Good things from today

1. Last night I went to bed early enough that I woke up feeling clear and rested. 
2. At work they upgraded my computer to Windows 7. I had this at my previous job but took a little step backward when I took on this role in July.  It made me incredibly happy to have all my old fonts and settings back. 
3. I had lunch with the kids at Five Guys, Alice's favorite. It was her idea for us to have lunch and I could tell it meant a lot to her.
4. At work I continued this weird new pattern of being extremely productive from approximately 4-5 pm.  This had never before been a good time of day for me, but it's working out right now. 
5. Our wonderful nanny told us she'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future, which is a huge relief. 
6. Our Christmas cards came today -- I am basically the chair of the Christmas card committee in this apartment, and they turned out really well this year. 
7. L gave me a special dispensation to go to the gym tonight, so I did one class and really worked hard and it felt good.
8. Nice quiet evening with L and "Survivor."
9. And that's it -- more than enough. 

New perspectives

 

 A few days ago I wrote a self-pitying blog post about how I don't feel like I have time to think anymore.  Can't afford the gym and am compelled to graze all night, so I feel like a fat-ass. Can't find new music to listen to.  Can't find a book compelling enough to finish.  Can't even fathom the idea of sitting down to write something meaningful.  Between work and home I feel like I have nothing else to give, so I was becoming accustomed to the idea that this was just how life would be, that you just kind of give up on everything else and keep your head down and watch your body become that of an old person.

I've been revisiting that draft post in the last few days, and I think I've done a pretty good job of taking concrete steps to combat it.  To wit:

1. I joined the gym at work and signed up for two classes on Sunday.  I went for the first time yesterday and it kicked my ass.  My body is sore all over the place now.  I felt so happy to be moving and sweaty.  At one point we were doing push-ups and the floor around me was slick with sweat that I could barely keep my bearings.  The last time I was in this gym was in 2005, in a boxing class that I loved, and it was a very odd sense memory to return to this place in a completely different life.  While I feel guilty about being away from the family during that chunk of time on Sundays, I think it's worth it in the long run, especially since A is usually napping and L can use the time to herself.

2. I bought "David Copperfield" at the bookstore and so far I'm loving it.  I was trying to read all these contemporary books that just felt very transitory and slight.  I like reading something that has endured, and Dickens is weirdly accessible to me -- it is popular entertainment, after all.  I'm excited to have one big fat book to chew on for the next two months.

3. Alice and I are doing a dance class at Alvin Ailey on Sunday mornings.  Bringing Alice to the studios where I used to do hip hop is hilarious.  Yesterday I could hear a hip hop class thumping in the room next door to us and it broke my heart (as we ran around with jingle bells tied to our wrists and sang songs about butterflies).  But I like having our own little thing together, and Alice enjoys it and I think it's helpful to teach her the basics of rhythm and movement.  L noted that Alice has been nicer to me since we started doing the class together -- it's our own little adventure, her and I.  The funny thing is that I feel weirdly competitive with the other little kids and their parents (mothers), like I want the teacher to be impressed that I've mastered these exercises designed for 2 year olds.  See me twirl the scarf!  I know what sound a froggy makes!  Watch me gallop!

4. Yesterday we also went to see the big new public art spectacle down at Columbus Circle, in which a Japanese artist has built a living room around the statue of Christopher Columbus on top of a six-story obelisk in the middle of the intersection.  I found the piece more powerful and compelling than I expected.  It was neat to see this old hunk of marble up close, and the views were great.  It raised interesting questions about private ownership of public art/spaces.  And it was amusing to watch Alice ignore the tremendous statue dominating the space so she could flip through the coffee table book at its feet. 

And that's it.  Right now I'm just trying to fight entropy and reclaim some things about life that I enjoy.  If it doesn't happen now, before this new baby comes, then I think we're in trouble.

Marathon training, week 1

Last week was the first week of marathon training!  Overall, successful.  I ran three miles on Tuesday evening, which was very unpleasant -- hot, soupy weather and clothing that felt too tight.  I am aiming for an 8:30 pace (last time around I ran at 8:55) and I ended up clocking these three at 8:26, so that was nice.  Wednesday and Thursday turned out to be "rest days," because I didn't want to/couldn't run, so that's fine.

