Yesterday I realized how behind I am on diary entries. Then, to make myself feel better, I consulted Heidi Julavits' book again and it turns out, her entries were not consecutive either. At the very least, the ones that got published were not. So there. Or something.
I've spent two weeks acclimating my brain and my body to working three jobs. That sounds worse than it feels, honestly. I've been content mainly b/c I'm making more money and am able to live in and work in NYC, the dream that refuses to die despite paperwork, in tripicate, that reads in indelible ink that New York City is a harsh landlord. Going from place to place in such a fast moving area (and I do include Long Island in that assessment) has given my life a kinetic feeling. Commuting, whether in my car or on a train or on my two feet is adequate distraction from my frequent bouts of omygodwhatismylife. So there's that.
This morning I tried desperately to become one of those women. You know those women, the ones who go to the gym at 5am and sweat all their body fat away with ease and grace and smile at the morning with pop music streaming from their earbuds. They have their long, shiny, thick hair in a perfectly wavy ponytail and their toned arms on display as they run lightly on the treadmill, their brain in meditation mode, their legs on autopilot. They somehow shower at the gym just as gracefully as they do everything else in life and manage to emerge with glowing skin, a perfectly sculpted coif atop their impeccably made up and symmetrical faces. Those women I have spent all my life admiring from afar and wondering how to speak their language. (How you say: please wake me up on time?)
However, something got lost in translation (as per usual) and I set my alarm for 5 but wound up putzing around in bed until it was too late to do more than 30 minutes of "walkogging" on a squeaky treadmill, the rhythm of which was all I had to listen to because I had forgotten my earbuds at home. My extremely short hair was flattened against my round head as I tried not to read the captions on the row of televisions in front of me as they narrated the story of how big the holes in the world are, my body noting every five minutes that I forgot my water bottle as well. I took a shower at the gym but had nowhere to put my glasses so I just showered with them on which has always and will always make me feel like I didn't shower at all. And I guess I "got ready" just like those women if you discount the fact that I forgot my bra, deodorant, and socks and therefore had to go back to my apartment anyway, even after I braved that shower and the alternating images of getting flesh eating disease and/or having all of my shit stolen. I want my effort duly noted. I want some kind of marker on my headstone. She died as she lived: trying to like exercise. If you are one of those women (or men), you have my undying admiration. I'm going to keep admiring you tomorrow as I read my book at 5am over a cup of coffee. I'll get behind on my behind, but I don't want to get behind on my reading.
I type this having not had enough coffee. I'm sure tonight I'll go to bed with the resolution that I'll try again. Maybe I will. And I mean maybe in a way that not many have meant maybe before. Hard maybe.
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