We spent our Sunday bicycling on the towpath around Carnegie Lake. The awesome is unpossible to describinate.
The River Are Happy To Give
Category Archives: Your Groove I Do Deeply Dig
On You Now Would I Turn
The view from atop my elliptical. For three weeks, upside down books bugged me because I forgot them the moment I jumped off the pedals.
You are you, who are you, because no one else is. People think about you and about what you are doing. To a certain extent, you endorse the people you hang out with and the stuff people see you with. For example: if you buy your dealy boppers at Walmart, you perpetuate the structure that is Walmart and whether or not you like it your presence and your name and your money vouch for the way Walmart conducts itself. There’s no getting around that. Walmart is not your secret boyfriend. Walmart is the boyfriend who lures you into a sick relationship in which you destroy other people’s livelihoods and it’ll be a miracle if you don’t end up on a Bioography Channel women in prison special, but whatever. You look great in stripes.
Thus, the lovely and gifted Meryl Strep may regret making Margaret Thatcher seem human, because Thatcher is and always has been a vile piece of work. And now I have doubts about Streep.
Thoughts Are Scattered And They’re
Mr. DBK's favorite shore haunt. Boo!
I Should Write Home On the Double
The final kilometer of yesterday's stage of the Vuelta a Espana was the most astonishing of any bike race I've seen. Judging by the shouting commentators, panting after the commercials last night and still gushing about it tonight, maybe it was the real thing.
Wonder Why Someday Some Way
It’s rained every day for the last week. Over the weekend, we bought fenders for my bike because riding in the rain without fenders meant water flying off my front tire directly into my eyes. On a couple of occasions, I rode my bike with my eyes closed and a plume of water pouring into my already limpid pools, if you can picture THAT circus act. Pete installed the fenders and we rode to the library this morning. The road was wet, the sidewalks were wet and puddles pooled everywhere. The air smelled fresh and dewy. I zipped down the hill on the tiny town’s main street toward the bridge, where civil engineering has plainly gone to die. I flew to the edge of the bridge, wove carefully around the puddles and slowed down almost to a stop where I couldn’t avoid a puddle. It was at this exact moment that a car on the bridge rolled so fast through a puddle that standing road water splashed my face.
I laughed so hard I almost fell off my bike.
How Deep Do You Hold
Pete took this picture after the sun fell over the trees. We finally have zucchini coming in, which is good because zucchini plants are crazy drama queens.
…And then I was yelling at the driver going the wrong way on the one way park road in a decidedly Jersey fashion.
But the Fighter Still Remains
My hands are full a lot these days. In the early nineties, one of my boyfriends tried for weeks to teach me how to juggle, but it was useless. I threw balls into the air, then got down on my hands and knees to find them under things. Eventually, I threw in the towel when it became obvious I would never master this excellent party trick. This was also the boyfriend who took me to parties where I didn’t share a language with anyone else and I’m truly shitty at charades, so an excellent party trick might’ve saved the relationship from quickly fizzling. Oh, who are we kidding? If the sex is good nobody has to say a word.
Speaking of speaking, yesterday, the sports doctor spoke to me in soothing words of a hip replacement wizard in New York who works on the broken joints of working ballet dancers. Most of the expected outcomes for hip surgery simply do not meet my expectations for me and the post-op restrictions seem impossibly strict. But what do I know? The calcification in my hip has set my spine off at an angle, causing me to wish I spent most of my time in bed, wearing marabou bed jackets and ranting about my close-up, though – seriously – I’ve got work to do. Gritting one’s teeth and getting on with getting about on bicycles while walking with a cane invites skepticism on the part of onlookers. You would not believe how often people who see me glide down the avenues on two wheels lose their shit when they get a glimpse of my cane. My back hurts. How is that your problem?
The sports doctor suggested I go back to physical therapy. In PT, I’d strengthen my abs, my back muscles and get painful massages; that’s okay. I’m working on that anyway and have two massage therapists on speed dial. To devote any more time to exercise daily, I’d have to be a professional athlete of some kind, since running off to Cirque du Soleil with a cane is obviously right out. Next step: installing a koi pond in a kiddee pool and taking up soothing tai chi in my spare time, which looks sillier when you realize I’ve been so busy touching my toes I let an entire cherry season slip past me without getting anything into a jar. My back hurts – but that stings.
To Be Dressed Just the Same
Pete and I couldn’t watch the Giro last night. We turned it off after about fifteen minutes. Go to about 2:30 for a minute of strange pathos.
With Looking Glass Eyes
Physical therapy has become my new lifestyle. I dress to stretch. I think about what my abs are doing. Believe me: abs do not always have your back. Sometimes, your abs are too busy – with what, celebrity gossip? – to do their dumb little job, which is right in the middle of everything else. If your abs are slacking off, everyone else gets snippy.
Behold: the secondhand elliptical. We scoured classifieds for months and finally found one nearby and at a very, very reasonable price. Then we zipped around trying to find a way to transport the thing a mile and a half. Things looked bad; things looked worse. Renting a truck seemed stupid when we had wrenches. Then we carried the elliptical in pieces up to the attic, where it sits next to the stationary bike and the rowing machine, both of which we totally use. Tomorrow morning, at a stupid hour when it’s still dark out, I’ll give it a go. Yippee! My hip is totally creaky. My abs will forget about Jessica Simpson.
Be There For Bungling At Which
Topaz curled up in my lap an hour ago and my legs fell asleep. The tiny tiny cat is insistent that no task at hand could be more important that petting her. I can barely reach the keyboard, but what’re you gonna do? Topaz is a cat; ergo: her logic is impeccable.
Tomorrow is the last appointment for this round of physical therapy, which I described to my doctor as “my new lifestyle.” The future in which I plan my own daily exercise regimen is nearly upon us. The weather has changed from frozen to muddy, but the temperature is rising a bit every day. By next week, I’m hoping to climb back on the bicycle and crisscross the river on sunny work days. Last Saturday, I met a Hatha Yoga teacher and though the idea of sitting cross-legged on a cool floor meditating fills me with several kinds of dread, a weekly class four blocks from my house makes a whole lot of sense.
Well, what the hell. While other people are omming, I can warble Why Do Fools Fall In Love.
A block from the yoga teacher’s new digs a tai chi school has set up shop with an eye-catching program for arthritics. Classes are ungodly expensive and the schedule is a little confusing. I’m thinking this seems like a practical way to burn some vacation days if I suddenly win the lottery. Today, I had a hard time sashaying from the library to my car. Maybe I should ease on down to the drug store and buy a lottery ticket.
Poor Impulse Control 