Thursday, April 24, 2014
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, April 29.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
15 pounds in the bag. That would be the bag of exercise and caloric consignment, and with only two pounds left until I hit my target weight, the chief concern on my mental checklist is what’s next. Part of me is incredulous I made it this far. I know in the wide world of fitness, shedding 15 pounds is eminently doable, but the bigger hurdle for me was making peace with metabolism in my ’30s. You know what I realized? Exactly what you’d suspect, actually: it’s a fucking trawl through sweat and stomach acid, and it’s here to stay.
The hope is I’ve changed my lifestyle enough to keep pace. I don’t crave rich foods as often. Seeing the elliptical no longer wracks me with unease. I’m less sedentary, too, and tennis with King Calm on the horizon can only help this cause. There were certain to-dos, too, that were dependent on making goal. I can finally get my Texas driver’s license, for instance, and renew my passport. A non sequitur to you, perhaps, but I can’t recall the last time I got a government photo without wondering why I didn’t slim down prior to the snap.
The next step in this revision of self is securing some new threads, specifically a bespoke suit. I’m going through all the motions, including ordering swatches. I don’t even know what you’re supposed to do with small patches of cloth, but I guess I’ll just play it by ear. I’ve gotten more cautious with purchases lately. There was a run-in with an insurance shyster, which I narrowly escaped. Wasn’t so lucky with the I ordered, though. The hype and the top-down photo sold me. But what arrived in the mail was a small, sad affair, no thicker than 1/3″, and in an instant, the baking process was laid bare before me: 100 Heath bars sacrificed in service of fine cuisine, bonded by paste, and melted in disappointment.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
I remember the morning I left Evanston–and Chicago, I thought at the time, for good. It was early, early morning, sky still dark, and I had checked out of a Holiday Inn. There wasn’t much ceremony, really, or traffic for that matter because it was the trucking hour: that time of day when only long-distance truckers are out and about. I love that hour. The air feels clear and quiet, with the promise of possibility laid out before you. I remember topping off the tank, pointing the compass to Charlotte, and that was that.
Eight years later, I’m headed back for a visit. Chicago is finally thawing out, making it that much easier to reminisce without the specter of frostbite. I’ll be there mainly for work, of course, which means the visit will be brief. Won’t have the Swedish chariot handy, so I’ll likely take the train. Food will figure prominently into the trip, but it won’t be fancy by any means. Pie à la mode. Cheddar charburger and chips with a side of mild. A firm “fuck you” to my health regimen, in other words.
It’s the places I’m still working through. Campus comes to mind. Is the Lakefill as compelling as it once was? What’s it like to walk down Sheridan Road without the cloud of a due date or midterm hanging over me? First dorm, first office, first apartment out of college? The list is long, but in my heart of hearts, I know where my inaugural stop will be, assuming it’s still there. It’s a parking lot. The parking lot, where it all started, one summer afternoon long ago.