Questions

Last night I couldn't sleep. Lots of thoughts. For instance: How do I know if I'm pronouncing my name correctly? How do you verify something like that?

Inside

The best thing about jail, now that I think about it, was the applesauce. I mean it was really extraordinary, something special.

My friend Sheila and her boyfriend Federico came to visit me after about a week. I don't think they'd ever been to a jail before. They're not the kind of people who go to jails. I'm not either, but didn't let that stop me from soaking it all up. The visiting room has a plastic panel to look through and a phone to talk into, just like Hollywood. Federico looked like he was afraid of getting dirty. He kept dusting off the shoulders of his yellow sweater although there was never anything on it. Sheila seemed nervous. She kept asking about my bed: if I had blankets, a pillow, was I getting any sleep, blah blah blah. I finally replied that a man's boudoir was not something a lady discusses in mixed company. Federico needs to wise up or he'll miss what he's in for before it's too late.

Proof

I met with Kathleen my therapist on Friday. Boy, am I steamed! I told her about the woman I met, the one I THOUGHT I was going to marry (see below, New Regimen). I was talking about my new court-ordered running constraints: no running on the lakefront 7am-9am or 5pm-7pm, Mon-Sat; remaining 500 feet from primary dwelling and person at all times; etc. I wasn't even TALKING about the woman, just about these new hurdles God put in my life from which I am somehow supposed to squeeze lemonade. But Kathleen kept coming back to her-why did I think she wanted to get married, do I think it is appropriate to propose marriage before I learn someone's name, etc. I was furious. Kathleen wasn't even listening to me! I very clearly and unmistakably mentioned that I DID know the woman's name because her Driver's License fell out of her shorts pocket and I read it upside down on the asphalt.

The session wasn't wasted though. I mentioned the Driver's License very early on, so now I have MORE proof that Kathleen doesn't really start to listen until ten minutes in.

New Regimen

It's been a while since my last post. The reason is that I met a woman with whom I planned to spend my life. But when it became clear in the following week that she was both unwilling to seek transcendence of her own mortality in the physical act of love and really fussy about loaning money to people with whom she was forging a life-bond, I freed her to follow her own path. The worst of it is that we ran at the same times and places. That was how we met. And my new routes really don't do it for me. It took me some time, but I even got video proof she doesn't always run when she says she does. While I respect the temporal authority of the superior court, it's still asking a lot of an athlete to tell him to switch his regimen. Even my lawyer agreed with that one. And I don't think he's ever exercised.

Low and Strong

Today at mass I told Sheila I went running in my old sneakers (see Bad Day). She told me that her boyfriend Federico says you have to wear proper running shoes or else you will get very badly injured. Federico, she said, won't even jog a few steps if he doesn't have his running shoes on, not even to beat cars when he's crossing the street. She said Federico is a very good runner and has the heart rate to prove it. "What's a good heart rate?" I asked her. "Low," she said, "and strong." I didn't like the way she smiled after she said this. So I reminded her, one friend to another, that Federico is going to die some day and that no one can do anything about it. "But hopefully," I added, "it won't happen too soon."

The Right Kind

I wore my red briefs when I ran the other day because it was a "first time." I always wear my red briefs when I do a new thing. Last year, for example, I wore them for my root canal, on the trampoline at Bob's, etc. But what is the right kind of underwear for my future runs? I understand and accept the running magazines' silence on this issue. Indeed, for many people not only the issue but that whole region is very private.

Bad Day

Being a runner is really a lot harder than they let on in the magazines.

I tried running in my old sneakers yesterday morning. When I was done my legs felt very tired, a new sensation for me. So I called in to work because I decided I needed a day of reflection to process the new feeling. Donny picked up. When I told him my plans, he said, "We're totally short and Clarissa's not back 'til Monday. You got to come in." And then, I don't know, I told Donny that he was insensitive and that I thought his mother might be a whore and that he, therefore, could well be the son of whoredom. Then Bill got on the line and told me I had to come in. So that was that. When I got in Donny came right over to my station, stuck his finger into the soft part of my chest, and told me that if I ever said something like that again he would "fucking kill me." After that happened I mostly played with my keys at my station until lunch. Then I went into the good lavatory to try to regroup. God was with me, because while people kept coming in, for some reason they didn't stay. I had the place to myself for nearly 45 minutes until the cleaning crew arrived and I had to get up off the floor.