On Saturday I had my first long run -- six miles, which is not bad at all.  Just one good loop around Central Park.  I was hurting a little bit from the late dinner with friends we had enjoyed the night before, and I realized that there was a road race also going on that morning.  I pictured myself being devoured by an avalanche of thousands of runners in matching bibs, but through some miracle of geography and pacing I managed to avoid the entire pack.  I would pass mile markers and realize that the race had been going for 20 minutes already, and then 30, and yet I never got lapped and I eventually reached the tail end of the pack.  The goal with the long runs is to run slow, so my mantra was "slow and in control."  Yet at the end I realized that I was running 8:45.  It was a nice run -- stately, elegant, almost matronly.

Then finally Sunday was cross-training, after another late night of "Horrible Bosses" and $9 pitchers (plural) or of Rolling Rock.  After almost five hours of sleep I staggered to the gym for the R. & B./gospel spin class I have come to love, along with some weights.

In class we were listening to something ("To Worship You I Live" or "God Favored Me," I forget) with the resistance on the bike near its maximum -- pushing the pedals required such effort, such rhythm to keep moving -- leaning into it, heart beating steadily, sweat along my arms, shirt stuck on my back, eyes stinging.  The song was rising to a crescendo and the instructor started telling us, "Let go of the resistance.  Let go of the opposition.  Rise to the top of the hill.  The top of the hill is waiting for you."  And I started picturing L and A at the top of the hill, waiting for me in their golden light, waiting for me to move through all of this to reach them.  I don't know if it was the physical strain or my exhaustion or the music or the words, but I almost got a little emotional in that spin class.  Finally the song reach its peak and the instructor slowly brought us back to the bikes, to the small room, to the stinging and the sweat.  The moment had ended and we all looked up and around the studio, wiping the sweat out of our eyes, preparing for the next stage of the ride.

Posture

A couple of weeks ago I was at the gym on Sunday morning, like I do, and was half-heartedly lifting some weights on the machines while waiting for my awesome R&B/gospel spinning class to start.  A trainer approached me and pointed out how I was using the machines incorrectly, then he said he could show me some moves that might be better the next week.  Ok fine, I said.

The following Sunday (last Sunday) I found the trainer and he put me through the paces, to the point where I was still sore four days later.  The highlight was when he said I had really good form with squats. 

The unfortunate part, though, came when I was doing dead lifts and he said my back wasn't flat enough.  This turned into a broader discussion of posture, and how apparently I should be puffing my chest up and out at all times.  (I tried this for a little bit at work and felt uncomfortable.)  He gave me some stretches to do to improve my posture -- basically reverse-humping a doorframe, then repeating it three times -- and I've even altered my computer monitor and tried to be more conscientious about how I sit and stand. 

At one point during the session he said, "Just wait, you'll see, when  you stand up straight you'll get more respect at work, people will treat you differently."

I let this sit for a moment while I continued the painful stretch he had me holding for a minute.  Finally I said, "Just so you know, I do get respect at work.  It's not like I get picked on in the hallways or anything."

"Whoa whoa I don't even know you!  I'm just saying, it makes a difference."

"Okay, I'm just saying.  It's not like I'm getting beaten up at work."

So I have spent this last week trying to stand up straight, uncurl my spine, flatten my back.  We'll see if it takes.

Awkward

Normally I am a cool and suave dude, but not today.  I should have known today would be weird when I found myself this morning scraping the bottom of the business-casual barrel.  No good shirts left.  No reasonable pants.  So instead I was rocking a pair of cords and one of those flowy, non-fitted dress shirts with several yards of extraneous fabric billowing gloriously around one's midsection.  Wisely, I stuffed this fabric under a sweater, which made me look like I was smuggling a wedding cake.  This is how I chose to approach the world.  Consequently, several unfortunate things happened:

First, as I was leaving the men's room at work this morning, I walked directly into another colleague who was on his way in.  This was fantastically awkward.  There was torso-to-torso contact.  Why did I not see him?  Later in the day I considered apologizing, but I thought this might actually make it worse.

Second, later on I was speaking to a colleague of the female persuasion, and I somehow mentioned that I had game, and she then said, "you have a wife and a baby daughter, you don't have game."  Trying to salvage the conversation without seeming unduly lecherous, I cried out, "But I used to!", which made me feel like no less of a creep.

Third, in the afternoon I was eating a brownie as part of the office's Holiday Cookie Exchange (somehow we never had one at the law firm, perhaps because the lawyers were too busy at night resenting their loved ones to bake) when a colleague came up and poked me in the stomach, Pillsbury-dough-boy style.  And of course he got me right at the point in my midsection where my sweater masked about eight layers of billowy dress shirt fabric, and his finger just sort of continued on, unimpeded.  It reminded me of the burrito I ate yesterday, which had guacamole in it, and when I bit into the burrito in the guacamole part the whole thing just collapsed because there was nothing solid there.  That was kind of like my midsection today. 

