The New Yorker

A day with my family revolves around our food schedule.  At breakfast we were discussing when we should have lunch and during lunch we were discussing dinner.  At some point I was discussing if and when I would fit in a run.  Today was appearing to be more of an if day.  Especially after this monstrosity, the New Yorker.

behold the New Yorker.

behold the New Yorker.

Florida in the summer is a complicated place and everything that I could say here has been said before-  It is humid and hot as hell outside, over air conditioned inside, and no one can drive.  I decided to stay off the road and head to the clubhouse for a swim.  After some serious debate over whether or not to pack my gym clothes I packed them up and headed to the pool for some R&R.


I wanted to take a hotdog legs shot (see here: but decided against it. Here are some of my new friends, wading in the pool, discussing the complexities of life.

After, oh, ten minutes, my attention deficit kicked in and I was bored.  I had already flipped through 2 magazines, texted friends ridiculous pictures, and gone in the water.  I knew what I should do, but the idea of running on a treadmill was paralyzing for some odd reason.

I walked into the gym and should not have been surprised to find this in a retirement community.


Treadmills for everyone!

I followed this up with a 10 minute procrastination stretch session and then flipped through about 5 songs until I found THE song.  I don’t discriminate when it comes to music.  My Pandora stations include:

The Black Keys, Modest Mouse, Kings of Leon, Spice Girls, Hot Hot Heat, The Lonely Island, Florence + The Machine, Santana, Deftones, Tool, Swedish House Mafia, Sugarland, La Bouche, Sublime, Red Hot Chili Peppers, LFO, Bob Marley, 311, Beyoncé, Passion Pit, Rihanna, The Strokes, The Beatles… I’m done writing.  But you get the point.  Whether my tastes are good or bad, I am eclectic.

I then began my run and it just did not feel the same as the fresh outdoors, but I knew that today was the day that I was kissing 2 miles goodbye.

How did I know?  Because I felt empowered by Beyoncé and Rihanna.  I felt like a powerful black woman who could do anything!  I was a survivor… I wasn’t gonna give up.  I was crazy in love.  If anyone walked in I was having the time of my life.  At one point I was singing Rihanna’s “Hard” like I was convinced I was just Rihanna in the gym.

They can say whatever I’ma do whatever No pain is forever Yup, you know this
Tougher than a lion Ain’t no need in tryin’ I live where the sky ends Yup, you know this

This song was then followed by Bruno Mars and then B.o.B., who both convinced me I am a beautiful girl.

So there I was… a beautiful, powerful, black woman who could take on the world.  I walked out of the gym, 3 miles in the bag, looked in the mirror.  Still the same old white Jew from Long Island, but damn.  I did it!





One thought on “The New Yorker

  1. Pingback: The Seven Minute Leap | 52 Miles per Month

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