Marathon training update: week 17, day 5

Now is the time in the marathon training schedule when I am getting freaked out by the whole thing. Sometimes I'll be ambling along the street feeling good about my life, and then a malicious little voice in my head will chirp, "You think you're going to run a marathon in a week!? Bwa ha ha!" And the stone drops into the pit of my stomach and I'm in an existential funk.

The other day I saw an email that a fellow marathoner sent out to wide list of people. This email included: a spreadsheet with her anticipated times and mileage markers, the address of the bar where she booked a room for the after party on Sunday afternoon, the colors of the clothing she would wear, the fact that there are special t-shirts made up for the people who are cheering her on, and a detailed explanation of where people could watch her run, and which parts of the course would be especially challenging.

This email blew me away because compared to her, I am grossly unprepared. We haven't figured out where L and my family and hopefully my friends will be; I assume I'll be wearing running clothes, but I haven't quite committed to that yet; based on previous experience, I'm planning on spending the afternoon after the marathon in bed or in the bathroom; and I had figured on not worrying too much about the course, since I knew I wouldn't make a wrong turn anywhere and since I'm already fantastically bored with Central Park, which right now is about as new and exotic to me as my local subway stop. I'm trying to keep this marathon under control in my head: it's just a long run that I'm ready for, and know I can complete. It's going to be a little crowded and weird, but ultimately it's just about me and the road and running in a smart way.

The other day my mom asked what would happen if it rained on the marathon day. I had never even considered this possibility, with my marathon fantasies involving crisp autumn days with leaves falling majestically around me. So I'm trying to broaden my imagination here, to make sure I'll be ready for the main event, no matter what happens. I'm focusing hard on resting and not getting hurt and staying healthy and upbeat; the hard part of the training is done, and now I'm trying to let my body recover until it reaches that point where it is awake and springing up, ready and alert and alive and hungry to do the longest run it has ever known.

This is the marathon.

Languishing in the library

I've been here a while now, eight, nine hours, maybe more. Same carrel for the last three days. Extremely little progress on the paper -- now I'm just summarizing all these cases so I can hopefully arrange them in an interesting and enlightening way later on. I hope this is helpful and not stupid. Sometimes it seems like a fine line, much finer than it ought to be, but these are the lines we draw when we do things with reluctance. And resentment, maybe.

I've rediscovered YouTube as my own personal jukebox. One of the first bands I really was into was called The Party, and they sprang fully-formed, like Athena out of the head of Zeus, from the Mickey Mouse Club on the Disney Channel, which could very well be the pinnacle of all television for a lot of reasons. Anyways, The Party was this ethnically-diverse, totally rocking pop band from about 1990-92 that came out with some really kicky songs. Needless to say I bought their first tape immediately and my entire family was really into their music. And who wasn't? "That's Why," "Coulda Shoulda Woulda," "Summer Vacation," "I Found Love"... The list goes on. Honestly, can you even imagine 1991 without "Coulda Shoulda Woulda"? Unrecognizable!

So I've been rocking out to The Party on YouTube, wondering why they aren't on iTunes, noting with dismay that their cds are bizarrely expensive on Amazon. Some of the clips on YouTube are from a concert special they had on the Disney Channel, and I laughed when I saw the screaming fans. Not out of callousness or mockery of their early 1990s style; no, I laughed because I immediately recognized my long-dormant envy of those lucky 13-year olds who actually got to go, since at that point I would have gladly sold myself into white slavery to make their concert, and was stuck instead banging on the tv screen with my hammy youthful fists and dry-heaving a little bit, and yet now I can't even find their music. I'm pretty sure I tossed out their tape a few years ago.

Man, why can't I write a 25-page paper about The Party? I definitely have a lot more to say.

Call me Ishmael

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, the horribly abbreviated name for National Novel Writing Month, which is this project where you bang out a novel in the month of November that's at least 50,000 words, or at least 175 pages. I heard about this last year but I missed the boat on signing up for it. I'm excited to do it, to have a project post-marathon, even though I'm already right on schedule to develop carpal tunnel even without this, thanks to the law school professors who just won't rest until I have bloody fingertips and wristguards on both hands.

The NaNoWriMo people say that the important thing is just getting the words out, and to not worry about editing or direction or anything like that -- the goal is quantity, not quality. This is the kind of low expectation that makes me think this could actually work. Every once in a while I feel a strong hankering to write creatively, so for a few nights in a row I'll irritate L by punching at the keyboard while she's trying to sleep, then I'll come up with a few vignettes and false starts and nothing to show for it. When I was younger I used to write a lot more: in 8th grade there was this ridiculous adventure story featuring a character who was basically Bilbo Baggins, enmeshed in the Colombian drug trade; there were also a few stories, humiliatingly enough, imagining adventures for the cast of "Star Trek: The Next Generation." ("Lt. Worf, throw me a phaser!")

