Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

I am having this craving to go back to the gym. I haven't gone yet in 2007. The snow is making me hanker for the gym. I am getting more of my former self back and the fact of the snow is proof that time has passed and I am no longer in the same place. Progress has been made. Seasons have changed.

I was actually going to cancel my membership. I haven't done it yet. I didn't want to do anything rash. I have been a member of that gym since 2000. To cancel just seemed crazy. But I have never not gone for over two months. Never. If I was given access to my attendance record in the past six and a half years you'd see days where I went twice and you'd see a rare week when I went less than five times. In fact I could probably identify those weeks right now off the top of my head. I missed two weeks when I had my tonsils taken out in April of 2002. I missed another couple of weeks when I first injured my knee in April of 2004. Then I missed another couple after I had knee surgery in July of 2005. Other than that the gym was my religion for all the duration disregarding my eratic attendance between August and now. For much of that time, especially the beginning I did not accept my body's limitations AT ALL and was still going to the gym or trying to but usually not getting very far. Then I was on a crazy high dose of steroids and was at the gym at 6:30 every morning for wont of anything else to do with the time and my energy and mania. Gradually I got back into yoga in September of 2006 and slowly have been easing back into running but it's outdoor running I've been doing, never treadmill.

I joined the gym spontaneously. I used to run in Central Park often after work at the United States Attorney's Office, Eastern District. My friend Dallas was working at the Brooklyn District Attorney's Office and we'd meet up after work and go to the New York Sports Club on 73rd and Columbus and change and then go for a run in Central Park. She knew everyone there so they let me change into my running gear before our runs despite my lack of an actual gym membership. At a certain point I spontaneously joined. It made our runs a lot more flexible. And we could go spinning before or after. When I bemoan the loss of my 23-year old body I also bemoan the discipline I had. Part of me does at least and part of me now knows that working out makes me feel good. I do it purely for that now. I always did, even at 23 but at 23 there was more to it than that. It was partially the mania of being 23 that compelled me to do it; the insecurity, the fear about my future, the way it made me feel powerful and strong and in control, what I now know is all an illusion.

We had a run we called the Manhattan run that started at either her house or my grandmother's house (12th between first and second or 10th between first and second) where we skimmed the East River. We ran down to the Staten Island Ferry hugging the water as we talked about school and boys and who the best sex of our life was and why and traded crazy stories from before we knew each other in college. We'd run up the West Side, the Twin Towers dominating the skyline sheltering us from the rest of the city as we ran past the volleyball court and the beautiful boats and roller bladers and dog walkers and couples canoodling on the grass. We wondered what we were doing in law school. We'd get to Christopher Street on the West Side Highway and scrounge around for change and buy a gatorade and guzzle it down. Then we'd bear east and run back along 10th street to where we started. We passed this restaurant we always talked about going to and never did. Sometimes we'd go for a spin after that 9-mile run. Sometimes we'd get sushi and beer and marvel over what cheap dates the crazy running made us. Those were some fun days. Sadly my one-day older Libra sister, Ms. Dallas has arthritis in her knees and can no longer run. Gotta pour some beer out for the girl I always felt was the more condensed, real McCoy version of me. Blonder, taller, bigger boobs, greener eyes, longer legs, more freckles and skinnier. Cool as shit and more of a warrior princess than I am. She ran her first marathon at 17. She took the train alone down to North Carolina (correct me if I'm wrong, girl) and lied about her age so she could run it; you have to be 18, ran and got on the train and came home. She is a true warrior princess who more than me burned the candle on both ends and in between from running, drinking, trysts with boys etc all in a 24-hour period, the girl never stopped. Big up.

I went to the 14th Street New York Sports Club with Staten Island. That gym reminds me of Sundays and he and I meeting in the AM for brunch and them ambling around the city culminating with us going to the gym. Him to lift weights and me for my 5:15pm spin class. I would always get a bike near the window of the spin room and stare at him throughout the class. He was delicious. I loved watching him. But then reality would set in as we left the gym, went out to dinner and fought the entire time.

