I need to let a few things out.
In the immortal words of white girls everywhere, I’m over it.
I’m over the cold. Do you know how cold this winter has been? No one in New York remembers a winter like this in the last ten years or more.
That’s how cold.
It just keeps snowing, and the temperature keeps not budging above thirty. It’s a sick joke.
Speaking of sick jokes, here’s another one: No matter how cold it gets, I still have to train for a marathon.
That means one to two runs a week in the biting cold, wondering just how many times I can lose feeling in the tip of my nose before it just falls off. It means that at least once a week, I spend hours in literally freezing temperatures wearing various layers of spandex and fleece and telling myself that it’s not that bad.
And let’s talk about those hours. I’m getting tired, y’all. The last month, I’ve been leaving my apartment about half an hour later than normal because, when my alarm goes off at the usual time, my brain just rejects that it is time to get up. My body refuses to swing my legs to the floor and vacate the bed because I’m so dang tired and did I mention it’s cold out there?
Because, oh, another thing: My apartment is freezing. The super keeps playing dumb like we’re imagining that our thermometer says it’s below sixty degrees. Like maybe we won’t notice. But I notice.
And then when we complain, the heaters magically turns on for a few hours. And then it shuts off and we start the song and dance again.
I am tired of this dance and I hate this song.
And you know what else? In an effort to avoid exposing my tired, cold skin to even more frigid air, I foolishly decided taking the bus eight blocks would be smarter than walking this morning after a 7-mile outdoor run. I then sat on said bus for an hour before finally giving up at ninth avenue, meaning I STILL ended up walking five blocks in the cold. I COULD MURDER SOMETHING RIGHT NOW.
My apologies for this spree of negativity. I promise to do better next time.