It's going to take me hours to get to sleep. (Project CXC, Day IX)

The first day of fall, so far as anyone should be concerned, and I didn't work out until nearly 8 p.m.

We can't both go work out together, Sweetie and I, anymore, because we can't right now trust Mr F to the daycare at the club.  They're a good bunch of people there, but it wouldn't feel right, Mr F being all swaddled up in bandages and his winter hat (to keep him from picking at the bandages) and wandering around the playroom, with all those other kids and, like, three women there to keep him from trouble.

So we don't all go together to the club like we used on Saturdays, which is just as well because Mr F always expects to go swimming on Saturdays, anyway, and if we take him to the club he's going to think he's getting to go in the pool, but he can't swim for at least six weeks after his surgery, and who knows why that is?

Seriously: they told us after we left the hospital that he couldn't swim for six weeks, so we assumed that meant "couldn't get his head wet," but then when we had to take him back this past Monday because his head swelled up again -- it turned out to be just "normal" swelling; it would be nice if the doctors would give you some idea what to expect but they don't, so when you wake up your son on a Monday morning and his head is all swollen again you panic and call the doctors and end up sitting around the children's hospital again while they examine him and pronounce the swelling normal -- and when we got done with that exam they asked whether we had washed his hair, and when we said we hadn't, because, you know, can't get it wet, they said we should wash his head, gently, so now we can wash his hair but he can't swim.

Mr F knew it was Saturday, too, and about 11 a.m. while Sweetie was at the club working out and I was cleaning the boys' room, he went and changed into his Angry Birds swimtrunks and came into the room, looking expectant.  I changed him out of them and explained that he can't swim until October 1, and he moped for a while.

(Later on, he put on his swimtrunks again.  I think he was hoping he could trick us into going swimming: "Oh, he's got his trunks on.  We'd better get to the pool, quick.")

So I was going to go work out after Sweetie, but we had to give Middle Daughter a ride home from work tonight because, and I'll quote, here, "Something something something boyfriend car", that being all I got out of the official explanation.  I pointed out to Sweetie that it doesn't take two of us to sit in the car and drive Middle home, so if she took the boys and did the chaufferation, I'd go work out then, and that's how I ended up at the health club, reading (and Tweeting about) James Joyce's Ulysses, and wondering why all seven of the televisions had to be tuned to the Alabama-Michigan game.

Also: I worked out yesterday, too -- my running workout, and I made it up the hill and didn't walk at all, in just 19 minutes, so now when I next run I'll be extending the route.  I'm gonna beat this thing yet (this thing being my flabby body.)

Today's workout:  Biking, level FIVE because I upped it because I AM THE MAN, I think maybe I am a little hopped up on endorphins, 40:00.
Latest weight; 253.
Song that I felt made a nice,  poignant, CB-heavy counterpoint to Ulysses:

Convoy, C.W. McCall.

All this time, I thought the song was by Kris Kristofferson.  For thirty yearsish I've thought that.  Now I find out it's C.W. McCall.  Who's he?  I feel as though the entire world has betrayed me and my whole life has been a lie.  But it's probably just the endorphins wearing off.  Here's a picture of Mr Bunches' new orrery toy that he got today, lined up into a syzygy. 

An orrery,  in case you didn't watch The Dark Crystal when you were younger, is "is a mechanical device that illustrates the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons in the Solar System in a heliocentric model."

And now you know.