I wanted to jog in the morning, before it hit triple-digits, but it was 82 degrees (feels like 87) at 6 am. No need to unnecessarily sweat during a muggy Bostonian heat wave. Instead, I walked along the Charles River as moist runners huffed past me, feeling lazy but also smug at how they broiled for their endomorphin compulsion.
For about two miles, two woman behind me made lively, drunken conversation in labored breath. One woman was big into mimicry, where she’d be relaying a story and start imitating people’s voices: Kids. men, an uppity waitress, her Pilates instructor, Jerry Seinfeld. Since I’m still without my iPod shuffle, I kept accelerating my pace to escape the mindless natter. I assumed they were middle-aged walkers with an eternal 15 pounds to lose. I couldn’t understand why they got closer and closer when I was speed-walking to the point of looking ridiculous. Then I realized they were running… slowly, with some difficulty… so I slowed to a normal gait and allowed them the victory of passing a walker.
Why is it perfectly acceptable to walk around at 8am lugging 32 ounces of Coolatta, but I get freakish looks for eating a Klondike Bar? It’s 85 degrees at 8am! A bagel is not doable.
I stayed cloistered in my cubicle for much of the day, thankful to be busy. It was so hot when I left at 4:30 that I anticipated the profoundly smelly commute. Not entirely because of me, either. On the Red Line, I listened to a transferring Green Line passenger describe how a woman passed out in the crypt-like Copley station after waiting 15 minutes for a train. “She fell like a sack of flour,” he claimed to the only woman who responded to his initial public-service announcement of “There was a medical emergency because the stations aren’t air-conditioned.” AC on the Green Line? That would be like putting a roof on a house before the superstructure is finished.
But it’s cooler now, and the past two days of salad, bread, and cheese stirred a longing for a hot meal. I decided to treat myself to Indian takeout. I never get take-out, so I perused my roommates’ thick stack of takeout menus before settling on what I thought was the Indian place down the block (as opposed to one of Central Square’s half-dozen other Indian joints). When I arrived, the host said they received no take-out orders, but tried to fetch me vindaloo and naan nonetheless. How cut-throat, these Indian restauranteurs! I left and tried another possible Indian place that I may have ordered from. They had my feast ready, and I gratified myself on it while watching an old Curb Your Enthusiasm. I didn’t leave room for ice cream, but that’s okay, because I had ice cream for breakfast.
