I went for a run today around Central Park. Brilliantly, I brought long workout clothes to the office this morning. Late in the afternoon I changed clothes in my office and tried to illicitly tiptoe out of the suite in my not-quite-flattering workout pants (the stretchy kind that are not technically leotards, but still make you check with the sales clerk to make sure they are, in fact, men's clothing) and about eight layers of t-shirts. But no, sir! I happily ran into three of my extremely female coworkers on my way out, leading me to wonder: can they see my underwear? are my bits and pieces apparent? do I have any awkward sweat stains?
Well, who would know, since none of the coworkers were too anxious to make eye contact with me. But these fears disappeared like Gatorade stains in a shag carpet as I began the run. I huffed the whole six miles and enjoyed the gates - I'm sorry, I mean The Gates - in the changing light. It seemed as though every hill, every crest, every angle, provided a new pretty view of the park. The setting sun, the wind, the light, made everything great.
I realize I'm turning into a gushy Christo disciple but damn it, I love the Gates. There were some hysterical letters in the Times today from indignant people sneering at the whole thing, since some people apparently hate things like "art" and "civic works" and "things that make other people happy." Relax, homeboy. For two weeks enjoy the damn thing - I love the barren February landscape as much as anyone, but this is a nice temporary change. Central Park is that girl who goes into the expensive store in the mall and tries on a nice dress just to see how it looks. Then you just sit back and tell her it looks great no matter what, and wait patiently until after she comes out in her normal clothes, because then you might get to go to Auntie Anne's for a celebratory pretzel in honor of your unflagging support and devotion. So in conclusion: you look great, Central Park! Very svelte! I'll take mine cinnamon sugar.
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