May
14
May 14, 2007
I have a short business trip planned for this week, involving the following thrilling itinerary:
• Fly to San Francisco Wednesday evening
• Have dinner meeting in SF airport (at a restaurant called Ebisu, if any SF locals would like to weigh in on this choice)
• Drive (with my boss, in a rental car. Hold me) to hotel in Cupertino
• Thu: all-day meetings at Cupertino company (name rhymes with Pflapple)
• Drive back to SFO, fly home
This is, what, 24 hours of travel? I should be able to do this with a small duffle bag, right? But I guarantee I will be lugging along a full-sized carryon, stuffed to bursting with basically every toiletry, electronic hair tool, book, and item of clothing I own, because god forbid I leave my area code without being prepared to stay at my destination for seven or eight months. I’m especially weird about entertainment stuff for the flight—despite the fact that I tend to spend the majority of the time staring vacantly off into space while slowly flipping through a tabloid, I always feel compelled to bring an iPod, a pile of magazines, at least five books (because what if I’m reading one thing and I decide I want to read something else? WHAT THEN?), a notebook and pen, and a laptop. You never know when you might want to read seventeen different publications, write the great American novel longhand, and partition your hard drive—on a flight that takes all of two hours.
Upon my return JB plans to immediately depart his own self for Oregon, where weather permitting he will join a friend and hike to the top of Mt. Hood, despite the fact that people seem to consistently DIE, as in STONE COLD DEAD, trying to do this. I have made him promise to actively avoid death on this trip, because not only would I miss his nonstop commentary during Survivorman (“Bullshit. BULL. SHIT. There is NO WAY that guy doesn’t have a stash of Cliff Bars, COME ON!”), JB’s the only one who can swiftly and accurately clip Riley’s fingernails. So in the event of JB’s untimely demise, my son would promptly grow a massive set of curving, dirt-encrusted talons. And then we would have two tragedies to contend with.
JB’s fascination with both deep-water technical diving and hiking to thin-air mountain heights confounds me. I’m not quite as sedentary as I used to be, but I’m still an avid fan of being at sea level. I like my immediate atmospheric surroundings to be, you know, breathable. Call me crazy, I just like oxygen.
Speaking of breathing, I’m finding running to be a little easier lately. I mean, easier in the sense that it sucks marginally less, not that it feels like a full-body hot stone massage or anything. I still gasp and pant like I’m doing Lamaze exercises, but my jogging intervals are lasting longer, and depending on what music is playing (I would like to second Emily’s recommendation and suggest that all of you go get yourself a copy of Bloodhound Gang’s “Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo” because it is possibly the best song the world has ever known) there are a few brief moments where I actually sort of enjoy the running part. Then I usually feel like my heart is going to burst out of a bodily orifice, so I slow to a walk and practice Lamaze for a while until I’m no longer convinced that cardiac arrest is imminent, then speed up again. Towards the end I try and sprint at least a few yards, just to pretend like I am capable of escaping a fast-moving zombie, and then I come home and pass out in the driveway.
Running is seriously masochistic. It hurts, it sucks, and it repeatedly transforms you into a crying little girly-man. I can’t even explain why I’m starting to like it.
May
13
May 13, 2007
The weather didn’t cooperate today and it was kind of gray and chilly and unpleasant outside. I did three loads of laundry and picked up our mounds of clutter and vacuumed and cleaned the kitchen, and at that point the last thing I wanted to do during Riley’s afternoon nap was pull on my running gear and leave the house because seriously. THREE LOADS.
But I’d gone shopping earlier in the day and I had bought two pairs of pants, pants with a 6 on the size label. Size six, and I still cannot believe it. I haven’t owned a six in I don’t know how many years. I don’t even want to wear these pants, I want to staple them to my forehead with the label out because SIX. Holy crap, six.
So after we went out to lunch with Riley and spent some time playing in the chilly, gray backyard, I pulled on my running gear and left the house. And when I got back I felt like I could power up a million lightbulbs. That’s how good I felt. Like I could set things on fire with my brain.
I cannot think of a better Mother’s Day present, and I gave this to myself. I said goddamn! Goddamn.
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