Sunday, November 26, 2006
Running in Harlem is fun
Hopefully you'll all excuse my radio silence over the past couple days. I was taking a break from the internet and existing in a state of sheer post-Thanksgiving gluttony. I was going to write a blog entry about the fabulous holiday dinner I made, but then realized that most people who read this aren't looking for domestic tips, like how to weave a gorgeous lattice crust on an apple pie or how to formulate the perfect turkey brine. Since FalloniusMonk has been blogging in my stead, as well as stirring up lots of comment page controversy with her aggressive pro-smoking stance, I decided to instead do a lot of nothing.
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Labels: exercise drama, gluttony, Harlem world, NYC
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