Dear Body,
We've had some good times together, eh? The trouble we've gotten each other into, well... let's just say I've got some permanent reminders of our more exuberant endeavours (my face holds a grudge, but don't worry about that. Face is a whiner).
Yet I can't help but feel like we're growing apart lately. It's not just the things that you do, but more the little things you don't that make me question our relationship.
There was a time when you'd be stoked for an all night bender, stomach and liver working seamlessly to convert the copious amounts of liquor & beer into the fuel our brain needed to perform ill-planned acts of social deviance. Legs, you deserve special mention for your Forest Gump-esque ability to keep running even when the weather, physical fitness, and common sense dictated we should probably sit down and quit smoking.
There wasn't a bruise too big or an embarrassment too damaging that could prevent us from living each day like it was our last (sometimes threatening to convert the metaphorical to the literal). And throughout it all, you got me out of bed the next day ready to conquer a new day, all remnants of the previous nights indiscretion neatly erased from both physical and mental memory.
But no longer.
These days, I'm lucky to have my eyes open for 5 minutes before you sucker punch me in the gut to remind me of the late night "pizzadventure" we decided was a good idea after guzzling a disproportionate amount of beer (and I mean WE; don't act like you were protesting that 8th greasy slice). My once meditative morning showers have become a skull-thumping ordeal as I try to cleanse myself of the stench of poor life choices, your packed bags under my eyes like a dejected spouse whose had enough of my shenanigans.
Don't you like hanging out anymore? You seem to want to go upstairs and pass out sooner & sooner lately, long before I'm ready to end the nights frivolities. And its not even like we're getting some alone time either; I could handle the premature party pooping if I was getting a lil more attention. But no, you're just content to roll over and start snoring, leaving me to grip the sides of the bed and focus on something solid so as to prevent the room from carnival riding me into a porcelain nose dive (legs, at least you try. That one-foot-on-the-floor trick is greatly appreciated).
...I'm sorry. I should be less accusatory. This is a partnership, and I realise I can be a bit demanding of you. I could probably drink more water and get more sleep. I should cater to YOUR needs a little more, I get it. I've taken advantage of you these past few years, and I have to start treating you better.
We can get through this, I know it. Make a fresh go of it, both of us. I'll be good to you, I swear. I just need you to show me a little more effort, okay? Let see that fire again, the spark we once had when we were prodding buttocks and collecting signatures.
You and me against the world, Body. Always and forever.
Sincerely, Alan.
(PS - you've got some kind of a rash on your butt. I'd get that looked at if I were you. M'just saying).