At the Wall Street New York Sports Club in April 2004 I fell and permantly damaged my knee. ( http://www.runningtimesmagazine.com/rt/articles/?id=3760&page=1 ) I did go back there. And I did run there again. What took me forever as C will attest was taking that escalator. That steep-ass escalator that I fell up. But we went there. I went there in the mornings before work at the big firm. I went there at lunch. On Friday evenings C and I were devotees of Rob's spin class. We'd trudge there in the snow past the stock exchange up the beauty wonderland that is Broad Street in the winter and then get to gaze at hot Rob for 45 minutes and go back to work glowing. I got my legs back there. I got my legs back. I ran again for the first time there. What miracle was the first one mile straight that I ran.

Then I spent a lot of time in 2005 at the 36th and Madison New York Sports Club. That was when I was working at the criminal defense firm. It didn't matter how much time I spent there; I could never spin fast enough, run far enough or lift enough weight to ever benefit from the transformative impact I usually got from going to the gym. In a Total Body Conditioning class one Monday night with a 10 lb weight in each hand, I kneeled down to do a squat and heard a pop and there went my knee. Again. Knee surgery followed soon after.

I could go on. I have stories about the two gyms near my house, Cobble Hill where I famously fell off the treadmill, not the first time I've fallen off a treadmill but the first time at a real gym and not the one in my parents' building. I have stories about the gym at Irving Place or the one in Battery Park or on Reade Street where I logged my fastest 5-miles to date, 39 minutes in the summer of 2001 and the gym in Forest Hills I used to sometimes go to when I worked at Legal Aid in Jamaica, Queens in 2002. Am I ready to quit?

I joined when I was 23, the summer of 2000. I am a different person now. I have let go of many other of that 23 year old's ideas and habits and hobbies and theories; why not one more? I am closer to 33 than 23; that speaks volumes. The truth is, I haven't gone in over two months. I don't know if I went in December. I didn't notice that I hadn't been in forever until the new year began. I told myself if I didn't go during January I'd quit. I didn't go in January. Then I gave myself February. Well February is almost up. And I bought myself (because I am so good to myself, carpe diem right?) a year of yoga so should I really be paying for both when I can run outside and haven't gone spinning or to any other class at the gym in ages? But what about the hankering I had for it tonight?

Bottom line is, despite the hankering I went running outside tonight; not to the gym. Bottom line is I am not 23. I am 30. Maybe the gym isn't me anymore. Maybe the gym has gone the way of tube tops and arguing with my parents and doing nasty shots just to do them and smoking in bars and taking the train home at 4am and breaking night and closing out bars way too often and second guessing myself and doing things for the wrong reasons. Maybe I have become more organic and mindful in the way I like to exercise. Maybe I have just become more organic and mindful and let myself be, no longer forcing the gym on myself and putting the pressure on myself to run X miles a week, spin X times a week and lift weights X times a week. I am not down with the shoulds. I am down with doing what feels good. And lately that hasn't been the gym. It's been either the hot room and the focused movement of Bikram yoga where I found my eyes and finally accepted what I look like in the mirror or the cold air and beautiful cobblestone streets of DUMBO or 'No Sleep 'til Brooklyn' runs where I always find the missing puzzle pieces in my brain. I guess I'll have to have faith in my mindfullness and trust in the organic process it took me six and half years to learn to make my decision.

Simple Kind Of Life

"Girl, you better watch out, you're gonna catch pneumonia," he screamed to me as I passed him outside the Family Court building on Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard. I looked back and laughed, "I just had pneumonia!" feeling strong and reckless, feeling like me. I crossed Tillary Street and ran up the incline on to the bridge passing Brooklyn's building on Adams Street and looking at it trying to remember what his apartment number was and wondering what he'd do if I turned around and went to his house instead. Of course I didn't do that, been thinking about him lately and almost called him last week when I was sad but didn't; that's a Pandora's box I am not sure that I want to open. I ran over the bridge revelling in the beauty of the Brooklyn Bridge at night in the snow. There is nothing like it. I was going to go to yoga last night but when I left work and saw that it was actually snowing (I am a weather cynic, I doubted it would snow), I knew that a warrior princess run was in my near future.

