WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

*Hiccupping sobs*.

*Sniffle sound*.

WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH.

*Whimpering*.

Our heavy equipment operator, Calvin, appeared two weeks ago to scope out the landscaping work I want done. He's more comfortable talking with the spousal unit about projects such as this so I gave the spousal unit a detailed briefing about what I want done and sent him out to be manly.

To see the full humour in this you have to understand that I am married to a very soft spoken carpenter who is a practicing Buddhist, an opera and alt-country music lover. I, on the other hand, worked for many years in landscaping, and my MP3 player is full of very raucous rock 'n' roll, music quite similar to what was blaring out of Calvin's car when he pulled up.

Tee hee.

The spousal unit painted the broad strokes of the project with the understanding that I would appear near the end of the work to vet the final shaping. The final shaping is more about aesthetics and sufficiently girlie that I'm not breaching any manly protocols when I appear.

Protocols. It's all about the protocols.

It's been a wet spring. Calvin walked a few hundred feet below our house and studied the portion of our road that's not far from a spring. When he came back up to the house from the look on his face I knew the news would not be good.

It will take between 12 and 14 dump trucks worth of dirt to build up the big hill in front of the house to the size and shape I want. Calvin said there was no way our road would withstand the weight of that many dump truck trips in its current moist condition. The weight of a car is one thing. The weight of a fully loaded dump truck is another thing.

He has no interest in miring a dump truck in our road and we have no interest spending $1,000 or so to repair the damage a mired dump truck could do, so the hill reconstruction has been postponed until the end of June when things will have tried out completely.

And, since it's insanely difficult to coax hostas into surviving a transplant after their leaves open, that means I won't be able to plant my new hill until next spring.

Next spring.

WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH.

And then � and then it will take about three years for my hostas to fill in and for me to see whether or not I got the planting right.

There will be tweaking, there always is.

This weekend I turned 54. I will be at least 58 by the time I see if I got this right. I may well be 61 by the time I do get it right.

WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

The upside to this is that the soil making new hill will have lots of time to settle before the hosta move there next spring. It will make a more stable planting surface, which is better for the plants.

I know this should make me feel better, but it does not. I find this whole delayed gratification business extremely trying and every time I walk past the nursery beds full of hostas awaiting transplant to the so far imaginary hill, I fume.

But there's nothing to be done.

Friday was Judgement Day at my gym, my semi-annual weighing, calliper measuring, fitness and flexibility testingpalooza. I know my three loyal readers will get as tingly as I do when they consider these stats: I dropped my body fat by another per cent to 17%, my waist is now 29 inches and (are you sitting down because, really, you should be sitting down for this) I put on another 5 � pounds of muscle in the last six months.

Excuse me while I pound my chest and make territorial gorilla sounds. There. That felt wonderful.

I would be the Queen o' Smug except for the fact that Project Marn-Ra continues to be nothing but an empty dream. Friday, when I tried to do three sets of five pull-ups, all I could manage was 5-5-3. So near, but so achingly far away.

And, of course, the minute I actually achieve that goal, the bar will only be set higher.

I think that's what delights me the most about this. I am 54 and I have yet to find out where my personal best is. If I put my head down and try hard, I can always add something to the bar, or run a smidgen faster or run a few moments longer. I'm never going to set any records, but at a time in my life where physical limits could be pushing in on me, instead I'm finding new strengths. I know this won't go on forever, but I'm sure enjoying the experience.

Fifty-four. When I look into the mirror the face that looks back at me shows every one of those years, no question.

Ah, but the spirit ... the spirit, that's a whole other ballgame.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 621.49 miles. Quadruple Duckage. You rack up the miles when ya train for a 10K.