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My Morning So Far (Sept. 4th)

Tony-- we'll call him "Machine"-- opened his front door to face squarely all comers. The first of these was an early morning run. Jabbing first with his left, then swinging wildly with his right, he came out nearly unscathed-- except, of course, for the two beautiful girls who seemed to ignore him as he jogged by, to the great disappointment of the champ. Alas, his record remained in place, if his ego seemed a bit bruised.

Not to be outdone by his previous bouts, the Machine stepped next into the ring to take his next-- and equally formidable-- opponent: his 1995, paint-chipped forest green Toyota Camry. If his car was to be presentable, it would need such attention as that given by a mother to her babe. It was here that the Machine had less experience, but more motive, for who knows what cordial well-to-do's might view him driving this, his stallion, his beast.

Coming immediately out of his corner with a haymaker, then a surprise left uppercut, The Machine stood proud of the little water he wasted as he cleaned his beast, and the thoroughness with which he did so. Watching his opponent lay motionless on the mat gave him that self-same sense of achievement he had felt just minutes earlier on his run. He realized amid this glorious circumspection, however, that he was using dish soap to wash his beast; and it occurred to him, just then, that perhaps this was why his beast had paint chips in the first place.

The Machine left the ring victorious once more, but he felt a sense of anxiety, realizing that perhaps his proud victories had in them a sense of defeat; not defeat by his opponents so much, as defeat by himself. The champ's view of himself, having waxed for weeks in training and self-discipline, finally took that natural course in its cycle of esteem, and began to wane.
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