In an effort to redeem the day, the brownie, and my dough-boy-esque physique, I went to the gym tonight for a little lifting and a good spin class.  I was wearing a shirt with no sleeves, but thankfully no one made fun of me.  The class was great and it was a good workout.  And best of all, when I came home I saw that L had picked up the drycleaning, which means that tomorrow I will be much better-equipped for the day that is to come.

Back to the gym

Tonight I went to my first non-Sunday morning gym class in a very long time.  I checked out the New York Sports Club on 125th Street for the first time, after getting all of the relevant details from L.  Where is the entrance again?  What floor do you take the elevator to?  When you come out, where are the towels?  The locker room?  The water fountain?  The studio?

I am always nervous when I go to a gym for the first time.  I assume someone will pick on me.  I have been fortunate to have never really been bullied before (except in some unpleasant professional situations, maybe, and also L can really become quite merciless under the right circumstances) yet I always fear some towel-snapping juicehead is waiting to attack.  Like if I spend too much time loitering on the gym floor, or if my gym performance is somehow not up to par, some dude is going to come sauntering up: "Ha ha, check out the poindexter!  Let's do that thing where we flush his head in the toilet!"  To combat this I make a point of walking very purposefully around the gym, even when I have no idea where I'm going, just to prove to all of my would-be tormentors that I know what I'm doing.  As a result tonight I basically walked two pointless laps around the weight area, trying to look as calm as possible while my eyes were darting around furiously trying to find a water fountain.  If things really get bad, I will just stop wherever I am and do some stretches, trying to find a recognizable landmark before I break into a flop sweat.  I did this tonight, and that's how a guy with biceps the size of my beloved daughter's head almost walked into me as I was touching my toes.  But hey, at least I looked like I knew what I was doing.

Once I finished my Lewis & Clark-style reconnaissance, I did a couple of pleasant miles on the treadmill and went to a weight training class.  The class was much worse than I expected; the light weights I picked originally turned out to be too heavy, so I had to go back for even lighter ones.  And shortly after that I reached that wonderful point in the workout where I couldn't even bear to hold any weight at all, so I was doing the exercises empty-handed, like a mime, but with less dignity. 

Yet even as that was happening I was thinking how great it felt to be there.  I really like group exercise scenarios -- having someone else deciding what to do and leading a group of people all contributing to the tacit peer pressure to show up and perform.  The culture of the 125th street gym seemed to be really pleasant.  A nice mix of people, a lot of classes going on (a couple hip hop classes, two spin classes, a couple of weight classes).  I feel like I've given myself a pass from going to the gym since the baby was born -- I should be home, after all, bonding with Alice and taking the burden from L -- but I think I will be making more of an effort to get to the gym to recapture some of the stuff I loved about our old neighborhood.  I'm really glad it worked out tonight -- that I was able to get there and that no one gave me a noogie or challenged me to arm wrestle -- and I know I will be hurting tomorrow.

Angry weekend

It's been kind of a weird weekend. I spent a lot of it being pissed off for no clear reason, until things turned around today.

On Friday I was excited to go see "Gypsy" with L -- I had bought the tickets for Christmas, since it's a cool show and people are basically throwing themselves off the balcony from the sheer joy of the experience. I spent the work day of Friday getting random tasks done in the office and trekking from Rock Center to 9th & 55th not once, not twice, but three times. Given the traffic and bovine-like holiday crowds, this was very unpleasant.

As we prepared to go to the show, we didn't have much time to eat -- we ended up at the Most Miserable Subway location in Manhattan, the Subway the size of a walk-in closet near the West 4th train station. The woman behind the counter was hacking and coughing into her sanitary gloves and she smelled like B.O. The other people in the restaurant were incorrigible youths and a sad-looking old man. Once we made it to the theater, I was pissed with no clear rationale; after a woman cut me off, I grimaced and muttered, "she could have said 'excuse me.'" L pointed out that she did say excuse me, but this did not improve my mood. We wandered up to Starbucks to get a hot tea before the show and the crowds made me angry -- the lumbering, the slow pace, the random jerks who would clip my shoulder or smack me with their bags. I was livid, and I wanted to shove these offensive walkers, and I didn't understand why it was getting so far under my skin.

The show itself was fantastic; my foul mood lifted long enough to appreciate it. The young woman who sat next two L arrived in a long, ratty fur coat with makeup slathered on her face. She took the coat off to reveal a sequined red evening gown, bunched around her hips. She laughed raucously and applauded when no one else did. After the show we headed downtown and were going to stop for a glass of wine, but the bar was crowded and people were saving bar seats by placing their scarves across them. This was too much; I was tired of crowds, and slow walking, and compromise, so we left.

