. Then I massaged it with an arch massager I got from Alleviate. I put on some toe spacers and spent an hour on the elliptical, then did a series of calf raise exercises and stretches. I’m wearing the toe spacers for most of the day, every day, to help promote blood flow to the plantar fascia.

I’m preparing revenge.

Playing over and over in my mind is what someone told me after this injury: “You’re injury prone. You need to be put in a bubble.” Those mocking words anger me beyond anything I’ve ever felt, and I used to be a very pissed off competitor!

For the last few weeks I have been repeating to myself, “They think you’re frail. They think you can’t do what you’re doing. Prove them wrong.” It’s the first thing I think when I wake up and the last thing I think when I go to bed.

It seems like the best way to really prove them wrong is to become the most durable fucking specimen they’ve ever heard of.

I promised the PT I wouldn’t run until walking felt somewhat comfortable. I’m not there yet, but I do believe the plantar is getting there.

I buried the “Manimal,” my old college athlete persona that my teammates called me, about 16 years ago because I didn’t think that persona was healthy beyond NCAA swimming. Leave it to some asshole to resurrect him! This time I think that side of me is here to stay. It isn’t the side of me that forgives or lets weak ass office comments slide!