Chapter 90: Hot Stuff

While I was jogging this morning, I passed an attractive young woman who was chatting with a neighbor of hers. She saw me and flashed me a thumbs up sign. I smiled, waved, and said good morning.

I don't think she was flirting with me. I think she was acknowledging that we both suffer from the same sickness. You see, she had exercise clothing on, too. For all I know, she might have just come back from a workout at the gym. Mind you, this is before 7 a.m. As Met first baseman Lucas Duda said about playing yesterday in 90-plus degree heat, "It's freaking hot out there!"

Of course, that's why I was out jogging before the rest of my household (other than the cats) was awake. It's freaking hot out there and getting hotter!

Why is it that joggers feel the need to get those miles in, mile after mile? Is it a madness derived from wanting to know how far we've gone? I mean, most joggers I know keep logs of either time run, miles run, or both. Or is it possibly because we have some undisclosed need to torment our bodies? No, I don't think so. If I did, I'd be like I was in high school and run in the middle of the day during days like this, running sans t-shirt in the hope that I might impress someone. To my knowledge, the only remarks I ever heard were about how stupid it is to run in such deadly weather.

I don't run as far or as long as I did just a few years ago. Kids'll do that to a guy. Probably to a woman, too. But I still long to put those miles down, to mark the steps taken. To know that, for at least a half hour or so, I pushed myself on this day, despite the obstacles.

Crazy. It's just too freaking hot out there.

Stay cool, everyone!

Chapter 83.3: Summer in the City

The streets of New York City stink of garbage this morning. Scents of fish and piss and withering whatchamacallit grab onto the sticky humid air and embed themselves deep into people's nostrils. The occasional open door at this hour already has the air conditioner blasting out onto the sidewalk — an all too brief respite as I continue walking groggily to work.

I slept well on the train this morning as a pretty woman in a sundress read her Jodi Picoult beside me. Dreams of babies crying and parents consoling them. Diaper and feed.

I need my coffee. I need to sit for a minute or two. I need to clear the air. Welcome back, summer.

Chapter 76.7: National "Take A Hike" Day

You may not have known it, but today is National Trails Day -- or as I like to call it: National 'Take a Hike' Day. While I'm sure the purpose of this day is to encourage people to walk through some of the many beautiful areas of our country -- mountain trails, forested areas, shorelines -- but I like the idea of telling people to take a hike.

The possibilities for corporate tie-ins are incredible. For example, Timberland might love this: "I can tell your wife's a hiker by that Timberland treadmark on your ass... Timberland: Take a hike!"

Ok, probably not what they have in mind.

Of course, today, the last thing I wanted to do was walk around in this oppressive heat; 96 degrees in early June is not my idea of fun. And tomorrow is expected to be worse. I already bought a six pack of cold beer. I'm in for the night, thank you!

So any one who wants me to head to a bar tonight ... Take A Hike!

Chapter 60.2: Hot Girl

I sat next to a hot girl today on the PATH train. Physically hot. As in warm. Yes, she was attractive too, though I didn't see much of her face. (It's not considered polite to stare at a stranger from a distance of about six or seven inches.) As I got on the train -- lucky to catch one of the earlier trains, which are often less crowded and therefore plentiful with open seats -- I noticed the attractive girl and the spaces beside her. Usually, I want an end seat, but I suppose most people do, and they were all filled. My second choice is toward the middle, to give the folks on the end some elbow room. So, I ended up next to the hot girl.

Once the door was closed, I felt her warmth beside me and noticed the lack of warmth on my other side. I opened my book of Donald Barthelme short stories and continued to read "Lightning," which I'd started on the NJ Transit train. It's about a divorced magazine writer who's doing a piece on people who were struck by lightning; it's a tale about falling back in love and how it changes your life. I chuckled to myself often as I read. The next story was called "The Cathechist," which is a conversation between two priests, one of whom goes to the park every day to see a woman. The previous day he'd ended up hearing her confession, but he longs to feel her beside him, as she stands with her hands in the back pockets of her trousers.

There's a nice little section:

"And the lady's husband?"
"He is a psychologist. He works in the limits of sensation. He is attempting to define precisely the two limiting sensations in the sensory continuum, the upper limit and the lower limit. He is often at the lab. He is measuring vanishing points."
"An irony."
"I suppose."

The hot girl with the black and white hi-top boots and the black leather bag that contrasted the whites of her french manicured nails left the PATH at 9th Street. Funny, the train didn't seem much colder once she was gone.