I spent all day Saturday in New Jersey for a continuing legal education session. I will be in New Jersey for the next five Saturdays, attending six hour lectures. I leave home at 7:45 am and arrive back home at 5:00 pm. This did not improve my mood, either; I came home exhausted and unhappy and did not want to do anything.

You know what improved my mood? A killer workout this morning. This workout was so good that once again I threw up in the middle of it. Following the third set of modified pushups I discreetly got up, walked out of the studio, and hunched over a garbage can on the main floor. I threw up, and then I went back in and resumed doing my crunches. And that was it. After the class I felt better, and right now I feel like a lot of then tension and anger I've been carrying for the last several days has lifted. We had a nice afternoon reading the newspaper at Chipotle, and then I read some more Cheever short stories at home.

I don't know what got into my head for the last few days. A lot of frustration with the demands on my time, maybe, combined with some of the negative aspects of city living. It is so hard to pull yourself out of a bad mood, even when in hindsight it is so obviously a complete waste of time.

Cardio hell

For the last few Sundays, L and I have been trekking up to the Equinox at 17th & 11th (walking through a dormant meatpacking district, cutting through a gas station, and bracing ourselves against cold winds blowing in from the water) to attend a gym class that I like to call "Cardio Hell," taught by our friend and hero, Arnold. The class is supposed to be about strength-building, but there's a strong cardio element to it as well. You go from jumping over a step to do squats, to doing modified push-ups with one arm elevated, to some kind of squat/shoulder lift combo, and all the while you're thinking about how to manage your breathing and prevent your heart from jumping out of your body and running out of the room, because damn this class is hard. I actually sort of dread it every week.

Typically I spend the class feeling woozy, light-headed, out of breath, wan, and uncomfortable. In fact, a few weeks ago I spent about twenty minutes after class vomiting on the floor of the gym studio, which was embarrassing and made me thankful that we don't usually attend this gym, nor are we responsible for laundering the towels.

Today there were snowflakes swirling around the glitzy warehouses around 14th street, and it was difficult to leave our warm home to head out into the streets, but as usual I'm glad we did. After the class you feel tired and exhausted, but also strong and alive; it's a good reminder that we are more than the sum of our email accounts and our outlook schedules.

Gym class hero

Here's what may the best thing that happened during this weekend of sticky, unrelenting heat, besides the discovery of "Alvin & the Chipmunks" versions of my favorite songs on YouTube (be sure to check out "Falsetto"): today I taught a gym class.

I went to the gym as usual this morning, ready and waiting for the strength training class. The teacher, who I really like, was late getting into town and had missed his earlier class, but the gym people said he would arrive in time for this one. As the minutes rolled by he didn't show up. Some people started to trickle out, but one chick wondered aloud, "does anybody know the routine? Maybe someone else could teach it."

You never know what you'll do when duty calls. Do you stand up to meet it? Do you shrink away and hope it doesn't try to make eye contact? "I sort of know it," I mumbled. The girl was direct: "Why don't you do it," she said, pointing at me through the mirror. After a few sheepish rounds of "No, I couldn't....No, it's really not possible...No, I....OK, I'LL DO IT," suddenly the class was lurching forward with me at the helm.

We didn't have any music, which made it difficult to keep everything on a consistent time. The first few minutes were awkward, as I tried to remember what the teacher says and keep a good rhythm going. We did fewer sets than usual, because time was short, but we hit all the exercises in 45 minutes. Mostly I just announced the exercises, kept the count going, and tried to maintain a steady rhythm. It was hard to work out and count out loud at the same time. As I got more comfortable I tried to offer some asides and extra motivating tips, like: "Dig in!" or "I find these push-ups to be the low point of the workout!" or "Bring that squat all the way down!" The crazy thing was, these actually seemed to have an effect, as people would bring their squats to a markedly lower point. I felt like a god.

As we progressed I started feeling really good. The exercises were flowing along nicely, we were doing a good number of sets of each one, and our timing looked to be about right. I started thinking about alternative career paths -- why couldn't I be a gym instructor, too -- I could make some hot mixes, bring in some good hip hop and r&b, keep the people moving, make them laugh a little bit...I felt like Charlie Bucket after Willie Wonka turned over the keys to the chocolate factory.

