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Right now my buddies are at a bar in Manhattan getting their karaoke on. Instead of joining them in singing an off-key tune and drinking adult beverages, I decided to stay here tonight, go to bed soon, and get up early to hit the gym.

A far cry from last week’s antics, to be sure.

And really, why? What am I trying to prove? I know I’m not an alcoholic in the true sense of the word, I can give the drink up when necessary, or when I desire. I don’t feel as if I really need it tonight, nor have I needed it since Saturday night/Sunday morning. I know it doesn’t make me better than my friends, who, while they may have a little more flexibility in their working hours than I, will probably be still able to carry out their employment responsibilities.

I know it won’t make me be more alert or a better worker, quite frankly, the ennui has gootten to the point where I am falling asleep doing my duties on a full night’s rest. Chances are I’m missing out on a great story, or even a great post if I change the names and places to protect the not-all-that-innocent. Honestly, the sleep, I assure you, will not even be all that good.

So why am I denying myself?

I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that tonight it suddenly got so cold I swear I saw two hobos frozen in blocks of ice before my eyes on Metropolitan Avenue under the BQE. More likely, maybe I’m finally learning that just because I can stay out and throw down with the best of them all time every time means I should. That I may, at my advanced age, be finally learing the value of rising early and accomplishing something by getting my heart rate up and my muscles strong over at the gym. That I finally understand the value of disclipline, and what it really takes to make it in this world is the ability to know when to put the toys aside and get to the serious business of self-improvement and self-actualization. That one cannot realize one’s potential until that person learns to finally put aside their limitations.

Nah, it was just really freakin’ cold and windy. So freakin’ windy you could swear the spirit of William F. Buckley Jr. was prattling on with a bunch of ten-dollar words about limited government, and so cold you could swear that your face was beginning to resemble Tom Coughlin’s in this year’s NFC Championship Game. An arctic wind from the Great White North will give you tons more discipline any day of the week than a Oprah-approved, Dr. Phil-penned self-help book, let me tell you. When’s spring get here?


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