So living in my neighborhood puts me within five minutes of Central Park, and I kept telling myself that I'd go running every morning instead of getting a membership at a gym. As anyone would have predicted, this has happened approximately zero times in the past month. I met up with Lee for brunch this morning, and after hacking up a baguette and making french toast with copious amounts of butter and Nutella, we decided it would be a good idea to go for a run in what is now our collective neighborhood. We did, and afterwards, I felt really good about myself, life, my neighborhood, the woman who overcharged me for biscotti at Whole Foods, the weird shape of my calves after two months of atrophy, the 2016 Olympics in Rio, and other things that endorphins make you feel very positively about. It was lovely.
A couple of hours later, I feel like someone took a hammer to my inner thighs. I really shouldn't go two months without doing anything more physical than walking to get cake at lunch.