As the class ended we were all stretched out on the floor, and I wrapped up with our teacher's signature ending: "Aaaaaand, shake it out! Good job guys!" There was some appreciative laughter and applause. On the way out everybody thanked me and told me I did a good job. It was a really remarkable, really good feeling, and not one that I ever expected to have. Is there anything I can't do?

Ditch that

It might have been the best moment of the entire week. Since mid-December I have been rocking to an album called "Love/Hate" by The-Dream, the force behind last year's mega-hits "Umbrella" and "Bed." Despite his irritating moniker and completely unnecessary hyphen, he has come up with the best R&B album I've heard in a really long time. I bought this album almost on a lark and have been completely taken with it. Of the twelve tracks, I love ... eleven of them. The whole album is incredibly unified and coherent -- not to say that the songs all sound the same, but they share many common vocal elements, giving Mr. Dream the chance to play with these pieces in exciting and unexpected ways. The music is fast and hot and sexy and catchy -- it's not morose, it's at a party and having a good time.

So I have been listening to this cd constantly for over a month now, my attention wandering from track to track, trying to pay attention to how the songs leak into each other and why exactly this thing is so strong and nearly perfect. On Thursday night I went to hip hop, not sure what song Russell had picked for the next few weeks, and then he starts playing the track -- Oh no he did not, is what I think, as track number nine, "Ditch That," starts thumping through the speakers. I spend the rest of the class elated, rocking my game face and mouthing the words, but also trying to tone it down so I don't look like a nerd, and then ultimately not caring and letting myself get swept away in the music.

It was that first moment that did it -- recognizing the track immediately and knowing how the rest of the time would be, drowning yourself in this song you already love for the better part of an hour. It was like walking into your own surprise party. It was as good as it can be.

Manhattan malaise

My old boss and I used to discuss a condition we called Manhattan malaise: that sense when everything to do in the city, all the shows and events and restaurants and people and possibilities, seems completely boring and stupid. You just feel like the whole city is in rerun and there's nothing remotely interesting or appealing about any of it, and the only thing that grabs your attention is the idea of commandeering one of the ferries to New Jersey in order to get off this craphole of an island, so you start thinking about if it takes any special skills to drive a boat and if there are enough inland waterways to get you where you're trying to go.

I have basically been battling Manhattan malaise for a couple solid weeks now, and have been feeling sort of depressed about things in general. That's partly why there's been a scarcity of posts up here. I don't know why I've been down lately; I think school is really boring me right now, and I feel like each day I'm lurching out of bed to perform tasks and jump through hoops that I would really rather leave unperformed and unjumped. I don't like spending my days waiting for the evenings, when I get to be with L and see friends and watch tv and perhaps even drink. I've caught myself being really irritable and cranky, cutting people off on the sidewalk, mentally cursing out strangers for the smallest and most unintentional infraction, and I don't want to hold on to this anger. It's like an ingrown nail or something, this sense of frustration that is directed inward, where it just digs at me and makes me crazy, and I can't find a damn outlet for it. I have been pounding the streets running, I have been at the gym three days a week as well, but I can't sweat it out either. I don't know. This Manhattan malaise, as I charitably call it in this case, is maybe part of my Piscean character. I don't know.

All that to say, tonight I have had a really pleasant night, and tonight was the first classic Thursday evening of the year, and I couldn't be more thankful. Let me tell you how to spend it: you go to the gym for a hell of a long time -- two and a half hours -- for an awesome set of classes and a surprising amount of decent socialization. On the way back, sweaty and content with pounding dance tracks ringing in your ears, go to Chipotle and find that the thugged out guy behind the counter gives you a free burrito, because you've become friends with him. Return home, burrito in hand, to settle in for a night of the best TV ever. Think fondly of your good buddy James, who used to enjoy these Thursday nights with you. In his honor, make sure you and your wife pronounce the names of the "Survivor" contestants in a funny accent as the opening credits roll. Then watch "The Office" and laugh like a fool and think about why this show is so damn good.

I'm really trying to pull myself out of my funk or malaise or depression, and nights like this really help. My life is still so ridiculously blessed and fortunate; there are so many great people I love and see and miss; the city is still unfolding itself to me. I always try to remember to be grateful, and at times it can be hard, but the beauty of things is undeniable.

Nadir of the week

On Wednesday I went to the gym the same as usual, changed in the locker room, locked up my stuff and worked out. When I came back down to the locker room an hour later, I didn't see my lock on any of the lockers. Huh, I thought. I guess I forgot to put it on. Oh well. (Do you see that something bad is about to happen? This is all ominous foreshadowing). I took a shower and returned to my locker, and put on my clothes. After I was dressed I sat down to put on my shoes and socks. (How suspenseful is this right now?! Seriously!) Then I realized: my wallet is in the wrong pocket. A split second later, I thought:

Your ass got robbed. (Pardon my French.)

