So last week I noticed, in between spasm of fear that my elliptical machine was stealing my soul, or conspiring with my iPod to delete my favorite crappy pop songs from all my playlists (I don’t let them hook up anymore – I think the elliptical was definitely telling my iPod stuff), that I wasn’t really sweating all that much during my workouts. I mean, I felt tired afterwards, and a muscle or two was grumpy and recalcitrant the next day, but there was none of that Flashdance style perspiration that really says I Have Exercised Muchly.
Then I decided to a) drink a ton more water before working out and b) ratchet up the strenuousness of my Random Hill Classic Workout from uh, "Welcome Back to Physical Exertion 5" to "You Know This Thing Only Goes Up To 25, Right? 15" and c) I fired my virtual trainer. All she did was read me instructions about changing my viewscreen and announce the midpoint of my workout. If The Karate Kid is any example, I’ll be crawling back to her in a week or so, demoralized and discouraged, but I digress. Anyway, the point of all this is to say that magically, I’ve attained a level of visible exercise-related fatigue post-workout that I think must be entirely due to some magic healing power communicated from the machine to me through the metal panels in the arm-swingy-bars. Mystical!
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Anyway, I’m currently just a few flights of stairs from death so the following will be pretty brief:
1) The rest of my visit with the Aged P consisted of a diner breakfast (I tried to find real brunch this time, but we were half an hour early!!) In the Heights for our matinee – We’d both been wanting to see it forever, especially since I got to hear Lin Manuel Miranda do a rap version of "Tradition" at Symphony Space’s Wall to Wall Broadway last year, and I really enjoyed it. LMM, the creator and author of the show, is clearly an extremely well-versed guy – the show had everything from LOTR references to Cole Porter allusions, and I dug it. And I can’t stop saying Washeengdon Haiyts. Since LMM moved on to guest-star on House and re-write West Side Story in Spanish, Corbin Bleu of High School Musical was the lead, and I was surprised by how convincing and entertaining he was. The *squeeee* factor will only be understood by Merelyn, but squee there was, also. One degree closer to Zac Ephron, people!
Then we met up with my aunt and uncle for dinner at Bourbon Street on Restaurant Row (46th street, n00bs), where we had awesome soup-and-steak-and-pecan-pie. Gotta love Prix Fixe (remind me later to wax neurotic about how impossible that is to pronounce and how often I wind up saying "fixed price" and sounding like a tool). Totally stuffed, we rolled Violet-Beauregard-style to Present Laughter, starring Victor Gerber as Noel Coward’s most put-upon protagonist. The show was really, really funny, and featured an opportunity for some serious 3Q observation in the field. The theater, which was built by real theater people but is currently named after American Airlines, also has the most IMPOSSIBLE bathroom to find. I went up some stairs and down some stairs and around back of the mezz and up some more stairs and then down some stairs and became gradually more certain I was going to find myself on a fire escape 5 flights from the ground and it would lock behind me and that would be the end of it. I was going to be pissed if that happened, also.
Back in Bkln, Aged P and I started the Rifftrax of Indiana Jones so he could see what all the fuss is about, shut it off when dozing set in, and got up at a reasonable and not early hour on Sunday for a cup of coffee in not-the-original-Ozzie’s, then he was off on the 2:00 Vamoose and the Epic MKP+Aged P weekend drew to a close. Freaking awesome.
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2) Due to yet another alleged, supposed snowpocalypse, Gigantor’s visit this weekend will likely have to be postponed until the following weekend – we’re planning to see Next to Normal again (because a) I’m obsessed with it b)I didn’t get to see Alice Ripley and c) if I keep replaying the soundtrack I’m going to start thinking of the crazybrain as a teenager who lives in the attic) and possibly introduce the boy to Avenue Q, which should be right up his alley and make him the coolest kid in school circa 2004.
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3) If Gigantor doesn’t make it up, I might have a date on Valentine’s Day for the first time in ….EVER. I have never had a satisfactory Valentine’s day since my grandmother stopped sending us excessively large heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, and since my only ambition for this one is to see the crappy Valentine’s Actually or whateverthehell movie, and buy myself a chocolate raspberry luna bar for that romantic pre-workout post-workday snack.
Fact: Raspberry chocolate luna bars make 50 minutes of solid cardiac exertion both possible and, on the Misery Spectrum, a chipper 1.5, on par with the three blocks home you inevitably have to walk after to give into your puckish urge to jump in the puddles in the gutter down the block on a rainy day.