I've had a bunch of little items in my head that I'm eager to blurt out. I fear I may begin blathering to myself on the sidewalk unless I say a few of these things aloud, so instead I'll write them here on happyrobot, where I can simultaneously talk to myself and say them aloud on my shiny new Vlog.
I have a secret love of muggy, hot summer. Sure I enjoy all the naked people walking around as much (or much more) than the next guy, but the real pleasure for me is I love to sweat. Seriously--dripping sopping, drenched with my internal coolant, lathery sweat-soaked and nasty--I love love love it. Always have. I am swimming in the lake that is myself. And we know how I love Me.
Growing up in humid NC, on 100° late-July days--when the warnings would blare out over the local news for everyone to stay inside, turn off the lights, and stick iced-down underwear between their armpits--I'd walk several blocks down to the concrete basketball court the Sandlin's built in their side lot, with my ball, a towel, and a cold Mello-Yellow, and play until I thought I might die, until my feet could fry bacon. I did the same thing when I was older at the Y. I'd run full court when it was too hot to open a storm door for fear the gust of heat would melt a person's face. No sane person was outside, unless they were in a lake or swimming pool. I was invariably the only person on the court--which not coincidentally were my best games.
I'm walking to and fro' work now. I've been saying I need to do this forever. If you knew me, you would know besides sweating, my other great love is walking. When people ask me why I moved to New York, I usually say something about opportunity, motivation, culture, etc., but the truth is I love to walk, and the sweaty months are a bonus.
Now that NY'ers are eyeballing each other with fear and suspicion on the trains, plus the general feel of unease, combined with the fare hikes and the suffocating, draftless, urine-stank heat in the stations, I figured now was a good time to start walking in earnest. Three Manhattan miles. One hour each way. (Again, I love to sweat.) Door to door it's only 15 minutes more than taking the F-train, and a hundred times more enjoyable.
Before I quit the cigarette habit (which coincided with the arrival of John Jr.), I walked home 2–3 days a week in temperate months. Not smoking actually made walking less enjoyable for me at first, because of the association (recall Smalking), but now I'm dandy.
If your work week is as bland as mine usually is (yesterday my glamorous job required I type the numerals 1–28 over and over again for four hours)--this little routine change makes it all better. My back feels straighter, my lungs cleaner, my jaw firmer, I'm less likely to guzzle down the bottle of gin in my desk drawer. Oh, my office building continues to sit smack atop the Times Square subway station, so don't think I'm scared of those terrorist bastards--I'm just getting a cardio workout and enjoying the sights.