Longtime readers will recall I’m a minimalist. So it should come as no surprise that this is my dream house.
We came across it today while driving around trying to run over jazz musicians. It’s downtown in the old neighborhood where you don’t want to be after dark. It’s also really close to work, where you also don’t want to be after dark. But that’s when the paper comes out, so what are you going to do.
I love the idea of a place so small that you can reach everything from your chair. Sort of like living in Manhattan, without the rent cost. Small is just so simple. Like living in a trailer home without wheels. And it’s on a corner lot. Location location location! Although I fear a drunk guy in a Ford F-350 could relocate the entire structure to across the street. A mobile home indeed. NYT has a long piece today on microliving in the big city. Ironic that my little town appears to be setting the trend.
Bonus: It’s next to an old house covered in “BEWARE OF THE DOG” signs, so it’s like having a secondhand security system. They also have an old “Hippies Use the Back Door” sign, which strikes me as funny and unnerving at the same time. Like watching Andy Kaufman lip-synching “Mighty Mouse.”
We’ve long considered upgrading to the ’90s by buying a big-screen TV. But what if we did the opposite, buying a small-screen home that made the TV seem enormous in comparison? A money saver for sure.
Now I just have to convince Mo we don’t really need a bathroom. Minimalism, dontchaknow.
Speaking of minimalism, another crappy three miler on the TM today. How can I be reduced to the point that three miles at 12:00 pace is a workout? I blame the smooth peanut butter I’m forced to eat. A tub of Peter Pan crunchy and I’d be a contender.
Three miles is pretty much the minimum distance I can run without feeling like I didn’t run at all. And 12-minute pace is the minimum pace for My Fitness Nazi to recognize as a run. Otherwise it declares we are walking. Even though it feels like a run. My Fitness Nazi is sort of a grouch. Throw in a couple of ballerina shoes, and voila: I’m a minimalist runner. As opposed to throwing in a viola, which would complicate the run considerably.
Funny to walk around the gym and spy on the other runners. 8 minute pace? 7:30? 6? It all looks so effortless. Nobody is working harder than me. And nobody’s shoes smell nearly as bad. I guess it’s just something to accept in life. Do your best, and that’s gotta be good enough. Because that’s all there is. Sigh.
But I’m gonna try that crunchy peanut butter thing just in case …
(mo’s lame attempt to glorify the (ick) smooth stuff is below.)