I exercise a lot. Not that I have a six pack or anything—I eat a lot, too—but I wear a sports bra maybe five times a week. Part of the reason is that everyone in my family is in good shape. My dad often asks me if “guns like this”—referring to his arms—could be bought in a store. They cannot.
But mostly working out provides me with the illusion that my life is together. If I can run five miles, and make time to go running, that means I must be doing something right. This balances out a lot of the stuff I do that’s wrong. Last week, after one of the saddest meals I’ve ever eaten, a tuna sandwich from the Brooklyn library, I had two glasses of wine. And then I was accidentally wasted and it was like 8 pm on a weeknight. But I went running that morning and the next afternoon, so obviously I’m on top of my shit.
In other news, I wish “Writing the Great American Novel For Dummies” existed. I have no idea what I’m doing. I did go running today, though. Everything is under control.