I'm thinking for this latest attempt that I'll generally stay away from sci-fi fan fiction. Instead I'm thinking it will probably be a thinly-veiled autobiography, about some young dude in the city, maybe with some wacky neighbors and friends, work experience in the legal realm, and a dope soundtrack. But hopefully I can make it a little bolder than that.

Anyways, I'm sort of excited about this. Hopefully having some external framework around the writing process will help me get through it better, like training wheels or physical therapy. If I manage to complete it, chances are the novel will be a total trainwreck, but at least I'll be the only one who knows it.

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live"

Last night I had a really remarkable dream. Usually I find that people generally don't care about other people's dreams, but this one was significant and I don't want to forget about it, so I'm putting it up here.

In my dream I was with myself as a young child in a strange and foreign place. It was like Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" -- we were outside in this barren wasteland, me and myself as a kid and many other people, on this dirty road next to a gully or something, stark and empty. There was a body in a plastic bag off to the side. And yet it wasn't a threatening environment, really -- it's just where we were.

So I was with this other version of myself as a little kid, and I was there to protect him and watch over him. I felt a strange love for him, as he was myself and yet someone totally different. Yet his physicality was so familiar to me. At one point I asked him if he thought we looked alike, and he laughed and said no. I remember walking along holding his hand and just chatting and moving through the day.

I don't think I've ever felt such paternal feelings before, consciously or not. As I've mulled over this dream today I keep thinking about different facets of my life that were expressed by it. Current facets as well as things I can't begin to grasp: the idea of fatherhood, of being responsible for a child, of feeling that innate connection, of seeing someone else with your very features. Knowing someone as intimately as anyone possibly could, because you knew and loved them from the start. Yet unlike fatherhood, in my dream I loved this kid because I knew he was me and that things would work out for him and he would be happy. I knew he would have a sense of humor and that the body he would grow into would be mine.

Anyway, it was a complicated stew of emotions and thoughts, from walking around an alien place with a little kid who was and was not me. It was oddly serene, and I felt all right when I woke up. This dream, though, took a lot of threads in my life and knotted them up in a way that I can't quite untangle.

Marathon training update: week 15, day 6

Today I ran 20 miles. Twenty miles is so far, today I basically ran from New York to LA and back. And then back and again. Or at least that's what it was feeling like for the last few miles, and specifically how it felt when I stopped for water with my finish line in sight, having already run 19.96 miles, but I was thirsty, dammit, and I was going to stop and walk for a moment because at that point most of my leg muscles had dissolved into liquid and were sloshing around in my calves.

It wasn't really that bad. In fact, when I finally made it up to the park today, tired and boozy, I was shocked into wakefulness by the beauty of the day: bright clear sky, brazenly cloudless, a brisk breeze and the first signs of fall hanging from the trees and underfoot. It reminded me that it was almost time to bring out ol' "Autumn in New York" -- another year, another season of change and renewal.

As I ran I thought about how this is such a pleasant experience, to be placing one foot in front of another, keeping it nice and easy, in such a beautiful place -- where else would I rather be right now? The truth, for the most part, is nowhere.

The low point, inevitably, was when I sort of walked into a woman on a bike. I had just finished 12, and was getting ready to buy a gatorade, when I turned a corner and basically walked into a European woman who, fortunately, was riding her bike at a glacial pace. I apologized immediately, and she chided me with a "be more careful" in a lilting accent, and I couldn't even be mad. Unless she had been targeting me with her slow, rickety bike, like a 1912 missile.

So I came home, showered, iced, and fell asleep, hard, until now. I haven't eaten anything and I feel a little woozy, so I need to find some food and draw up some energy. I feel tired and beat, but in a very good way. This week was the most intense training of the whole 18-week program, so now I just taper down until the actual event in November. This is the marathon!

Rocket ship

This morning I was standing on the train considering the fact that I was facing opposite the exact same girl from yesterday morning's commute. I could tell it was her because she carried the same black plastic purse with spacey pink flowers spiraling towards you -- I had been listening to Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" and was considering how this song could send you into a real psychedelic trance with the art on that purse, and how I was surprised that the subway provided me with this bizarre visual nugget that coincided so aptly with my song of choice. I was thinking about this, and wondering if the girl had any clue that she had seen me yesterday in the exact same circumstances, when a crazy person got on the train.

You get used to crazy people in New York; you learn to ignore them, for your dignity and their own. This person was short and stout, in casual clothes, with a majestic, jet-black pompadour that flowed into a mullet trailing down most of his back. He carried a red folder high over his mouth, like he was in a choir. He started talking.