I took out my wallet as my stomach plummeted into my feet and sure enough, the forty bucks in cash I had was gone. On the other hand, my credit cards were there, as was my ID, and I had my cellphone too. But damn! Somebody stole my stuff!

The surly gym attendants at the front desk could not have cared less when I explained what happened. They asked if I wanted to file a police report (no), or if maybe I put my lock on an adjacent locker by mistake (uh, no). I was mad at them for not caring about the fact that theft is occurring in their gym. I was extremely skeeved out that this happened.

But then again, how the heck did this happen? Did somebody break my lock, which is admittedly a sort of wimpy suitcase-style lock? Or did I not lock it, and some opportunistic gym-goer (or, ahem, employee) saw his chance? I felt disturbed that this happened in a place where I usually feel happy and comfortable, as well as the fact that a stranger had the balls to root through my stuff. Who does that? I always think that people are basically good, but instances like this can shake up your assumptions.

But I think believing in the basic decency of people is key to living in an urban environment like this. Otherwise you go crazy and start hiding food in sewage grates. I returned to the gym yesterday feeling distrustful. This was the first time anything like this has happened to me, thankfully, and granted, it wasn't a demolishing theft, but it was enough to get under my skin. I feel pretty stupid about the whole thing, too. Remember when James Frey went on Oprah to glumly receive his smackdown, and she had this righteous fury in her eyes when she said "I was duped. I was duped. I was DUUU-uuuuuped!" in that Oprah way of hers a million times? Having $40 stolen out of your wallet when you're at the gym feels sort of like that.

Uncharitable thoughts

I think I have been stressed out lately, more agitated than I realized. My Barcelona eye twitch is still flaring, and I am quite aggravated over this round of final exams. I stumbled through one yesterday and have the most wretched exam ever tomorrow (Federal Income Tax) and I just want to wash my hands of the whole thing. I was looking forward to going to the gym tonight, but it was the kind of night where I just felt generally cranky throughout, and allowed myself to wallow in uncharitable thoughts about everything.

It started at home, when I went to try on a new shirt I got from my last race, a shirt that's good-looking and made of a special sweat-wicking material (not one of these tissue-paper-thin cotton shirts that dissolves after six washes and lets everyone check out your torso once you sweat through the fine layer of fabric). Since I realized a couple years ago that most men's large sizes are made for chunky people rather than tall people, I've been going medium. So I pull this shirt on, and it's incredibly tight in the upper chest area and arms, but then the neckhole is gaping wide, exposing my collar bones. L laughed at me and said "you look like a hot gay guy." I tried to see this as a compliment. Strike one.

Progress to the gym. In hip hop, this new, muscle-bound-to-a-silly-degree guy comes in and sets up shop in the front row [gritting teeth] and proceeds to verbally process the entire class: "One TWO three-and-four FIVE SIX seven-and-EIGHT! Ba ba BA BA BA ba BA BA ba bum bum!" He's grunting and doing all of this loudly, not like the occasional "uh" or "ooh" that I might expel under my breath. He's also meandering his way into the center of the room, into my zone. Please shut up. EMNY! I wondered if he was mildly retarded; I wanted to say something but didn't want to provoke an episode of roid rage. Strike two.

[It goes without saying, of course, that the standard bunch of arrhythmic morons are crowding me in class too: the little guy I call the Ninja, who is hyperkinetc and jumps all around but doesn't really get the smooth vibe of the music; the girl with about half the skill she thinks she has, despite her cool baggy pants; etc. I may not get all the moves precisely, and I may be like Old Man Suburbia in that room, and there may be occasions like this where I'm copping some serious attitude, but at least I feel the groove and don't move my body like it's marching band tryouts. Yet I know I'm being a jerk right now.]

I make my way through another nintey minutes of exercise and head on over to the burrito place to regain some calories and negate my previous activity. At the soda fountain, I was waiting to get my drink as three of the back-kitchen cooks filled their cups. Now tell me, is it wrong that when I saw these young men, identically-dressed, all pretty short, all hard-working immigrants who make an honest living and deserve all the protections and benefits our society can offer, is it wrong that I immediately thought of them as Oompa Loompas?

Strike three. I need to finish up exams and get the hell out of Dodge. I'm a nicer person than this.

Things I wanted to write about...

