Weekend Wrap-up

It's late and I'm tired, but I'll post a bunch of "a day in the life" drivel in my sleep-deprived state anyhow. Let the rambling commence. This weekend, I braved the unfriendly weather both days to take my camera over to Central Park. Even though it was colder than a snake's belly on a frozen pond/colder than a witch's tit/colder than a polar bear's butt, it was bright, sunny and perfect for photos. Saturday, it was just me, today I had a couple friends with me for a walk. That's how I know they like me...if they'll walk 6 miles in freezing weather with me on Super Bowl Sunday. I swear, no bribery was involved and they're also not crazy (at least not in the clinical sense). Here is a random selection from the photo haul.







































This evening, I went to see Cat Power for the first time at the Hiro Ballroom instead of watching the Super Bowl. The venue was great, one of the best I've been to in NYC. Cat Power, I learned, is rather exhausting to watch live...she's odd, disjointed, difficult to understand at times and is a bit of a spazz on stage. Probably has something to do with the new-found sobriety. But she has an amazing voice. I was grumpy from standing in line for half an hour in the blistering cold and then sitting on the floor for another hour and a half until she took the stage, so it would have taken a freakin' three-ring circus to entertain me out of the mood I was in...though somehow my friends and I got onto the topic of puke stories, and pretty soon I was laughing 'til I cried. I'm all class - low class. But a decent show at a great venue, so two out of four stars, accounting for grumpiness.

Other than that, I ate stuff, drank stuff and slept as much as possible. Amen for weekends.

You never know what's around the corner

Today was an average day. Average work, average food. I was walking after work, as per usual, for the project (I'm just shy of 100 miles now). I went from my office through Soho and the West Village to Chelsea. I happened to pass by Loehmann's and figured I'd check it out since I'd never been there. I've shed a some pounds recently, I'm in the market for new pants. The ones I wear to work are starting to look like I picked 'em up at MC Hammer's bankruptcy yard sale. After making my way quickly through three floors of disorganized racks stuffed with designer overstocks and standard department store fare, I found the petites section on the top floor. My legs are short, so I need short pants. This seems like a reasonable request, but it's pretty much impossible to buy something that fits without alteration. Their selection was small, but I found a few things to try on.

And that's when it happened. I was not warned. I was not prepared.

I took my things over to the fitting room, expecting to be shown to a stall. Instead, I'm waved around the corner into a harshly-lit communal dressing area with wall-to-wall mirrors where I was greeted by a huge white ass in a hot pink thong. I then noticed three other women in various stages of disrobing, checking themselves out and trying on their items. The room wasn't that big, so it was pretty close quarters. I briefly considered bolting, but instead set my backpack on the floor, dumped my items on the bench and took off my coat. I've been pantsless before, and I'll be pantsless again, dammit. I don't care who sees it.

But then I remembered. The underpants.

Not panties, undies or lingerie. Underpants. That's the only way to describe them. Big white brief-cut Jockeys. Can also be used as a replacement sail for a 30-foot catamaran in a pinch. I have no excuses. It's laundry time and I don't like to wear my cute panties when I'm on a walk because they crawl up big time. Have you ever tried to discreetly fix a wedgie on the street after work in Midtown in the winter? Not easy.

So there I am, frozen in position with my hand on my zipper, deciding whether to bare the least attractive underpants ever to a room full of strangers (who were, thankfully, not going to win any beauty contests). Finally, I sheepishly drop trou, hide behind the ones I'm trying on and get the job done. They fit, but just aren't that great. Same thing for the other pair. I left, having flashed Jockey for nothing, but glad I wasn't the owner of the big ol' badonkadonk in the hot pink thong.

The Project

One year, one camera, and one pedometer. A thousand miles in Manhattan. The project started initially from my New Years resolution to quit the gym. I don't like the idea of only having one day a year to address all the stuff that's messed up in your life and get it sorted out, so I generally resolve to do something contrary to all the "lose 20lbs-eat more vegetables-find true love" rubbish declarations that are ancient history by the end of February. My gym is boring and it has the not-so-faint odor of sweaty feet on the workout mats. I figured out that was costing me about $15 every time I went, and that I definitely wouldn't hand over a ten and a five for the privilege of walking in the door. The final straw was that two weeks ago, they moved it 10 blocks north. Never going. Ever. Cheap and lazy, you say? Perhaps, but I don't know anyone who would pay $15 to walk ten blocks for the smell of feet. I'm sure they're somewhere on Craigslist.

A friend's office has sponsored a weight loss challenge for the staff, so we took a walk on the weekend after New Years to get some exercise. I needed to waddle off a large lunch I had in Chinatown. Soup dumplings from Joe Shanghai are worth navigating the crowded streets, holding your breath and trying not to retch when passing the fish markets. We did over five miles from South Street Seaport to East 57th. Didn't take that long, and was pretty enjoyable. Decided to do it again. At the end of the first week, I'd logged 30 miles, both on my own and with my friend. We got inspired to turn this walking endeavor into a project and really get to know Manhattan. I'm gonna take the camera out, document whatever interesting stuff I happen across and see what it yields. Who knows how far I'll get, but as of now, it's on.