mosquito montage

I had to hand write a receipt for someone at work today (after they signed the iPad screen with their finger - oh the collision of technology and a lack thereof), and when I wrote "9" for the month, it made me weep on the inside.  September.  I hate what it represents, even though the month itself is quite nice. More comfortable temperatures, theoretically.  Fewer mosquitoes, maybe.  A sense of renewal and change that feels more logical than New Years, which can also be a source of angst for those of us who are prone to such wastes of effort.  But it's also the first step on the mud spattered spiral staircase to winter.  Effing winter.

But we're not there yet.  It's technically still summer, damn it.  Which I love, even though it comes with high electricity bills and the smothering odor of big city garbage days.  It's clear that I have not been spending my summer in blogland, so I thought I'd do a little photog summary to commemorate the joys of sweating and eating ice cream.

We did a LOT of running.  Some of it over bridges and into greener (and unfortunately hilly) pastures:

Some of it by the beach and into labyrinthine, mosquito-infested marshes:

We went canoeing and dog coveting with an old college friend and drank beers with names like Mean Old Tom:

We went to my mom's and got to spend time with her ridiculously cute dog:

We did the NYC Color Run, which was most decidedly not in NYC:

Then we took a birthday ferry ride on the East River, and I ate a carrot cake donut but there's no evidence of that because I ate it too quickly to be seen by the naked eye:

This is just a slice of the summer squash pie, but I've already made this into too much of a list, so I'll stop here.  I'd say we did an okay job of filling in the cracks of a work-filled summer.

progress?

There's a line from the Scott Jurek book Eat & Run that has really stuck with me: "Sometimes you just do things."

I'm not really in to just doing things.  In fact, part of what contributes to my eternal stagnation is that I can't just do things.  I always have to ask "why" or "what's so important about this" or "what is the point of doing that," and look how far all of that rumination has gotten me.

It seems like such a simple statement, but you'd be amazed at how useful it is when you're 8 miles into an 11 mile run, and the humidity is 127%, and you think maybe your toes have turned into little ginsu knives.  Other useful statements at such a juncture: "this is what I want" "I choose to be here" and "I will eat my face off when this is over."

Because choice is important, isn't it?  Feeling in control is a creature comfort.  Although it becomes less of a comfort for other creatures when you decide to try to control them, but overall I would say that feeling like you are your own master is an important element to happiness.

I turned 32 last week.  32!  Which I know won't seem like much to some of you, but it feels like a big deal.  People in their 30s own things.  They have paths.  They are in charge of stuff.  Or so it seems.  I've decided to embark on my own 30-something avenue that will be kind of a big deal if I see it through.  Naturally I don't plan on sharing it with you yet (not for quite awhile really), but I have to say it feels good to decide to just do something.  Because why the F not.  

*and sometimes 2 people in the course of a day ask you to write more blog posts, so you just sit down and do it 

blahttes and crappucinos

Remember when I used to write some stuffs?  Yeah, me neither.

There are so many things I could try to use as an excuse.  Post marathon depression.  Holiday Hangover.  February flops.  Mental hay fever.  The real reasons are so existential and wiggly that I can barely figure out how to describe them.  I tried to explain the problem to an old friend today, and it sounded like I was quoting a Portlandia script, minus the quirky coolness.  

I'm not sure people with my grab bag of neuroses are supposed to have blogs.  Being torn between wanting attention and gold stars (comments! thumbs up! like me!), not wanting attention (don't ask me questions about myself!), and not understanding the point of anything makes for a difficult first draft.  But why does everything need to be injected with meaning?  Why can't something just be a collection of stories for the sake of storytelling?  I spent over 30 minutes this evening scrolling through Humans of New York (non-Facebook version here), completely enthralled by the snippets included with each photo, and would have kept going if I hadn't promised myself I would write something tonight.  

So I'm not breaking up with you internets.  I'm merely trying to define our relationship and figure out how to make this space something I look forward to inhabiting instead of this thing that needs to be Great and Noticed.