"I am an angel," he said. "I am an angel Don't look at me my eyes are sensitive I am an angel."

I turned off my ipod so I could hear him better. He started talking about how he was in the ministry, and how he was friends with God and God had sent him rocket ships for all the unbelievers, and they would be shot into space. Also in attendance on these spacebound rocket ships: demons, disbelievers in his ministry and followers of Sodom and Gomorrah. All the while he was clutching this folder in front of his face and telling people not to look at him, as he turned and addressed everyone.

"For those of you who have just come on board, I am an angel," he would helpfully announce when new people got on. I actually couldn't help but laugh at the good-natured crazy of it all, and I made eye contact with one guy who was smiling too. Most people ignored him with the Manhattan expression of studied indifference. By the time we got to Columbus Circle he had been drowned out by the crowd and he couldn't command the same kind of audience.

It was nice to have a laugh on the subway today, to break my morning stupor. I wonder if he finally got off the train thinking he had finished his day's work, or if he's still riding around telling people not to look at him. Either way, no sign of any rocket ships today.

A great moment

This afternoon I stopped in the men's room after a particularly dispiriting day at law school. I had decided to leave my backpack in my locker overnight, since I'll be back first thing in the morning, so I was ready to go: I had the New Yorker rolled in my pocket and my ipod in my ears. So I walk into the men's room and there are a typical number of other people in there -- three, maybe four. So be it.

So I sidle up to the urinal and proceed to begin going about my business, when I quickly realize two facts: 1) through some horrible confluence of timing and circumstance, it is completely and utterly silent in the men's room, and 2) I am listening to the new Britney Spears song on my ipod, and it might be loud enough for other people to hear.

Gimme gimme MORE, gimme MORE, Gimme gimme MORE!

I can't very well try to change my ipod now, when I am fully engaged with the urinal process. I can't be that guy with one hand on his junk and the other spinning around the ipod wheel until you hit that perfect song to pee along with.

But wait a second -- what the hell are these other guys doing that it's so quiet in here? Mooning at their reflections in the mirror, staring at the paper towel dispenser, contemplating the urinal cakes? It's like a still life or something. Britney is still yammering away as I start to think, Make some noise, please someone make some noise. I will take whatever excruciatingly audible bodily function anybody wants to engage in, just somebody please wash out this constant and growing threat of

Gimme gimme MORE, gimme MORE, Gimme gimme MORE!

Ultimately, of course, I have to accept my situation and realize that I am the guy listening to Britney Spears as I pee. Maybe these other dudes will pass judgment on me, but my question to them is: what are you doing in the bathroom that makes no noise at all? Are you a ninja? Because if you're not, you should be making some noise by doing your business, running the faucets to wash your hands, slamming the crap out of the soap dispenser to get some soap, or pumping the paper towel box to finish up and get on out of there. Enough with the mime act, fellas -- either make some noise to bury my embarrassing musical selection, or leave so I can enjoy it in peace, and fleetingly wonder if my support of Britney Spears' musical career is contributing to her very downfall. See? Everyone's a winner.

Marathon training update: week 14, day 1

Yesterday I ran 18 miles. I have never run that far, and I find it hard to believe that anyone else ever has either, because that is a long way. I am happy to report, though, that it went very well. Keeping in mind my ultimate goal of 8:00 miles for the marathon (which is now looking more like 8:20, maybe) I aimed to mosey along at a nice 9:00 pace for the 18-miler, following my training plan. After a glacially-paced first mile at 9:30, I did a fine job of keeping it between 8:15 and 9:00 for the rest of the race. For the final mile, I wanted to finish strong, so I really tried to keep up a good clip, regulate my breathing, and end on a high note. I was pumping my legs, eyeing the finish line as it approached, systematically overcoming runners ahead of me, and after I ran through the line I checked my watch and was shocked to see that I ran that last mile in 7:31. Unbelievable! Where does this come from? How am I doing this?

I had a huge grin on my face for the next few moments as I shuffled along the line and got some Gatorade and an apple. I really didn't think I had it in me to run 18 miles, let alone run my 18th mile so well. This training program is actually working, apparently. (Incidentally, my average mile time for this race was 8:35, which was great, considering that I was trying to go even slower.)

Some more good news: the thigh/knee pain I've come to live with and accept, like a prominent mole or a conjoined twin, was nowhere to be found. Instead today all of my leg muscles are generally throbbing, and the muscle behind my left knee is pulled so tight that I can't quite extend my leg. I am trying to keep my limp under control, but it was well worth it.