I got home, devoured one of my 'magic' brownies at the suggestion of Maguire who opined that it could make for a good run. I did a quick change and was on my way. It was a transcendant experience. Memories flooded my mind. I remembered my first winter in Brooklyn, winter of 2002-2003 which was my best winter in Brooklyn. I was living on Sackett Street with A and MO and just starting getting serious with Illinois. I was working at the liquor store and between us, we all had flexible, weird, free schedules. It snowed like crazy that winter and we had a blast going out every night or staying in and drinking wine or smoking pot. The snow made everything we did feel like an adventure. We played in the snow and rented movies. That was the winter of the famous 'honey brother' contest where we got very high and turned the honey jar upside down and made a bet as to how long it would take for the honey to follow. A. won. Because she won she decided we all had to pick a goal to complete in the next month. Hers was to sign up for acting classes. Mine was to get a real job. MO's was to stop making out with so many guys. Illlinois' was to only stay at the bar for a maximum of one hour after he got off work. We all made good on those goals.

As I approached Manhattan and turned around en route back to Brooklyn the vision of the bridge in all its majesty with snow falling and the flag waving and Brooklyn in the background made me proud of my last five years living in Brooklyn where I realized who I was, where I became who I am, where I reclaimed what I had lost and had some of the highest highs and lowest lows; I really lived, for the first time ever I really lived. Of course I have a lot of it to blame on my health. Having a chronic illness makes you feel more alive as everytime you feel 'normal,' it feels like some divine being is smiling down on you, like the sun's shining for the first time and it's shining on you. And everytime you are sick, you're so sick you think you will die. So you feel like you're really alive and it's ironic because you are closer to death than people who never feel as alive as you feel. And I love it. What a Valentine's Day treat to be running on the Brooklyn Bridge at night in the snow at the mercy of the most beautiful vista spread out before me in all it of its glory and with my amazing body full of toxins running just the same as it always did. Each stride a miracle and each stride my miracle, my body. I can hate my body all I want but when I run and do yoga I love my body simply because it still works and because I am in control when I'm running. My body is at my mercy instead of the opposite. In fact, my diseased body can do more than most healthy people's can (when I was in the hospital and had an x-ray of my lower lumbar I had to bend forward and backwards and the technician told me she'd never seen anyone bend that far). I am still a badass motherfucker running on the Brooklyn Bridge at night in the snow big smile on my face listening to crazy hip-hop reveling in how great my life is how much I have overcome how lucky I am how I have never been happier than I am right now.

No boyfriend. No real job. No health. No money. No book deal. But I am thrilled. When you lose everything, you see how much you actually do have and how precious these things are. Like when I go through my clothes and get rid of bags and bags and oddly finally have something to wear. I didn't buy anything new; I can finally see what I have is all. I ran over the bridge and back. I ran into DUMBO. I ran on Furman Street until it turned into Columbia. I took a right on Carroll Street and saw that my old apartment was painted green. I took a left onto Van Brunt Street and ran until I hit the river, Lady Liberty was proudly raising her torch off in the distance. By then, my I-Pod had run out of battery and I was singing to myself. I laughed realizing I was out of tunes (and tune) and very far from home. Then I noticed the sound my feet made in the snow and the slush slush of cars going by and I was fine. The tenor of my run changed but my run was still glorious.

The lesson in all of this reminiscing and musing last night is that I am happy. Happiness has nothing to do with a job a boyfriend or any of the above. My body works despite how fucked up it is. I am enjoying my apartment, my neighborhood, my writing, my reading, my family and my friends. I am enjoying being me. I am enjoying the control I feel over my future, just in finally knowing what I want it to look like as blurred by the snow as it still is. It snowed for me today and I spent almost two hours running in it. That's love. That's Valentine's Day. I couldn't have had a better gift.

Back Like That

So the year is ending on a high note.

Yesterday was the day of exceeded expectations and unanticipated highs. I went running. By myself. Outside. At night. In Brooklyn.

Before leaving work I agonised about what to do. I had planned on going to Nick's 6pm Bikram class at Flatiron but then realized I wouldn't be out of yoga until 7:30 and wouldn't be back in Brooklyn until 8:00 and would want to drop my shit off at home and my sister wanted everyone at the bar for her birthday at 8:00-ish and I didn't want to be late for her birthday. I reluctantly came straight home instead, kind of disappointed in myself for not going to yoga the way I've been eating lately knowing I am wearing a very short dress New Year's Eve, also knowing that the prospects of me going to the gym instead were slim. I told myself it was okay not to work out for the second day in a row then I told myself it wasn't okay at all, that I was being too easy on myself.

