For the number of times I've moved (several dozen?) and the number of states I've lived in (5) I always expect I'll be more organized about moving than I am. Yesterday marked the beginning of my last week in Chicago, and at this writing I haven't packed, my desk is a wreck, and I have a half-dozen errands around the city to do before I go.
I was meaning to write more about running these past few weeks, but haven't because, to be honest, it's been bumming me out. I am getting killer shin splints for the first time in almost a year, and I am 95% confident that it's because I quit the gym and therefore quit foamrolling (they have a foamroller and I don't). I know I should probably buy one, but it's just one more thing I'll have to move, you know? So I searched my apartment for rolling type objects I could repurpose as recovery instruments and settled on a tennis ball. My review: rolling a tennis ball on my lower leg while sitting casually on the couch caused me to recoil in pain with just the slightest pressure. Oh man, it hurt so good. 5/5 stars, would roll again.
A while back I mentioned that I wanted to attempt some kind of mini run streak to keep me in a running routine during these life changes. Some days, I just couldn't get out there and gave myself a big fat F. Other days I ran as little as 20, even 10 minutes, if that's all I had time for. It's kind of lame to go run for just a few minutes, especially considering that it takes me five miles to warm up. Still, the "streak," which I put in quotes because I have missed too many days for it to be considered a real streak, is doing the work in my life I want it to, which is get me out there in spite of inclement weather, tight schedules, and whatever else. With eyebrow-raising frequency I have found myself caught in a sudden thunderstorm, and muttered, "This shit again!?" But the point is, I'm running, nearly every day. I come home from work and I run before I do anything else.
What else is there to say? I have had a number of outside adventures I might have documented, but writing and photographing my outside time here hasn't appealed to me much lately. I'm stuck in that curious state familiar to most of us -- an absurd "nostalgia for the present," which, I guess, is brought on by the anticipation of future nostalgia. Is there a word for that? It's like walking around inside an Instagram photo. It's too much. Everyone I complained to all winter long was right about wonderland that is Chicago in the summer, and I've already had some magical summer moments -- from getting invited to the wedding of two total strangers (yes, I'm going!) to running into two colleagues from Columbia who just moved here from NYC and into my same building.
Also, the supermoon!