My interval repeats consist of 17 steps. Down, across to the garbage bin, back up, to the pile of stuff that never quits growing.
We’re trying to weed out the excess before moving, a task that seems steadily to get a bit more epic as the deadline to move nears. Yesterday we were about 50 percent done; today it’s down to 35 percent. A statistical impossibility, but so was electing a black guy to the White House and we know how that turned out. Still, boxes are taking over the abode. Big boxes, little boxes. Stuff.
I haven’t run in forever. I finally gave up and packed the shoes today, a concession to the futility of it all. I’m just tired. I don’t care. And it’s crazy hot. Going to the Y would mean another round of goodbye forevers, which I desperately want to avoid at this point.
So I’m doing intervals. 17 down, 17 up. 17, down, 17 up. This is good training for a couple of days from now, when I’ll be doing those same intervals while carrying dressers and computer monitors. Hill training indeed.
I guess it’s not a bad thing. Today’s art purge was brutal — Amanda must have shredded about 30 canvases with spectacular paintings for reasons I can’t fathom and she can’t explain — but otherwise not so bad. There’s just so much stuff that accumulates. Binge and purge. We’ll come out lean and mean in the unlikelihood we survive the move.
It’s mile 23 and I just want this race to be over.
So no more running as I continue my 17-step program. I guess my next outing with the faithful Piranhas will be in the land of 90 percent humidity and constant 15 mph winds.
Oh, well. At least it’s flat …