Then I got the feeling.

It completely overpowered and overwhelmed me. I was a woman possessed. I unlocked my door, ransacked through my unpacked bag of clean laundry while kicking off my boots and wriggling out of my coat. I found a sports bra, took off my sweater and bra, pulled off my tights and skirt and threw on running tights and a short sleeved dry-fit running top, got out my running headphones, clipped them into the I-Pod and was out the door. It was a transcendant otherworldy experience. The night air felt cool and refreshing on my face as I ran. As I ran. As I ran. As I ran. I listened to my Runner's High mix and every song made me smile. I blasted the music. As I ran. As I ran. As I ran. I couldn't stop smiling. The warrior princess was back for one more run. I could run forever. I could have run all night. I was strong and confident and light and thrilled, absolutely ecstatically thrilled. The run was like a long lost lover that went off to war who I feared I'd never see again who I dreamt about and the dreams felt so real yet I'd wake up alone. But this time, he surprised me; he came back to me for real, not in my dreams. Even if it was for one night, I got to savor him, relish him, ravage him, love him, be embraced by him be surrounded by him be saved by him. Things you appreciate when you fear you'll never have them again. Things you appreciate when you haven't had them in so long.

So the run that was supposed to be a 30-minute special turned into me running from my house on Pacific Street past the post office, past the Eastern District, under the overpass entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge through DUMBO to Greenwich Avenue and back on Water Street past Patsy's and on to Furman Street. I hit a dilemma when I reached Atlantic Avenue. Do I keep running once Furman becomes Columbia Street or do I turn down Atlantic and run home. At that point I had been running for over 30 minutes. I kept going. I hadn't been to Columbia Street since I lived there. I ran past the old haunts. I was strong. I ran. And I ran. And I ran. I ran past all three of my old apartments. I ran past the bar where I met Illinois. I ran past the bar where I met Mrs. Illinois. I ran past the bar where AC and I watched the Fourth of July fireworks where I then made some of my own that night with 31. Then I ran home. Lungs, legs, music, head, heart all synchronised. Lungs, legs, music, head, heart all combining to make me high so high; the runner's high that I haven't had in so many months. The runner's high that is so healing. The runner's high that is so therapeutic. The runner's high that always makes me feel strong and healthy and beautiful. You can't be negative or feel weak when you're running. If you let those thoughts in; you will immediately stop running. That is one of the million reasons I love running.

With that as my foundation, I showered and got dressed and went to meet my sister and friends at the bar for her 27th birthday shindig. 31 and I had been in contact about meeting up that night. I am not sure what I did differently this time or whether it was just timing but I emailed the day before, "why don't you come to floyd's tomorrow night. i think it's time for us to hang out. been long enough, don't you think?" He responded, "I can probably work Floyd's into the equation. What's tomorrow anyway? Friday?" And the deal was struck. Of course the rest of the conversation degenerated into talks about our elusive threesome.

I got to the bar. A. was there. V. was there. My cousin is in town and she was there. My brother brought some of his friends. All of my sister's friends showed up, some of whom I hadn't seen in years. It was a blast. And I was on my high. I was also on the day before the day before the last day of being completely sinful; eating, drinking, shopping, smoking, use your imagination, all of the above, and would have had fun even if the night hadn't been set up so perfectly.

31 got there around 10:00-ish. He arrived in a cab when A. and I and some other people were outside smoking. It was nice to see him. It was nice to finally fucking see him. Anyway, somewhere in the 2's everyone filtered out leaving just us there. He said something about wanting to get out of there. I agreed. I asked him where he wanted to go what he wanted to do. He infuriatingly answered my question with a question, the same question that I had asked him. I answered honestly, "I want to take you home with me but not if you're going to avoid me for five months." He said, "how's two days?" I said, "fine, let's get out of here." And we did. We got to my house. He sat on the couch. I sat down next to him. I was chit chattering away; we had a lot to catch up on, it's been forever and he shut me up by kissing me, punctuating it with, "I've been waiting to do that all night;" words that were the cherry on the sundae of my day of exceeded expectations and unexpected highs.