Monday, October 24, 2005


Weekend's recovery

It was bound to happen, you know. It's not even the first time.

Here it is, after 7 p.m. on a Monday night, and I'm still recovering from the weekend, the truest sign I know that I'm not 19 years old anymore. The worst part is, it's not like the weekend rocked. There were no mega parties, no kegs of beer, no forgotten methods of getting home. None of it.

Worse, it was work-related.

Saturday morning, my employer (a large national non-profit of no little eminence whose name I will not repeat because it would be indiscreet - but which most of you know) held its annual walk, one of the two or three primary fundraisers held across the country. Our Woman in LA and I arrived at Hollywood Park racetrack at 5:45 a.m. to do our duty as volunteer manpower.

All in all, a successful time. We raised almost $80,000 more than last year - and on a dreary, rainy day in Los Angeles. Celebrities walked in force. Participants grinned and celebrated the fight against the terrible disease. I won't get into the petty stuff . . . like how I saw management from my office depart about 15 seconds after the walk was over; or how the departing development director (and my outgoing boss) yelled out in front of a group of walkers and volunteers "This is my last one! I won't have to do any of this anymore!"

Good show, that one. Nice work.

Whatever. The point is that the event succeeded. And Our Woman in LA helped make it happen. She ran the "kid's corner", where walkers could dump their kids before they walked. I schmoozed with the sponsors, making sure they were happy. And then, when it was over, we loaded and unloaded the trucks, making sure we were successfully out of there. Hats off to my colleagues who made it happen.

But by the time we got home, at about 4 p.m., both the wife and I were totally, utterly pooped. Unable to move. In worse shape than after the half marathon.

The rest of the night was a blur. Longtime pal Hans Noel was in town to give a talk at UCLA. He came to Steph's show, and then the goal was to party the night away after. No dice. When the show let out at 10:30, the wife and I were unable to move. Going to a party became going to a bar, which in turn became grabbing a snack and a beer at Fred 62, and going home to grab slumber.

Depressing, I guess. None of this would have affected me thusly in my younger years. Today, though, I'm just plain tired.

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