Twelve Hours OffMy friend Helen and I often joke about being 12 hours off. I'm usually getting up around the time she is heading to bed, as evidenced by our emails and various message board posts.
Maybe its a New York City thing. I'm up early this morning (the dogs were stirring and I have an appointment to go balloon crewing). I jump online to find Colin McEnroe finishing up a blog post from his NYC vacation.
I'm jealous - he's having fun. So's Helen. (Being young and hot and trendy helps.) Maybe it's because they are both writers.....there's a certain bon vivant lifestyle and a need to live an interesting life so as to write about it that we mere mortals lack.
Then again, in this week's Courant column (which they upload earlier than the news portion of the website, being a Sunday morning early bird has taught me that), Colin writes "....we take the subways, even though, in the summer, the lower tracks appear to be heated by the molten core of the earth....the heat was so vicious down on those lower tracks that it felt like subway poison crowding every other toxin out of my pores."
I think I'll stick to hot yoga for a good detox....the NYC subway sweat, not so much.
That being said, reading about and vicariously living Colin's father-son adventures is good for the soul, a little balm for the wounds left from my own father's somewhat aloof parenting style and premature departure from my life.....