I had a really fantastic weekend. For no apparent reason. It was one of those weekends where the weather was hot, and perfect, and everything was unplanned, but things still worked out largely as planned.
I woke up late on Saturday morning, and invited Roo up on to the bed for snuggles and tea and reading in bed. I turned my back for five seconds, and came back to find him seated at the passenger side of the bed.
Nice try, Dog.
I had woken up craving frozen yogurt. That rarely happens these days, but when it does, I act upon it. So I waited until 16 Handles opened up, and then I took off up Second Avenue for a breakfast treat: gobs of birthday cake froyo; granola; strawberries; bananas; pineapple. Sicky sweet. Delicious.
Following this breakfast of champions, I headed out for a quick 12-miler.
That drawstring was killing me. I wound up ripping it out of my shorts about 1/2 way through my run. It occurred to me, around that time, how old my running shorts were. I bought them in law school. I was in law school ten years ago.
That felt…weird. My mother and I had gotten into it a little bit about that: about me getting older. She kept saying: Don’t wish your life away — what is this talk about grey hair and silver foxes! And I couldn’t articulate the strange feeling of where, exactly, I was. But what was happening was that, if I was getting older, she was getting older, which I think she was unwilling to accept.
I had reached that weird moment of being young, but not being That Young. Of having No Idea What I was Doing, on one hand, and Knowing Quite A Lot, on the other.
The cure for the moment was running.
So. I ran. I set my run to music, and my playlists are all organised by airport, or road race, or what I was listening to when I was writing.
It was one of THOSE runs; one of those fantastic runs where everything was working correctly; everything felt good. Where heart and head and bone/sinew/muscle all pulsed and pounded in sync and went for distance. Where they just…went. Running, for me, is largely mental. When I got injured in May, the scariest thing was losing my laser focus; having to admit that I could not finish.
But I always finish. Indeed, in my house we say that all the time. It sounds wrong out of context — like something you’d say around the dinner table to a child — but it was always meant to (aggressively) mean: persevere.
Following my run, I rang up my hair salon to see if I might be able to get in for highlights, because the red and the grey were creeping in around my temples. They could fit me in at 4pm, did I want that appointment?
(I did take a photo of myself with my hair in foils, and while I’m not normally one to shy away from posting awful pictures…this one was profoundly bad)
Do people ever fall asleep while you’re blonding their hair? I asked my stylist, between gulps of Sauvignon blanc.
Please. I’m basically playing with their hair for hours. Of course.
I got home from Soho and I was met by my doorman, who handed me a huge chunk of fresh watermelon. The funny thing about all of the medication I take is that it alters my tastebuds. Before the meds, I couldn’t tolerate the taste of melon. I found it emetic. And now, while I’ve always loved tomatoes; potatoes; I can barely eat them, and I find myself craving things like melon and mushrooms.
(Maybe not my finest moment, but definitely a delicious one.)
I’d had a crazy week, so I decided to stay in; I flipped on the television to find James Bond movies; Murder She Wrote; Christmas Vacation (a family fave); and the Olympics.
I poured another glass of wine, ordered some sushi and settled in.
(I think that’s Michael Phelps’ head staring at me?)
It was nearly the end of July, and I had made it. A quiet, wonderful weekend. Small victories.