Coping

It is becoming more difficult each week to come up with anything even half-way interesting to write about, but I don't intend to let that stop me! After all, it's not like I'm getting paid to produce a quality product and there is no mandate for anyone to read it.

I'm going a little bit stir-crazy, getting a touch of cabin fever. I attribute it to the heat. It is 95 degrees when I get up in the morning and 105 when I go to bed. In between it gets hot. Too damn hot to take a walk, throw a Frisbee around, or even sit in the shade and contemplate life. And so we tend to scurry about from one air-conditioned oasis to the next, minimizing exposure to the elements and maximizing time in artificial atmospheres.

It is getting old and we still have six weeks of high summer to deal with before we can even think of a break from the heat. All physical activity is best left for the gym; unfortunately one of the two gymnasiums is closed for the entire month of July. Means I have to use the "girls gym." This is the one inside the recreation center, where the pool and basketball court is located. It has fewer options for strength training, exacerbated by its sudden overcrowding. It is also closest to where the embassy offices are, thus usually jammed with those civilians, many of whom are women.

Even when both facilities are open you're stuck with the old rat-in-a-wheel option for aerobic exercise -- meaning treadmill, elliptical trainer, or stationary bike. Not that the embassy compound is all that scenic a venue for jogging around, but for me it is considerably more distracting (I need distraction -- I hate running) having a moving landscape than staring at whatever lame graphic is scrolling on the machine.

Love it or hate it, you have to get to the gym. The ability to roam around (even if it wasn't hellishly hot) is very restricted and you quickly determine you're not burning any calories via work routines. Thus we get to a few quaint sayings about how a year-long deployment might affect you.

For civilians not burdened by the military's General Order #1, the tendency is to become a hunk, a monk, or a drunk. Meaning you'll be a gym rat, find religion, or seek enlightenment at the bottoms of liquor bottles.

For those of us constrained by prohibition, they claim you'll leave either weighing 300 or bench-pressing 300. Meaning you'll find solace either in the dining facility or the gym, both of which are first-rate.

Personally, I tend to adhere to moderation in all things. Get to the gym 4-5 days a week but don't pass up the surf and turf. And I'm not at all averse to getting a bowl of bread pudding, adding a sizeable dollop of soft-serve ice cream, bathing the whole mess in hot caramel sauce and calling it dinner.