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DON’T JOG IN THE YELLOW SNOW
I called in sick today out of psychic exhaustion from a smorgasbord of wonderful sources, mainly the fact that I’ve woken up this past week at 4 am just about every night, unable to go back to sleep.
But I’m fighting back. I scraped my carcass together this afternoon and forced myself to jog, as the stark cold, ice, and darkness have kept me from venturing out.
PREP: Stretching, push-ups, and flows from Lady Sovereign, A Tribe Called Quest, Nas, Los Hermanos Químicos, and a super-reggaetón mix from my boy Dave the Wave.
Plus, “Enter the Wu Tang: 36 Chambers”: “Bring da’ muthafuckin’ ruckus!” Now: Pumped up and ready to go. LET’S DO THIS THING.
"Here comes the Tiger versus Crane!"
—Old Dirty Bastard
Such were my illusions.
Dodging frost packs and slippery sheets, I hobble my way down the street from the back alley, weaving through garbage bags and snow ridges. At the park, the only other animals out and about are a pack of dogs that look on me with seeming pity, and for the first five minutes of wind-up, I keep wondering, “WHAT THE ‘F’ AM I DOING OUT HERE,” as wisps of fried-onion-and-philly-cheese-steak from the corner bodega molest my nasal passages, prompting trans-fatty phlegm to drip down my face, reminding me of my Elmer’s-glue entrees from elementary school, and sweaty gusts of frigid wind blast me every few minutes like the caresses of an amorous, drunken polar bear.
It truly sucked. And I felt like a chump. But I kept at it.
Ten minutes out, I congratulate myself and consider calling it a day, like junior-high athletics back in wintry Texas when I would look forward to a reserve of hot water for my morning post-workout shower.
But I kept going.
15 minutes out, and the dogs start taking all-you-can-dump bathroom breaks within my field of vision, like they’re mocking me or something.
20 minutes out, and I figure, why not another 10? My bright idea fulfilled, I drag my corpse across the statuary landscapes of icicles and frost puddles, yellow snow peaks and breath-condensation swirling into misty figurines emblematic of my hopes and dreams.
It feels like an accomplishment worthy of a small yet shiny trophy, and I pump my fists in the air like Rocky (in the movie where he lost). The dogs look away with disinterest. The philly-cheese phantasms subside. My breath comes in sweet gulps that smooth the burning in my lungs and beating of my chest.
“Yes I will,
Yes I will
Make it over the mountain,
Yes I will,
Make it over that hill.”
—El Gilberto Sextet