I am, at this very moment, riding the 6:57a,m. bus out of Port Authority. Bibi, Sri and I are on our way to the Gunks to climb today, and since I am such a genius, I was out until 1am (again). Four hours of sleep, and out the door we go. I am shattered.
The circumstances surrounding this latest incident of poor judgment might (sort of) diminish the degree of my responsibility for this poor decision. You see, Pax and Joe have just returned from their one-year anniversary trip to Punta Cana, and she texted us to meet for a drink so she could tell us all about it. And since rumors have been swirling about their possible engagement for months, we were naturally (nearly) dying to know what progress, if any, was made toward this end. Also, Sri and I were just on our way out of the gym, we felt we couldn’t refuse since we had already undone the damage we knew we were about to do. 7am bus, notwithstanding.
Sri and I hit Rachel’s and shortly thereafter, Pax strolls in. We order a round and we hear how Pax and Joe are not only not engaged, but that no progress toward this end has been achieved at all. They snorkled. The waded. The ate. The drank. The did stuff. But get engaged, they did not. And then Pax tells us something about their relationship that we, thinking we had already seen it all, had never even considered: although Pax and Joe have been together for one year, they have never said I love you to each other.
Yes, I know. Some people are not into talking about feelings. Yes, I know, some people, particularly a rather excellent and rare variety of men, are people of action and not words. Some people have mommy/daddy/life issues. Check.
But a whole year? Is this not a little unusual? Considering, also, that they are clearly very into each other and have never, according to Pax, had even a minor fight?
No need to answer. I simply do not know myself.
After a thorough trip debriefing, we all came up for air and noticed that our bar tender, a lovely tall, handsome black (African American, whatever the right moniker is these day) man (measuring perfectly appropriately was looking at us with what I can just call a mixture of compassion and amusement. He looked at us, and we looked back. I had the feeling that somewhere, somehow, Handsome Black Man and I had once been friends. Maybe as recently as last week. I opened my mouth to say so when Handsome Black Man started laughing and shaking his head and shifting from side to side, searching (clearly) for the right words.
And then Sri got it.
Giddy laughter all the way around.
“Now I see why what I do with you guys so damn little good!” More head shaking. “Drinks on me, ladies. Drinks on me. You want something fried from the kitchen? Still open!” he says, looking at his watch and shaking his head.
It’s not every day you run into a person who knows better than you do what your own ass looks like. In a bar. Where he is serving the drinks. Because he is moonlighting. Because he is your personal trainer.
Let’s just leave that right there and move on to my ass. This morning (albeit at 6am, when nothing measures appropriately) I hit a .71. Better. But appropriate? No.
The Crazy, Day Eight: Bagel (wrong), Salad (eh, ok), two drinks (I am an idiot), TWO handfuls of cashews and half a powerbar at 1am (mortal sins, both). I ran for 45 minutes, I lifted stuff for 20 minutes, I sat in the sauna for 10. Most assuredly, I am only NOT succeeding at anything like The Crazy. And I no longer care… as long as my trainer keeps buying me drinks, I figure that’s almost as a good as the Almighty himself parting the skies and appearing on a cloud (in his Reeboks) to hand me a notarized (by Jesus, Mohammed and the Buddha) certificate saying that I am OK.
What a lovely way to start the weekend. I hope yours goes just as well.