I haven't been feeling that inspired about blogging this past week (obviously, you might say, judging from the absence of same), and I'm kind of having to push myself to get back to it, in much the same way I dragged myself to the gym today despite it seeming like a much better idea to stay in bed and rest. I've been afflicted with a mild cold, my second in the past couple months, whereas I usually have one a year at most, which has left me feeling drained of energy and simultaneously filled with umbrage (no, that's not a fancy word for snot).
I'm officially blaming the lousy Engish weather (sorry for the redundancy) for both my physical ailment and my sour mood, though I have to admit the possibility that the weather wouldn't seem so bad had I not been spoiled by Sydney these past few months. Wesley, who lives no more than a mile away from me, seems to have been able to find not only some allure, but some actual sunshine in London, so perhaps it's only my jaundiced attitude. Anyway, next week I'm going over to New York, which has been enjoying lots of warmth and sunshine this month, but it's predicted to turn cold and rainy for my arrival. See what I mean about attitude?
I'll only be there for a week, which will give me time to participate in the annual Punk Rock Softball tournament (which, provided I don't break something or get run over by a bus on the way there, will mark the first time I've attempted to play anything resembling baseball since my traumatic, athletic talent-free middle childhood at the end of the 1950s), take in a solo show by the lovely Rose Melberg, and visit my stunningly talented niece, Gabrielle Bell, whose comics seem to be (deservedly) taking the world by storm. It's probably also safe to assume that this particular week will be the one week this year that London enjoys a semblance of beautiful spring weather, but oh well, what can you do? Anyway, I've pretty much never failed to have a good time in New York, regardless of the weather, and I'm sure this will be no exception.
So why don't I move to New York, I frequently ask myself, but apart from the fact that I can't really afford it right now, there's the question of whether I want to subject myself to the harsh winters and high-intensity lifestyle. A few years ago, sure, but I'm increasingly feeling more like chilling out on the beach, something New York is not best suited for. Never mind; all will become clear in due course. To somebody, anyway, if not me.
Anyway, getting back to where I started, going to the gym turned out to be the right decision, I think, because during the three hours I spent there, my cold pretty much disappeared, though some of the lethargy remained. Thursday is the day that I do an hour and 15 minute yoga class, which, despite its hippie-dippie associations, is not for sissies. Okay, almost everyone in the class besides me is female, but I defy any of you who isn't a contortionist by nature to put yourself through that series of poses without arriving at near-exhaustion. But I didn't stop there; I then put in more than a half hour on some diabolical machine called a cross trainer, on which I apparently travelled 4 km (2.4 miles) and burned up 500 calories (no doubt immediately replaced by the chocolate muffin I ate when I came home). Then another hour or so of abdominal exercises. All this from the guy who ditched out of gym class in 11th grade and has assiduously eschewed most unnecessary physical activity ever since. I'd suspect a midlife crisis, but I think it's a little late for that.
I'm officially blaming the lousy Engish weather (sorry for the redundancy) for both my physical ailment and my sour mood, though I have to admit the possibility that the weather wouldn't seem so bad had I not been spoiled by Sydney these past few months. Wesley, who lives no more than a mile away from me, seems to have been able to find not only some allure, but some actual sunshine in London, so perhaps it's only my jaundiced attitude. Anyway, next week I'm going over to New York, which has been enjoying lots of warmth and sunshine this month, but it's predicted to turn cold and rainy for my arrival. See what I mean about attitude?
I'll only be there for a week, which will give me time to participate in the annual Punk Rock Softball tournament (which, provided I don't break something or get run over by a bus on the way there, will mark the first time I've attempted to play anything resembling baseball since my traumatic, athletic talent-free middle childhood at the end of the 1950s), take in a solo show by the lovely Rose Melberg, and visit my stunningly talented niece, Gabrielle Bell, whose comics seem to be (deservedly) taking the world by storm. It's probably also safe to assume that this particular week will be the one week this year that London enjoys a semblance of beautiful spring weather, but oh well, what can you do? Anyway, I've pretty much never failed to have a good time in New York, regardless of the weather, and I'm sure this will be no exception.
So why don't I move to New York, I frequently ask myself, but apart from the fact that I can't really afford it right now, there's the question of whether I want to subject myself to the harsh winters and high-intensity lifestyle. A few years ago, sure, but I'm increasingly feeling more like chilling out on the beach, something New York is not best suited for. Never mind; all will become clear in due course. To somebody, anyway, if not me.
Anyway, getting back to where I started, going to the gym turned out to be the right decision, I think, because during the three hours I spent there, my cold pretty much disappeared, though some of the lethargy remained. Thursday is the day that I do an hour and 15 minute yoga class, which, despite its hippie-dippie associations, is not for sissies. Okay, almost everyone in the class besides me is female, but I defy any of you who isn't a contortionist by nature to put yourself through that series of poses without arriving at near-exhaustion. But I didn't stop there; I then put in more than a half hour on some diabolical machine called a cross trainer, on which I apparently travelled 4 km (2.4 miles) and burned up 500 calories (no doubt immediately replaced by the chocolate muffin I ate when I came home). Then another hour or so of abdominal exercises. All this from the guy who ditched out of gym class in 11th grade and has assiduously eschewed most unnecessary physical activity ever since. I'd suspect a midlife crisis, but I think it's a little late for that.
2 comments:
Can't wait to have you here, Larry. It's always a pleasure.
Are you going to see Rose Melberg on Tuesday in Manhattan or Wednesday in Brooklyn?
Post a Comment