I’ve been listening to Christmas music since the end of August. Part of me is afraid I’m going to burn out by the time Christmas actually gets here, but the other part of me just wants to start lighting the Christmas candles I’ve been hoarding since last year. And the pro-Christmas part of me is bigger because it eats more cookies, so guess who wins. Also, if I were the sort of person who could use the word “juxtaposition” without sounding dumb, I would tell you that I’m quite enjoying the juxtaposition of my morning commute from Queens to Harlem against the tune of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” (see: Children laughing, people pushing each other over to get a spot on the first M60 that comes even though everybody knows another one is thirty seconds away, children laughing some more and grinding potato chips into the floor with the toes of their light-up sneakers).
Don’t worry though, I’m not trying to skip fall. I sat near some hay bales outside Gansevoort Market the other day:
Now all I want to do is go to an orchard and pick things and drink cider, even though I know it’ll either be too cold or too hot for my liking and then I’ll complain about how heavy the pumpkin is and how it got dirt on my coat. It’ll still be fun though. I’m so fun!
The gym I “go” to was merged with one of its sister locations two blocks away. So now that it’s not directly across the street from my bus stop, which I need not point out is the greatest burden to ever be endured by mankind, I am feeling extra smug and accomplished about actually going. I confess, though, that I still wouldn’t have known the stupid gym had moved if Diego hadn’t gotten out of work early last night and picked me up so we could go together. (Monster. Actual monster.) Because if we hadn’t gone together I wouldn’t have gone at all. As it was, all I did was run a half-hearted mile and then walk on a .00001 incline while watching thirty minutes’ worth of Amberlynn Reid’s Youtube videos. (SUCH A COMPELLING CHARACTER.) See, the issue I have with working out is that once you start you do not immediately fit into size-two bikini bottoms. Which is enough of an issue for me that I don’t want to bother with it at all. Me and my pajamajeans are doing just fine without you, abs. Wherever you are.
I can’t remember how many days it’s been since I washed my hair.
I wrote most of this at work today. It’s amazing how much less time everything takes when someone isn’t making a series of increasingly-uncomfortable-to-listen-to personal phone calls at the desk behind you, or forcing you to mentally construct a detailed plan to launch yourself into the sun because they won’t stop tapping their desk and sighing or typing aggressively loudly (the reason their fingers are free for all this noise-making is because they are making the personal phone calls on a hands-free device, so don’t worry, at least they don’t look as douche-y as they’re acting. Don’t. Worry.)
