Endo Ecstasy

After I work out, I experience a brief and glorious burst of endorphins that turns my entire environment into a movie set. (Well, more Breakfast at Tiffany's than, say, Seven, but you get my meaning.)

Post-gym, when my blond hair is slick with sweat, New York suddenly becomes quaint. The air feels crisp, not cold, and every new thing I hear or see seems authentic and creative. Case in point: a bum-slash-comedian yelling, "Ladies on the inside, men on the outside!" at a couple walking together in Midtown. (This actually meshed with an old wives' tale I heard -- that in the days before running water was common, men would walk on the outside of a sidewalk so ladies would be protected by awnings from randomly falling dirty bathwater that people would throw out their windows. I have no idea whether this is actually true.)

Even the subway was a Manhattan motley crew straight out of central casting: hipster youths pushing past me (naturally); a 40-something man in work clothes wearing an honest-to-god construction hat; a guy with short gray hair and Gucci glasses reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal whom I guessed on sight was an architect; and a large, polite man who rested his metallic gold-encrusted Yankees cap on his knee as he sat (for some reason this struck me as fantastically old-fashioned).

As I scanned the crowd and smiled to myself, I had one thought: Why don't I work out more? Amid the booze, the worries, the scheduling, the plans, the good intentions, the reasons why not, and the just-plain-laziness, there is an eye of calm I'd forgotten about.

The way I felt tonight reminded me of a time when I had just moved to the Upper East Side and was driving myself crazy in my new apartment with my circular thinking. I decided to go for a run along the East River, next to the sparkling water, and my eyes filled with happy tears for a split second, as I directed my thoughts toward the beauty of the city and all that it has to offer, rather than the dysfunctional world I tend to create in my head.

Breakfast in My Borough

Woooooow. Sometimes it takes humor to make a gal realize just how little she might be settling for. (Yes, I'm talking about N here.) This is hilarious, especially considering how much I love "The Pick-Up Artist": http://www.mydamnchannel.com/channel.aspx?episode=351

And now for your daily N update: I'm seeing him on Saturday at a bar on the Upper East. We're setting up two of our friends on a blind date. I find this whole endeavor entirely ironic, since N's and my non-relationship is such a train wreck.

We e-mailed today -- probably 10 e-mails apiece, back and forth. It was all cute, witty banter and good writing and confirmation of our Saturday plans. "But what does it MEAN??" my friends asked me on the phone.

My answer? "Hell if I know." And I don't. No one can, especially with him. My reaction right now is to anticipate my new furniture, drink good wine (I'm sipping a decent malbec right now), work hard, and appreciate my friends.

Okay, so I did buy a new dress for Saturday, but it was on sale and wildly short, and I look amazing in it. I used to want to be a New York Holly Golightly (minus the whole prostitution thing, of course), and I had this thought as I walked home in the cold today carrying my new purchase and a couple of bottles of red from my local liquor store: Of course Holly Golightly would buy a new dress for a date with a silly premise. She'd absolutely fritter away some coin on party dresses, wine, and 400-thread-count sheets and go out with the kind of guy who would give her $50 for the powder room.

I remember this about Breakfast at Tiffany's, though: Holly wins in the end. I don't need a manwhore/writer to rescue me (wow, even though N is exactly that), but I will win this -- of my own volition, in my own apartment, in the city that I've earned.