Some good or bad news, as you look at it: my ipod battery died at mile 8 of the run (leaving me ten miles to go), so while I got some good thinking done during the race, it looks like it may be time for me to go blow a couple hundred bucks at the Apple store and come back with an awesome new ipod, one a' them fancy square kinds. I'll keep you posted. (I also have amassed some good new tunes lately: the new Kanye album, which is way better that I would have expected, the new Britney, which is undeniable, and a little touch of Reba for those tender post-run moments.)

A few weeks back I realized that this marathon is much more than the 26.2 miles I'll be doing in a month. I've come to consider each training run, each dreaded weekend long run, as a part of it, too. So even when I think to myself, I'm going to run a marathon!, I remind myself that I am running it already, and I've been running it for 14 weeks now, and what happens during that last 26.2 is merely the icing on the cake.

This is the marathon!

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.

Marathon training update: week 11, day 7

Yesterday was my 16-mile run. It went very well, although my knee has been hurting since Tuesday's treadmill run. I've decided I'm not running on treadmills anymore, since they only seem to break my heart. But my knee didn't hurt yesterday (although I was aware of it, in a certain way, the way you're not usually consciously aware of body parts that are just functioning normally).

When the alarm went off yesterday at 5:40 it looked like a wretched day to leave the house: pitch black, cold, rainy. When I made it up to the park it was still really dark out, yet the park did not seem threatening and I knew all of my would-be muggers were sleeping soundly on their piles of stolen handbags. This run was unlike any I've ever done with the Road Runners: it was not scored, it was not timed, and you didn't have to attach that computer chip to your shoe. Instead they broke us down into groups based on our running times, and they released us with staggered start times. Consequently I ran with a huge pack of dozens of other nine-minute milers.

I really enjoyed running with my nine-minute pack. Nobody was jockeying for position or cutting people off; we were just running in a big, friendly clump. The people seemed to have the same intenstiy level as me: everyone was sort of in shape, sort of serious about it, but no one had that Emaciated Marathoner look I assumed everyone developed, where your wrists are constantly getting snagged on your hipbones. It was a sixteen-mile run, but I never felt winded or out of breath; it was a very comfortable pace, and as it ended I felt like I could have continued on.

Great things that are happening: a run of 26.2 miles is beginning to seem plausible and perhaps even enjoyable. My comfort with longer distances is really increasing; now my basic unit is 6 miles, so I can look at a 16 mile trip, break it down into one six-loop and two five-loops, and be pretty much ok with that. I did not expect these things to happen, but I guess it's part of the mental training.

When I came home my good wife L had left the bed open for me to crawl back into; she made me some delicious eggs, I took a shower, slid into some pajama pants and took a blissful nap as the first autumn weekend of the year unveiled itself. A good training day...

Marathon training update: week 10, day 6

Because the only thing more interesting than actually running is talking about running, here's another marathon training update! Today I ran 15 miles, setting a personal record for distance. Fifteen of anything is a lot, and miles are no exception. I was pleasantly surprised, though, because my run felt great today. The "Runner's Knee" that has been plaguing me for several weeks now ("Runner's Knee" being a sort of made-up affliction I discovered on Runners World, but which does accurately describe my leg situation) was nowhere to be found today. Instead, I ran with a boulder-sized knot in my calf, which was at least a welcome change of pace, pain-wise.

I slept really badly last night in nervous anticipation of the day's race. I had been planning on running three five-mile loops, and when I got to the park around 7:45, I discovered that there was another Road Runners race taking place. So I ended up running their 4-mile race three times as part of my own trek, and happily took advantage of their water stations throughout.

The best part of the run was clearly the lack of Runner's Knee. This week I ran on Tuesday, and did a lot of cross- and strength-training on Wednesday and Thursday, a routine I think I will keep doing for a while. These long runs are getting horrifically long, so I don't want to destroy myself with the mid-week runs, and I also want to make sure I'm doing all the squats and lunges I can to stay strong.

One new concern: I'm supposed to be doing these long runs slowly, like with nine minute miles. I am slipping very easily into this rhythm, but I wonder if I'm losing any speed overall because of it. Is my slow run becoming my standard run? I hope not.

Anyways, to sum up: today was an especially good run, and I feel really good about where I am and how my body is doing. Take it to the top!

Prussian style

I painted our study a new color, comically named Prussian Blue, over the weekend L was away in Armenia. For the last year and a half, our study has been a salmon color that was pretty in theory, but was actually like being inside a human organ once you entered the room. If you tried to eat or study in there, you were confronted with the stressful visual scream of this bright, pinky, pucey, gross color. Something had to be done.

