Up & Out - Ariella Papa [84]
I am startled each time a biker whizzes by and even more jumpy when they ring their little bells. It’s hot and the rest of the runners appear to be okay with this. Of course, they are mostly wearing less clothes than I am—men run by shirtless and most of the women have color-coordinated Nike outfits with half tank tops and tight shorts that show off their flabless asses. I’m never going to look like this.
Everyone is going faster than me, even though I am starting to get a stomach cramp. I try to just breathe. In and out. It should be easy, but I can’t seem to regulate it. No one else is having these problems. Everyone is able to pick up their feet in a way I can’t. Everyone who goes by has a different way of doing it. Some people look like they’re running hard, like it’s a struggle they are battling against, and some people kind of glide. I shuffle.
I take a walking break when I get down to Chelsea Piers, but then I start running again and jog to Chelsea Market. It’s a lot cooler inside and instead of buying a bunch of delicious cheeses from the Italian market, I get a juice from the juice stand. It hits the spot. I’m refreshed and energized and I manage to run and walk back up to my apartment.
I can’t believe that I’ve probably jogged about two and a half miles! Yes, I’m dripping with sweat, but I have a sense of accomplishment. Maybe I actually will do the race. What else am I going to do with all of this free time? I sit on the stoop of my building and take many labored breaths. I didn’t think about Esme or Tommy or my friends or food or anything the entire time I was running. I just looked around me and tried not to hyperventilate.
I can’t believe how clear my mind is. Although when I stand up from the stoop, my knees buckle a little, but I grab hold of the railing in time to greet the postman coming out of the building.
“Stay cool,” he says.
“You, too,” I whisper, unable to raise my voice over a pant.
I check the mail. I got my unemployment check, my severance payment and my credit card bill. I only open up the checks when I stop on the third-floor landing.
Back in the apartment I take a shower but still feel over-heated when I get out. I lie down on the couch in a towel and turn on the Food Network. I deserve a little reward, and now that I’m here I don’t ever want to move.
Lauryn calls during The Naked Chef, just as I am getting slightly excited as Jamie Oliver stuffs a chicken.
“Did somebody say sweat?” she asks.
“How’s it going? Is it that hot up there, too?” I flex and unflex my sore legs.
“Hotter, and this town is full of hot men in the summer. The only problem is I’m living in the dry part so I always have to drive to the alcohol. Then I can’t drive back.”
“Be careful,” I warn.
“Oh, I am—they don’t fuck around with drunk driving here, which is good.”
“They are protecting and serving. It sounds like you are back in the saddle again.”
“Kinda.”
“Anything newsworthy?”
“Well, I kissed this bartender the other night. There’s nothing like a first kiss.”
“I wouldn’t know. What’s with you and bartenders?”
“They’ve got what I need, plus I have to talk to them. It helps me get over my shyness.”
“Because you’re really quite shy.”
“Yes.” Right.
“Did anything else happen?”
“Well he brought me back to his place and all his roommates checked me out. Then he told me all about the girl he was in the process of breaking up with.”
“Did you tell him about Jordan?”
“Of course not. We weren’t on a talk show. I just wanted some fun—some good clean no-strings-attached sex.”
“You’re back!”
“A girl’s gotta eat.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, feeling a bit peckish as Jamie, the Naked Chef, pours olive oil over some potatoes. “So what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Not a thing?”
“He had issues. All this talk of his dead relationship stifled him.”
“Wow!”
“I know. What happened to guys who just want to get laid? All of a sudden they’ve grown up and decided to have feelings?”
I started