...but the moment has passed:

1. The 10K I did on Sunday, where two guys almost got in a fight, mid-run, and the antagonist, who was a real jerk, was actually slower than the guy he was picking on, which was hilarious. Also the fact that my calves were sore for days afterward because I haven't run downhill in months, which is sad (yet in my defense, the treadmills at the gym don't have a downward setting).

2. Joan Didion's "Slouching Towards Bethlehem," where I basically underlined the entire book and have spent weeks mulling over the last line of her preface: "writers are always selling somebody out."

3. R. Kelly's song "I'm a Flirt," which is like the perfect complement to Diddy's "Last Night," and I love both of them. I think if I had to identify the top songs of 2007 so far, they would be Omarion's "Ice Box" and "Last Night."

4. The fact that I have hit some sort of extracurricular wall at law school, and I am just sick and tired of planning events and running things and ordering food and being excited about everything. I spent huge chunks of time in high school, college, grad school, and work doing all of that, and dammit, I'm 27 years old and I've had enough.

5. We had a really nice spring evening last Tuesday: I darted home to run outside after school, and then we went to two different tapas places in the neighborhood, sitting outside and enjoying sangria. And a waitress complimented my Spanish accent. I wore shorts the whole day and it felt as if the entire city had let out a sigh of relief - there was a palpable sense of happiness and activity and community as we watched the city stroll by.

6. The other day at law school I got totally busted dancing in the hallway, listening to my ipod. As the person passed by, looking at me weirdly, I had to pretend my dance face was my standard countenance and sort of jerkily transition into a normal walking motion. It was not seamless, I'll tell you that.

7. Speaking of which, at hip hop last week, we were rocking out and then, in the middle of everything, at that moment where the music (a hot remix of "Ice Box," see above) fuses with the motion to create this perfect expression of humanity and joy, the teacher bellowed, "WORK, Mike!' in this way that was like a compliment and a command and a life lesson and a request all at the same time. I have been reliving this moment frequently.

27 is the new 26

My weekend was intense and wonderful: an epic night at Benny's, a four-mile race to kick off the 2007 running year, a trip to the airport to see James, a birthday party, church, a classic Manhattan afternoon, a great gym class, and Oscar-night food coma. I want to write about all of this stuff, but it's too overwhelming, so I'm going to go all Orientalist on you and break it down haiku-style:

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Juan's a good waiter:
'Ritas, black flowers, and shots
The men's room is home

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Seven degrees, wind
7:28 per mile
He outruns the cold.

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Wait at Arrivals...
Walk away happy and sad
Five months in one hour

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Eight-count to the beat
It's my song! It's my birthday!!
Don't spill on my rug.

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Twenty-seventh year:
Good wife, good life, good city,
church points out to me.

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Usually in the back,
At the gym I play it cool--
now your boy's up front.

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Friends, Oscars, excess
Life resumes so pleasantly
And they even sang.

All my awesome new friends at the gym

Case in point #1:

There's this chick I've been talking with, waiting for our Thursday class to begin at 6:30. She seems friendly enough, if a little chatty. I know a lot more about her than she does about me, because I generally have a policy to not reveal personal information among that bizarre self-selected coed fraternity of gym-goers, whereas this girl has no such compunction. She told me how she was supposed to be on some reality show with her mom, how she comes to the gym as often she can, when she's feeling tired or hungry or whatever. I also saw her conspicuously flick her eyes down to check out my wedding ring, when I came back in August. Another broken heart, I thought. I hope she can accept the fact that I simply can't be with her, the way she wants to be with me. Obviously.

Well, a little while ago, we were talking before class and she said, "....tomorrow's my tough day, I've got precalc and physics." Wait a second, back it up. I said: "Oh, are you in college," knowing the answer already.

"Nope, high school -- I'm a junior." Oh, wow! Neat! I've been pretending to flirt with a high school student! They make movies about this, and let me tell you, it never works out well for the dude (See: "Lolita," "Election," etc).

Case in point #2:

On Thursday, after the awesome hip hop class, I was drinking water and trying to absorb the sweat coming off my face into a towel. This is physiologically an embarassing moment. A dude in the step class that immediately follows mine, a large and swarthy man of color who is pretty darn gay, who I am on a head-nod basis with, said hi and I waved hello. With sweat stinging in my eyeballs I noticed that he was still looking at me. I must have smiled or made some other gesture of assent, because he started ambling towards me, as I continued to focus on trying to block up my pores. He came up to me and PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER/BACK/BACK OF THE ARM - an ambiguous zone. He said, "I have to say, you looked really good in that class."