So, after running 13 miles on Saturday morning, I was struck with a sudden (uncharacteristic) burst of ambition in the afternoon. Given the sorry state of my legs I minced over to Ace hardware and bought primer, paint, and a few random paint supplies we lacked at home. I dragged all the furniture out of the study and taped up all the edges. I laid newspaper on the ground, busted out the boombox and some Fleetwood Mac and John Mayer cd's (what can I say, painting calls for white music) and applied the primer. As soon as I first dripped primer on myself, I realized that our efforts to donate away our old clothes meant that I had no clothes for painting, so I made an executive decision and just painted in my underwear. That is a tip you won't get on "Extreme Home Makeover," but trust me, it works. Anyways, priming the walls was a uniquely hellish experience: it never seems even, it's always splotchy and seems resolutely bound for ugliness. So, being someone who must always be stressed about something, I spent Saturday night feeling anxious about my primer application and disconcerted by the furniture from the study that was clogging up the hallways and other rooms.

I woke up on Sunday, eyed the misplaced furniture with angst, and opened up the Prussian Blue. It's a nice color, carefully chosen by L and me amidst a rich palette of: Celery, Impressionist, Light Sky, Shoreline Blue, Bellflower Blue, Surfboard Yellow, Lisbon Blue, Cloud Blue, Blue Mesa, Basalt, Spanish Bluebell, and Shoreline Blue. Our selection was a gorgeous color that really seemed to capture the spirit of the Prussian people, as far as I can tell. After all the prep work of Saturday, and the hell of applying a coat and a half of primer, yet with remaining streaks and clouds and foggy bits of the old color shining through, the actual painting didn't take long at all. It only took about an hour and a half, and by mid-afternoon I had restored the room to its former glory.


The new room looks great. Miraculously the color seems to match all of our wall stuff, as well as the woods of the desk and the table and the floorboards. The room is now calm, and serene, and a great place to eat and read. It only points out how gross the room was before. Why did we tolerate it for so long? Who wants a room they hate? I'm just happy that the least favorite room vaulted into first place. L was thrilled with it, too -- not bad for a weekend's work.

First day back

Today was the first day of my last year of law school. Thank God. Entering the building today, with a laptop in my backpack and a $150 textbook in my hands, I felt a wave of such familiar ... boredom. The change was almost tangible as I left the bright summer morning to walk the same old hallways and stairways, from locker to class to library and back again. The rhythms of law school feel so familiar and so uninteresting right now. The same vaguely familiar people drifting through the building. The same long-winded lectures and long minutes eyeing the clock. The same boring litany of websites I read to entertain myself, the same minutia I use as a distraction. It seems especially painful after a summer of working, when I'm chomping at the bit to do real tasks and look things up and learn things the hard way.

Compared to actual working, and actual adulthood, I appreciate the leisurely pace of law school. But something just feels so uninspired about this round of classes. Maybe it's the fact that this is my fifth time at bat here, I have secure employment lined up and my academic performance seems immovable. Hopefully the rest of my classes will perk me up, once we get past the clutter about grades and exams and attendance policies. Why do all professors beat us over the head with that stuff? We're expected to read hundreds of pages of parched case law and gassy academic treatises each semester, but they don't think we can read a four-page syllabus. Maybe they're right, and then maybe that's the problem. I don't know.

There was one bright spot, though. Especially after trudging through the soupy atmosphere of law school all morning, I was shocked by the little bolt of happiness I felt when I saw a bunch of my old friends gathering for lunch. There was the usual core of my good friends from law school, the ones I've known since my very first day at ol' FU, along with a bunch of others whose company I have come to appreciate. It felt great to reconnect after a long summer. Everyone looked fresh and tanned and more freckled than usual, people had sharp haircuts, and for a good hour we shared the buzz of of melancholic 3L excitement and nostalgia for our summer incomes. It was reassuring to see that I do have friends here, that there are other souls in the boat along with me. A few bright lights along these dusty old hallways.

I love humanity

Hip hop tonight was incredible. There were only about ten of us, so the class was small and cohesive, and we were doing this ridiculous combo that had me working the dance face and strutting like a fool the entire time. The song, "Money in the Bank," by Swizz Beatz, was new to me and awesome. Here is the combo, so you can do it at home:

Dip it, dip it, dip it, dip it, front dip, ahh, turn, shoulder POP! Foot, foot, NO, and back; easy, easy, break it down and up, JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!, Out and back, leg and front, pop it like it's hot, go back and turn, shoulder, arm, down and back! Roll it, work, roll it, work, split and down, go BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! BUTT! Split and back, KICK and DOWN, JUMP and step, Money in the bank.

As you can see, it's awesome. (Incidentally, it took me about five minutes to compose the preceding paragraph, because it is both accurate and rhythmic, so appreciate that.) On the way out I had a nice chat with the teacher, Russell, who is very cool and is the Obi Wan to my Luke Skywalker, hip hop-wise (The B.I.G. to my Puffy? No, definitely not).

