The point of the poem is metaphors. I am surrounded by them. Healthy produce purchased at the market? Wilting in the refrigerator for 8 days now.
Kettlebells, dumbbells, and medicine balls? Collecting dust and even selling a few specimens (rare dust, must be) on eBay.
Men’s Health magazine? A hilarious read with drop-dead routines you can read (but not perform) and with air-brushed muscle men who show you how it’s done (afterwards, they shower, dress in $800 clothes, don $200 cologne, and attract beautiful women like so much static cling).
And now, compliments of amazon dot all-is-com (click!), I have an academic planner, shiny new and covering July 2015 to July 2016. It is made for organized, logical, linear people. The kind I keep looking for in the mirror (I might as well look for the Holy Grail while I’m at it).
Still, as Hemingway wrote, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” and so I do. Maybe I’ll actually scribble a note or two this summer: “Read The Odyssey — Fagles, thank you. Sit in Adirondack on deck. Tan, don’t burn,” etc.
Maybe I’ll even keep it going for a week or two in the new school year. But the truth is, I’m often too busy planning on the fly to plan in advance. I want to be a guy with a planner, a diet and exercise regime, a power named Will that rides shotgun in my daily drive, but that guy’s an artful dodger, a fugitive doppelgänger at best.
So I’ll just imagine that I ate nothing but fruit, vegetables, and meat today. And that I ran 5 miles. And worked out with all those damn this-and-that bells on the floor.
Oh. And suffered static cling (akin to the impossible dream for married men).
I’ve got everything I need, after all. Metaphors especially. Lazy ones.