What's in a Name?

I was told today by a friend that my vehicles should be named after females. Clifford is apparently not cutting it for this person. I'm compiling a list of women who would consider it an honor to have a large, loud, one-ton truck named for them. So far the first line of the list remains blank, as do all those following it.

I was primed to purchase this evening. Nordstrom is having its Half Yearly Sale. What I wasn't told until I arrived was this: it's for girls. The boys' things don't go on sale until the day after Christmas. How fortunate. I was hoping to be at the mall on the day after Christmas. The selection is so much better. Okay, I'm sarcastic and I'm bummed. There was actually some stuff there I would have purchased. But J. did okay. She found a suit she needed and another jacket that looks very nice.

Speaking of needs--even those disguised as wants--Alpine has a head that supports commercially-produced CDs, home-produced CDs, mp3s, and with a kit can even control an iPod. I'm thinking about it. It's not cheap, but the iPod is my favorite source of music on the road. This seems to be a good solution. I'm playing it through one of those hissy cassette tape gizmos right now. It's inefficient, noisy as can be, and I'm still reliant on the iPod screen if I want to see what's playing. With the Alpine, it will all display on the faceplate of the new head unit, the iPod will be charging and playing at the same time (no extra cord plugged into the aux power port), and the sound quality overall will greatly improved.

I'm confused though. Can I put a macho high-tech gizmo like that in a rough, tough pickup truck with a feminine name? It seems disrespectful at the very least, and dangerous in the extreme. I've spent most of my life angering women--sisters, my mother, my wife, and now my daughter. But to make any of them the namesake of a PowerStroke pickup truck, even one with a really nice sound system, is tatamount to committing suicide. One difference is that I don't get to select the time and place, but the end result is too similar to warrant further comment.

Bushed.

It's not what you think. My friend Subbu and I were subjected to what our friend and trainer, Benny, happily calls a "conditioning workout." That's a workout where the local high school band director can darn sure here the sound of a bass drum thumping furiously, but cannot control the tempo because the sound is emanating from your chest cavity. And you are certain it will never settle down.

Curious thoughts swirl about your cranium during these workouts. "This bench feels like a gurney. I'll just lay here until the ambulance comes." "I wonder if Benny is eating regularly. I don't remember ticking him off." "I didn't even know that muscle existed." "Must. Have. Water."

Some things have startling clarity now: I have never met a pushup I could like or I could do. Squatting and standing up is natural, and natural things hurt. Exercising while unfit is like exercising with a friend, and carrying him in front of me the whole time. The middle of a workout is a terrible time to remember that I am supposed to bring bottled water and a towel with me. It is also consistently the time at which that memory makes its appearance.

So I'm a little ragged right now. Bushed. Beat. Fatigued. Wrung out. Sore. But healthy, by golly. I am healthy. Like an ox. Very much like an ox. I'm hitched to something I can't see, told where to go and what to do, pulling too much weight (my fault, that), and expected to eat grain to improve the situation. If I see a goad on Thursday, I'm chucking it in, folks.

Until then...