I am cranky, because I don’t like being injured. After the novelty wore off (aka, ten seconds after being hit by the car), I realized that there was going to be a point where I was not going to be able to work out.
Have any of you ever been around me when I have not been able to work out? I might refer you to The Simrusscaldsutswald Fun Old Fashioned Family Holiday of 2010. This was Thanksgiving in Yosemite, with 3+ feet of snow on the ground. I had planned to run hills at altitude, and my plans were thwarted. I couldn’t even get in a good hike, because I have a pathological fear of fracture (having once survived for nearly a decade using Diet Coke as a meal replacement, this was and is not, by any stretch of the imagination, an irrational fear.)
So I paced the cabin. I walked in circles. I put on running clothes. I got myself in workout mindset so I could run in my mind.
I wound up leaving the holiday early, which was wonderful, because we all parted ways on a fabulous note. But if I’d stayed another day, I’d have become such an insufferable caged tiger that it wouldn’t have been pretty.
I love to work out; I always have. Getting hit by a car has cramped my style. But it has also given me time to sit back and look at people who work out in a new light.
New Yorkers, I have noticed, like fancy workout clothes. When I lived in DC, people worked out in any old thing. And when I was a university student, while everyone tried to be somewhat fashionable, workout gear ran the gamut. But New Yorkers are like the French women who I saw on stairmasters in stilettos in the mid-1990s. They love looking good.
So I have never understood the New Yorkers who wear their beautiful Lululemon gear to the gym, and then don a hoodie to work; or to play; or to meet friends.
This is not to say that I don’t own a few hoodies myself. And this is not to say that I do not have a beloved, once-fancy (insofar as a hoodie can be fancy), now-ratty, very expensive hoodie that has traveled the globe with me. But that does not make it okay.
You know who wears hoods? Executioners. People committing hate crimes. Boxers about to engage in fisticuffs. Nice people do not wear hoods.
Sure, you can tell me that there is a such thing as an academic hood. But think back to the last time that you were graduated from an academic institution. Did that venerable thing they slung around your neck even remotely resemble a hoodie?
I think not.
People of the world, rise up! Rise up against the hoodie! You are better than this thing! You deserve more than cheap cotton; a zipper; a draw string; and a flap of fabric around your head. Don’t buy it. Don’t wear it. And if you must wear it, for the love of all that is good, don’t wear it indoors, or on the subway, and smack me and my damaged shoulder around while trying to exit the train because you cannot see a damned thing in you peripheral vision.