Afterwards I picked up Richard Ford's "A Multitude of Sins" at the bookstore, and then went to Chipotle. I chatted with a couple of the friendly guys behind the counter, who know me as Veggie Burrito, No Fajitas, and one noticed that I was limping slightly, and I explained how I'm a little beat down because I'm training for the marathon. Moments later, the girl ahead of me in line asked for extra guac for her burrito, but when she heard it was a buck-fifty extra, she declined. I thought to myself, this girl held the door open for you as you came in. Be nice. So I ordered a side of guac for my veggie burrito (it was free for me) and I gave it to the girl. She was very appreciative yet she skedaddled out of there very quickly, despite my efforts to flash the wedding ring and make it clear that I wasn't trying to make a move on her, I was just trying to help her out with her guacamole needs. But as she left, thanking me profusely, she said, "and good luck on the marathon," and I felt fantastic.

So then I meandered home, with a bluebird on my shoulder and a spring in my step.

Summer winding down

These last couple of weeks have been intensely relaxing. We've been doing a lot of focused activity in order to relax and have fun. As in: "Hurry up, we need to leave the beach so we can get back in time for the JT concert!" Or, "wake up, it's 5:30 and we want Shakespeare in the Park tickets!" It's fun, yet at times it seems more stressful than it needs to be.

My parents and grandparents met L and I at the beach for an afternoon last week. This turned out to be a kind of valedictory lap for my grandparents, who wanted to try each and every kind of snack food anyone has ever eaten at any beach. In the course of a few hours, we had seafood, ice cream, crepes, boardwalk fries, and Grotto's Pizza, the only kind of pizza I would take a bullet for. The funniest moment came when my grandma had just purchased her fries and she was struggling to rip some napkins off the big cylindrical roll. You know how some places have those cheap napkins now, the ones that are single-ply and come on a roll and you have to rip them off yourself? As if decent, regular napkins are just too taxing for restaurateurs to deal with? After battling with this thing, my grandma walked along and said to no one in particular, "that toilet paper's hard to get out," and the rest of us just burst out laughing. She just accepted the fact that this place was offering toilet paper as napkins. I think our grandparents deserve better.

The family fun continued when my sister arrived for a few days to enjoy the city and force us to clean our apartment before her arrival. She and I waited seven hours for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, and she impressed me with her ability to sleep like a rock for four of those hours, a beach towel over her head and snoring rhythmically the entire time. It was just like we had never left the beach, except instead of crashing waves I had my sister sounding like a construction site beside me. We had a blast for the rest of the time as well: checking out the view from the Top of the Rock, strolling around the neighborhood, and watching "Superbad," which some might think would be an awkward movie to see with your little sister, but not me.

But now all our visitors have left, and I'm bracing myself for school again. L is going to Armenia tomorrow for a week, which is depressing and means I will revert to bachelor mode, which is a much more primal and less tidy state of existence. Class starts for me next Monday, which means I actually have homework this weekend. Oh, and we'll be repainting the pink room in our place very soon -- either Celery or Blue Mesa or Cobalt or something similarly named. Etruscan Midnight? Plum Fantasia? Time will tell.

OMG its Justin Timberlakee !!!

There are several thousand people in Madison Square Garden tonight, and most of them are named Kory or Krystal or Kourtney. They are young, and they are wearing t-shirts they just bought with Justin Timberlake's image on the fronts. These people have endured a lackluster set by the opening act, Good Charlotte, and now they are watching as concert-goers' text messages flash on the screens onstage:

JUSTINN TIMBERLAKEE WUTTTTUPPPP
KRIS N VAL ARE BFL LUV JT

When Justin Timberlake finally rises onto stage this crowd of young women creates an ungodly sound, the scream of a thousand banshees, like witches' spindly fingers ripping through jagged sheets of metal, a relentless shriek with a million mothers that will not fully die down for at least an hour. You have to get accustomed to this sound, and you have to learn to listen to the music on top of it, like how you have to get accustomed to being one of not many men here. The men you have seen here fall into three categories: (1) attending with their women, reluctantly; (2) attending with their women, happily (you fall into this category); (3) attending with their men, happily. There are so few men here that when Justin does the call and response part in "Senorita," you can actually hear your own voice, alone yet uncowed, doing the male part ("it feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"), whereas in the female part ("I don't know but I'm thinking 'bout, really leaving with you") you are confronted with a wall of sound and cries and yelps barreling all around you.

