My underwear is too small today. I’ve been too busy to eat most of the week, and though I’ve had time for only one workout since I got back from New York, I think in this case it really is the dryer’s fault.
I put my name in the New York Marathon lottery. I find out in June if I get picked to run it. Best-case scenario: I don’t hurt myself when I run Chicago on October 7 and then four weeks later I triumphantly finish New York. And Stephen Sondheim is there to watch and he’s so impressed that he kicks that Raúl fella out of Company and I spend the next year asking Amy to marry me a little.
We are finally moving into the new place this weekend! The POD comes Saturday, the movers come Sunday (along with a few friends) and by Monday we should be happily co-habitating with easy access to all our stuff. We got the floors refinished while we were in New York last weekend, and they look so awesome I don’t want to hide them under any furniture. So we’re investing in little jet packs so all our stuff hovers. Potential complications: PODs are illegal on the streets of Chicago (this I learned from the bitchy Chicago street-permit woman whose idea of being helpful was parroting “that’s illeeeeeegal” over and over when I tried to ask her what my options were) and the condo management company hasn’t responded to my three calls, two emails and one written request to park the POD in the private alley next to the building. The boyfriend finally—gently—told me to stop asking for permission and just park the damn thing where I wanted and ask forgiveness after the fact if I need to. So that’s the plan. Unless there’s too much snow in the alley, in which case they can’t deliver it. In which case I’ll have even bigger reasons for my underwear to be in a bunch.