My advancing years leave me seeing time as assuredly non-linear and, very often, non-sequential. Looking back over a period of events, I often lose track of what happened when. More to the point, I really don't care. I'm neither a historian nor a court witness. Those few times I know I need to track what happened when, I write it down lest someone reconstruct that history for me, or to use a more appropriate preposition in those cases, against me.
Regardless, the month flew by. The Rugged Maniac made it cear to me that I have a long way to go before think the Tough Mudder is a possibility. However, the physical preparation will come. It's a matter of slow but sure, and I'll get there.
The bigger matter arose in the planning for the periodic torture of Old Farts like me. The clinic requires that I arrive with a driver who will hang around for the duration. I hesitated to reach into the pool of work peeps to ask who might drive me, and the the clinic made it clear that a taxi was not sufficient.
So I made my list, and fortunately, the first one on the list came through. Sometimes even I get lucky. (Another half dozen at work also volunteered.) The planning left me saying out loud that I need to get out more. However, in retrospect, I realize that I do get out. A lot. There's rarely an evening I spend at home. The thing is that my evenings out are generally out alone. Dining. Running. Gym. Bike. These things are not going to get me to meeting people, and for the most part, I'm okay with that.
However, there comes a time when we need a little help from our friends, and there's the rub. That, or I just convince the clinic to change its policy. Given what I know about me, it's probably going to be easier to get the clinic to change.