Yet you enjoy this concert. The first thing that makes you turn to your woman and share a smile of happiness is the segue from "Like I Love You" to "My Love," when the choreography is so tight and subtle yet perfectly captures everything about the music. You will share similar moments of amazement and joy during the choreography for "Summer Love," and during Timbaland's guest DJ gig, when he moves seamlessly through recent, random pop hits ("Since You've Been Gone"), to the best songs from your high school years ("Are You That Somebody"), to the best song of the whole summer ("The Way I Are").

Surprisingly, the army of Krystals grows quiet as Justin does some of his older songs, especially a ballad from the "Justified" album that you love. "They never even listened to the whole thing," you cluck to your woman. You have a moment of greater triumph, along with profound disdain for the Krystals, once you see how long it takes them to recognize the songs that are being played. Once you hear a few piano keys, or a guitar lick, or maybe even a backbeat, you know what song he's about to launch into -- yet the Krystals seem to need measure after measure after measure to figure out they're about to hear "Rock Your Body" or "LoveStoned." "They're idiots! They don't even know what they're hearing!" you yell to your woman, confident that the Krystals aren't listening to you, since they just realized "SexyBack" started.

You have a great night, an island of matrimonial masculinity amid this sea of raging young women. The music sounds great, you hear every song you hoped to, and the choreography was truly sick. The staging was creative and ingenious. And the show was being recorded for a broadcast on HBO in a few weeks -- maybe you will see yourself briefly on TV, singing along, dancing as well as you can while standing in place and not jostling elbows with the screaming young women around you. Perhaps you even feel a certain affinity with Justin, or at least a shared love of the same kind of music, and an understanding that you are propelled by the same set of emotions, grooves, and undeniable rhythms. That is what you are singing, standing like an island in the middle of an extremely foreign sea.

"It feels like something's heating up, can I leave with you?"

One year

A year ago today was the rehearsal dinner. A year ago yesterday was MK-D-Day, the epic bachelor excursion to Charlottesville. And a year ago tomorrow, I got married to L.

I can't believe it's been a whole year since we got married. My grandparents told me that they can remember their wedding like it was yesterday, and maybe I'm starting to understand that -- I feel like I remember that whole series of days (as heady and emotional and unabashedly joyful as they were) as if they just happened. The wedding was the culmination of so many things, but it was obviously just a beginning as well.

In many ways I feel like the exact same person who wriggled into the rental tuxedo and couldn't figure out his cufflinks and then said the vows; the same person who swiftly choked up when he saw his bride at the end of the aisle and then realized that his contact lens had floated away from his left eyeball on a crest of potential tears, so that he couldn't see clearly for about a third of L's trek towards him on her father's arm, so that at the moment he was thinking (1) he was actually missing his bride's walk to the altar and (2) he would have to recalibrate his depth perception in order to successfully kiss her, unless he wanted to go through the ceremony pirate-style with one eye closed. And then, miraculously, as she approached, the contact lens floated perfectly back into place. I remember too how reassured I was when James put his hand on my back as L approached, and how I couldn't help but kiss her when she met me at the altar and then again later on, when we weren't supposed to but when I thought the ceremony was over (and the priest made some joke about it, and I thought, well, maybe you could be more clear with your nonverbal cues, bub).

I still feel like that person. It's as if I haven't read any books, or heard any new music, or met anyone new, or changed one iota since that day -- it still feels so familiar and recent, so much like myself. In the interim I have learned a lot, gone to new places, met some promising new people, and had some exciting changes at school and at work -- but I am still that person.

At this point, with one year in and hopefully many more to go, I am grateful that we did it and thankful that I can return to it in my head and think about what an amazing event it all was. And it's not even over: the wedding was merely the seed for this beautiful, organic marriage of ours.

Our first anniversary: looking back on a day that is my best memory and my present tense.

Going to the eye doctor

I went to the eye doctor yesterday to get new prescriptions for glasses and contacts. I'm always struck by the extremely subjective nature of the eye exam. My doctor today was one of those doctors who is very nice but also only about 45 minutes older than me, which is unnerving. We did the usual thing where you read the letters in varying sizes on the wall, and he's busy flipping lenses in front of you and comparing different kinds, asking, "What's better, this or this? How about this? Can you see this one? How do you feel about that? Really? Tell me more," etc. Shouldn't he know the answer? I go to the doctor to rely on medical expertise I don't have, yet the eye doctor seems to take a much more relaxed, "you're the expert in your own body" approach. The entire diagnosis is based on how you respond to these prompts, so I always end up providing more information than he probably needs: "the first is a little better, but not really...this one is almost a negligible difference, but I feel happier looking through it...can you go back to the first one again...uh, which one do most people think is better?" I don't want to screw it up. (You would think they could standardize this easily enough: make a tiny line of type everyone should be able to read, like maybe the preamble of the Constitution, and give people whatever lenses they need to read it. That might be an improvement over this incredibly subjective, lens-flipping, is-it-cheating-if-I-squint system we operate on now.)