Oh, wow! Neat! I tried to say something out of gratitude ("Huh, thanks, ha ha") and quickly return to sweating, but he was still smiling ("You did, you did!") I was a bit thrown off, but also flattered, I must say. My reluctance to exercise with L comes from my conviction that I look like a total knob when I'm working out -- limbs flailing; bizarre, asymmetrical sweat stains; saliva crusting at my lips from breathing through my mouth -- so when you get some positive feedback on your gym performance, it gives you a bit of a boost.

Anyways, this is not especially newsworthy (or even interesting) but I haven't written in a while and I wanted to get something up here. In other news, things are pretty good: James swooped into town for a couple days, so I got to see him; I've got a couple of job offers to consider; and L made a great dinner tonight. Happy campers all around.

Ready to run

This is true for me, and it is true of a lot of other people, based on personal experience: at the gym, people think it's ok to be a jerk. I'm paying big money to go there, and when I'm stuck in some horrible group exercise class, I have no qualms about stomping out of there with a furious scowl across my face. A few months ago I was all pumped up for my standard Thursday ass-kicking bass-thumping step class, when some perky substitute came in and started prancing all around the room. Like bad step teachers everywhere, she had stupid names for stupid moves: "Ok, let's loop the loop! Loop it! Loop it! Loop it LEFT! Loop it LEFT! Loop it! Loop it! Loop--" With a grim look on my face, and muttering the words "this is horseshit," I stalked past everybody else, put my junk away and left. Do I care if people were looking at me weird? Do I care if I offended the teacher? No, I don't. It's my time, my workout. Perhaps this is the kind of thing I should never bother worrying about, ever, but I do, so this is big for me.

Anyways, last night I was stuck in the worst group gym class anyone has ever participated in, and I include the activities of Hitler Youth in that statement. Maybe it was my fault -- the class was called "Cardio Video Dance," I was bored, I figured, what the hell, I watch enough music videos. I walked in and everyone was on the floor stretching like it was the prelude to "Flashdance." The teacher struts in with her posse of J.V. Pussycat-Dolls types, and announces that "today we're going to be 'Mimi.'"

Oh, like Mariah Carey? OK, that could work -- maybe some "Say Somethin'," "It's Like That"....

"...Mimi from 'Rent.' So, all you guys [eye contact from teacher to me], today you're going to be girls."

You know, usually I only grit my teeth when I sleep, but at that moment I felt a familiar tension throughout my jaw. Still, I tried to be a good sport and lined up with the group. First was the toe-tapping thing, then this chest-thrusting thing - awkward but still within the realm of my dignity. Then the teacher starts shimmying her hips and running her hand along the side of her body - moving into a squat on your haunches, rub another hand down your torso.... OK. Yeah. I'm in the wrong room. Not daring to look at anyone, I grab my music and towel and scurry out of there.

I can hear the music pounding in the studio but I hop on a treadmill and start running. I was pissed that I wasted my time and felt embarassed for looking stupid in front of a room full of dance chicks and local gays. I ran for half an hour in that mincing, cramped treadmill way: my pelvis bonking against the front of the machine when I moved too fast, staring intently as the time crawled forward, considering the variations of heart rate and calories burned and when I could stop and go home. It was not cool. I did three miles and walked home, careful to avoid eye contact with the dance class people who were now filing out of the studio.

Outside it was beautiful out in the last waning hours of light, and I knew what I had to do. I went home, dropped off my water bottle and headed out for a real run, outside, along the Hudson down to Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty. Running outside I felt weightless, free, legs reaching outward and into the breeze from the river. The setting sun cast a warming glow on the bricks and glass of lower Manhattan, and I was struck once again by the narrow and beautiful palette of this city: rich browns and ochres and reds, in contrast to the roiling blues of water and light reflected in glass windows. I kept running, the streetlights flicked on one by one, my shirt was sweaty but cool in the night air. I tell you, it felt so good.

I'm doing a half-marathon this weekend, so I was glad I could run eight miles or so last night. To be outside among the anonymous community of Hudson River runners was the perfect antidote to the wretchedness of the gym. It was as if I had burst through the mirrors of the studio and the metal and plastic of the treadmill to come back to reality, to forget the artifice and attitude of the gym to run into and through a place of nothing more than night, water, sky, and sweat.

It was perfect. And I bought a new batch of songs on the internet to get through it - here is a nice little night-running mix you may use for your own devices: "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" by Panic at the Disco, "Deja Vu," by Beyonce, "When You Gonna Give it Up To Me," by Sean Paul, "Me and My Gang" by Rascal Flatts, and --this is the kicker -- "Get Up," by Ciara. Ring the alarm, y'all.