Still 16.

NYR: Checking In.

Gazelle

It is when the rhythm in your legs meets the one in your ears. When your thighs, lungs and soul sync up and it feels like this body was created to stride. Haters dispute the existence of the Runner’s High, but oh, I beg to disagree. It’s called the gazelle feeling.

For me it takes a mile or two to really settle in to a run and get through the initial thoughts of, “Who poured concrete in my tights before I left?” and “This is unnatural. I better walk home and brunch instead.”

But once my mind and my body reach a compromise (‘Ok, body, if you keep moving in a forward jogging motion…we can slow it down to a 10 minute pace, and I promise we can stop at Dairy Queen after dinner…’) the regret wanes and the endorphins begin their swim through my blood stream.

For me, the real runner’s high and gazelle moments are coming fewer and farer between during these stunted, gray winter days. No longer am I hitting all-time high mileage runs and gliding on that sense of accomplishment/disbelief that holy shit, I’m really doing this—screw you junior high P.E. teachers—I truly am running 8, 10, 14 miles today. The music on my Winter Running playlist is becoming stale and I am beginning to lose faith that ‘Ye truly is the illest and is currently going gorillas.

But then, a musical gem will drop in my lap and I’ll fall madly in love with The Hood Internet or Lana Del Ray and turn the volume way, way up (and somehow it still doesn’t sound loud enough) and my legs will just…go. Gazelle I am once again. For now.

Things That Are Awesome About Me:

I have a nice butt.

I ran a marathon.

I have leather jacket in which I looking smoking hot.

I have a lovely smile.

I have dance-floor moves like whoa.

I have a strong vocabulary.

I work hard at the things I want.

I run in 20 degree temperatures, 20 mile per hour winds, with snow on the ground. Beat that.

I am pretty fucking funny.

I use swear words in a well-placed, edgy fashion.

I call things like I see them.

8th Grade boys think I’m a fox.

I can make my nephew laugh hysterically.

Nom

Oh, hell. It was a four cookie kind of day. (Well, really, maybe it was only a two-cookie, but I kept going because there was an entire bag on my desk.)

Window love song

When I look out of the windows of my home, I see lights (blue, green, lots of orangey-yellow ones, and depending on the month and season, green/red, pink/red, or red/white/blue). I get to see slivers of buildings, jigsawed together to make this remarkable 1000 piece puzzle that is constantly changing, constantly providing a new perspective of this city. I see the river under lights, pulsating and shimmering.

Chicago is called the city of broad shoulders. This is my favorite, and I think, the most apt nickname for my birthplace (maybe because we have the same body type, and sensibilities).

Both of us are:

• Down-to-earth.
• Accessible. Seriously. Our public transit kicks your public transit’s ass.
• Reliable. You know you can count on the following: a skyline that’ll hitch your breath, foul-mouthed mayors and a lake that may as well be a small ocean.

I have known some people to talk shit about Chicago. It’s a poor-man’s NYC, nothing new ever happens here, yada yada yada. But there is a safety and certainty in this city that I value. You know what you’re getting with Chicago—nothing more, nothing less. Maybe that isn’t enough for some people (and there are some days I think I am one of those people), but as for right this moment, there’s enough to keep me discovering this town.

Never, ever a city (or a girl) so real.

Creature of Habit

Friday night, I was struck down with the mighty blow of bad-turkey-breast-lunchmeat food poisoning, and it has seriously jacked up the entire weekend. I recognize I am a creature of habit no more than the times I’m forced to stray from my habits (like when the washing machine breaks, and you’ve got it coming out of both ends. Unrelated, but both sucky).

My weekend should have gone something like this:

Friday night: happy hour and drinking til about 10

Saturday: Yoga, shower, counseling, laundry/cleaning/reading, more counseling, go to the store/dinner/out with Maina.

Sunday: Run, shower, go to mom’s and shop, visit the pumpkin, home to read and prepare for week.

Instead, things went like this:

Friday night: happy hour for about an hour until….mad dash home to barf, yak, poop, groan, cry and vomit some more throughout the night.

Saturday: vomit, sleep, sleep, moan about stomach cramps, eat a little toast, lay on couch, nap for five hours, lay on couch, eating half a sweet potato and some cookies until falling asleep on said couch, move to bed, sleep until Sunday morning.

Sunday: move extremely slowly but surely. finally feel good about food again. go to mom’s to do laundry, shop, and hopefully see pumpkin. home to prepare for week.

I guess the biggest things that were sacrificed this weekend was time spent with Maina, and my workouts, which are both two things I value and keep my sanity in tact. Also laundry. I love clean clothes.

Substitute Maina for Tan and you’ve got yourself a regular Jersey Shore guido here.