The flip side of the touchy-feely conversation-based diagnosis is the insane technology optometrists use. They have all those giant plastic machines (do they travel through time? Are they robots?) where you put your head in a sling, open your eyes as wide as they can go and stare at the vertical beam of light that is presently dipping into your cornea and scrambling it. They had a new one yesterday, a machine that I was told would send two "puffs of air" into my eye to test for glaucoma or lupus or something. When I felt the first "puff" my head jerked back so fast and so hard that on the return trip it knocked the chin brace out of alignment. That was not a puff, it was a horizontal geiser aimed at my eyeball. I could barely brace myself for the next three "puffs," and was giggling nervously, stupidly, in anticipation. When they finally finished attacking my face with the air machine, I asked the technician if she had tried it. "No," she said breezily. "Some people seem to be bothered by it though."

Anyways, I survived the appointment. I need to not wear contacts as much; I'm getting blood vessels in my eyes because they are under-oxidized. And nobody wants to walk down the street hearing other people's whispers about how the whites of your eyes seem over-vesseled. So I will be getting plenty of use out of the cool, hipster-ish new glasses I'll be getting in the coming weeks: something to look forward to.

NYC Half Marathon 2007

Today I woke up at five in the morning, after a hearty four and a half hours of sleep, interrupted only when a flowerpot fell from somebody's fire escape and shattered on the sidewalk, causing me to bolt awake and try to figure out where the inevitable intruder was located in my apartment, to run a half marathon. It was dark when the alarm went off, but I shoved my contacts into my eyes, got into the running clothes I had laid out the night before, and stumbled into a cab to head up to the park.

Three and a half hours later, I was on top of the world. It was a glorious morning for running - warm, clear, with an occasional breeze. I finished this thing in 1:44, a couples minutes speedier than last summer. My goal was to run eight-minute miles, and my average mile-time turned out to be 7:56 (last year's was 8:09). I was so, so happy.

The first eight miles or so was in Central Park, and it felt great. As soon as I began running, I realized that I had to pee, but I managed to keep this situation under control and it was fine for the whole race. I walked through every fluid station (about every two miles initially, then once a mile for the final stretch) whether I felt I needed it or not. My body felt great, even the injured left leg that had me limping/strutting unnaturally all week. (I spent the entire workweek denying that I could possibly have pulled a groin muscle.)

Things went slightly downhill for the last five miles. Running down 7th Avenue was exciting, but I was a little tired, and I developed a stitch in my side. My earphones kept bouncing out, too, which was irritating. During the final four miles on the West Side Highway, my muscles grew fatigued and I became increasingly aware of the unforgiving pavement beneath my feet. During the last mile, it was all I could do to not walk for portions of it (I had no energy left over to sprint and finish strong, which had been my goal -- instead I felt like once I crossed the finish line, I would have to head back a quarter mile or so to gather up my intestines). As a matter of fact, my last mile was done in 7:45, totally respectable; the final 0.1 miles, though, took 52 seconds, which would have put me around the nine- or ten-minute mile mark for a 14th mile. I was beat.

But I was also thrilled. I didn't give up, and I didn't walk, and I came out with a time I'm proud of. I was really nervous about this race because of my injury, but I felt great and I'll take a couple days off now. Random thoughts were meandering through my head as I ran today, including: the realization that me writing a blog comes from the same impulse that makes me go to the New Yorker festival and do road race events: the chance to make solitary activities more communal and shared; and the fact that as I run these events year after year, I really struggle with being too competitive with myself, and always feeling the need to beat my previous times. The pressure is unnecessary, and the relief I feel at beating my previous time is not quite as good as genuine pride in the accomplishment. As you can see, the fancy new digital watch I got for training purposes has not helped this situation, since I'm now recording times for just about every aspect of the race.

They say runners feel a sense of euphoria as they run, as all their endorphins swarm inside them and produce that elusive "runner's high." I don't think I've ever felt it, although maybe I experience a low-grade version that has kept me running for a while now. Still, on days like today the feeling of physical exhaustion and exertion, the pride I feel in running 13.1 ridiculous miles, the astonishment that my body is capable of doing such things without total collapse -- there is definitely something euphoric in that.

(Also, as I walked home from the race, I was gripped by the very real fear that I would possibly go to the bathroom in my pants, an affliction known by many a runner, and I was making numerous contingency plans in my brain for what I would do and how I would avoid a citation -- and I'll have you know, with a certain, different sense of pride, and maybe even a little euphoria, that I successfully made it home without incident.)