I’m over winter. I’m over winter because I have a short attention span and I’m ready for change even if it means enduring my least favorite season: Spring.
Spring doesn’t do anything for me. It feels less like the reawakening of life as we know it and more like that blurry hung-over feeling one has after napping too long. It’s that time of year where we try and assuage the fleeting remnants of winter with shorts and t-shirts and outdoor grilling, but we just end up being cold and wet. Spring isn’t nostalgic, it’s not romantic. I feel a certain impatience about the whole thing… I want it to be over before it’s begun. Let’s just get to Summer already.
The only redeeming thing about Spring? Lilacs. I love lilacs.
I digress.
I was pawing through my winter wardrobe this morning and everything just looked sad and gray and hopelessly covered in dog fur. All of the sweaters I was giddy to wear in November now fill me with a sense of pilly ennui.
In a few weeks I will be in Paris. Paris in April.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the means for a substantial wardrobe overhaul; so I have no idea what to wear. It will be in the 60’s and 70’s which is hard to imagine considering that it was a brisk 19°F this morning here in Boston (feels like 8°F). You would think I was preparing for a trip to the Caribbean.
After visiting The Sartorialist, I’ll probably just… not… worry about it.
Sigh.
I’m wearing a boot. Not a good boot. The Boot. Medical device boot. Achilles boot. It’s hulking and is probably fucking up my spine since The Boot is about two inches higher than any other shoe I own. I already have one leg that’s longer than the other… this is just exacerbating the issue.
A friend of mine texted, “People on the T will give up their seat for you!” I typically don’t sit on the train, but I did have someone offer me their seat, so I graciously accepted; however, since that one, single generous gesture of human kindness no one has offered my boot-laiden soul a seat. Maybe I need to look more sad.
The Boot looks worse than it is. The idea is to double-down on my achille’s rest time, i.e. by immobilizing any flexing of the ankle the achilles tendon is not being activated. There is no denying the serendipitous gestalt regarding the last vestiges of my winter wardrobe en tandem with The Boot. It’s basically just sad + sad.
When I am not wearing The Boot I am icing, stretching and/or being physically abused by my physical therapist. I kid, my physical therapist is the best… but Graston Technique. It is brutals. If you’re not familiar with Graston, imagine someone spreading margarine on your leg and then repeatedly rubbing the dull side of a butter knife across your muscles/tendons/fascia with great determination. It is not pleasant.
In lieu of running, I’ve been keeping up with my swimming regimen. I bumped into my swim coach last week and I was so excited to tell him that ROTATE, PULL, REACH had finally clicked. “Great! Let’s see it… give me 50”.
So, like a proud child wanting to impress their father, I pushed off the wall and swam a confident 50 yards. I arrived back at the end of the pool, removed my goggles and grinningly lifted my swim cap off my ears to hear:
“Wellll… it’s better, but you’re still reaching first. You’re still executing your stroke out of order.”
Damn! Double damn! Triple Damn!
I just don’t can’t get it. At some point you have to reach, right? When is the reach? How does it happen? It’s like if you say lise-po-lise-po enough times you eventually end up saying police. Does it matter that I am reaching first? I don’t know. I probably have worse problems than my stroke order.
Like accidentally kicking the inside of my ankle with a hulking boot, for example. Or my dog Cosmo desperately attempting to bury a bone in our apartment. Three times a charm.
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