Boston.com has a feature today in which notable Bostonians outline their ideal days. It would appear that my invitation to join this illustrious group got lost in the Internets, but no matter – I’m including mine below. Some of it – I’ll let you figure out which parts – actually took place today. As today marked one of my five official days off this summer, I was determined to enjoy myself. And yes, I absolutely did.
9 a.m. – Wake up. Stretch in bed. Yawn. Relax for a good solid 15 minutes.
9:15 a.m. – Get out of bed, shower, prepare for day. Check news of the morning, including columns about the previous night’s game.
10:30 a.m. – Shampoo, cut and style.
11:30 a.m. – Bookstore.
12:30 p.m. – Brunch. Mimosa. Location unimportant as long as good company and quality omelet are parts of the equation.
2 p.m. – Walk around Boston. Start on Park Street and make way through Boston Common and Public Garden. Explore Beacon Hill, Comm. Ave or Esplanade. Make way to Harvard Bridge to cross Charles into Cambridge. Stop at 1369 Coffeehouse for an iced caramel latte (large, skim milk, double shot), continue on to Harvard Square consider stopping at Sweet for a lemon cupcake, then hop on T to get back home.
OR
2 p.m. Head home for a nap, then wake up, stretch and go for run around neighborhood or along Minuteman Bikeway. Return home, shower and take T to Central Square for iced caramel latte (large, skim milk, double shot) at 1369 Coffeehouse. Walk to Harvard Square, consider stopping at Sweet for a lemon cupcake, then hop on T to get back home.
7:05 p.m. First pitch. Go Sox.
10:30 p.m. Sing along with “Dirty Water,” slap some hands in celebratory high fives, walk back across the Harvard Bridge. Stop by karaoke, enjoy a glass of pinot grigio, sing a tune, hug friends.
12:30 a.m. Arrive home, drink glass of water, bask in glory of day, sleep.
…running thing.
Being sidelined when my ankle decided not to cooperate was a wakeup call. I won’t say that it was a realization of the fact that I’m no longer a high school soccer player who can run all over the place, because I think that whole concept of the body breaking down is utter crap when I’m not even 30. I have folks twice my age running past me on a regular basis. I will say, however, that it was a realization that I need to actually start following a program, rather than just doing what feels right in the moment and then leaves me in an air brace for two weeks.
I worked my way back in relatively gingerly. I picked up a lace-up ankle brace for the Reggae Ramble (the 5-miler I worried I wouldn’t be able to run but totally did and felt awesome) and have been wearing it since. I have new shoes – shoes that I’m not crazy about right now – but will offer extra stability until I head to the running store to be fitted for the perfect shoes for me. And this week, after I felt completely confident that I was back and capable of running without ankle pain, I started my official training program that should, if all goes well, have me ready to run the BAA Half Marathon this year.
Additionally, the trip I mentioned in a recent post? Chicago, baby. Nicole and I will be running the Hot Chocolate 15k on November 1. You read that correctly – I used the words “hot chocolate” and “15k” together. Intentionally. I will be closing out life as a 28-year-old running along the Lake Michigan shore and then heading off with a dear friend to enjoy a much-earned S’more. WIN!
My first album was Thriller.
My second album was Bad.
My third album was Hangin’ Tough.
Two out of three? Not bad.
I learned that Michael Jackson had passed away just as the bus that takes me on my evening commute dipped below street level in Harvard Square. The woman sitting in front of me was on the phone when she gasped and said, “Michael Jackson what?” When she heard, she turned around and saw my quizzical expression.
“Michael Jackson died.”
Woah. That’s not what I’d expected to hear when I woke up on a Thursday morning. Farrah Fawcett? That was unfortunate, but we were anticipating it. This one was a random kick to the gut.
It is strange, thinking that people will grow up not having the experience of following MJ’s musical progression. I missed the beginning of it, but I remember seeing “Smooth Criminal” (the way I choose to think of him) for the first time and I certainly recall sitting with my family as we watched the “Black or White” video during its premiere.
His life was twisted, but that art was hot. I am saddened by the loss of a revolutionary artist.
It felt wonderful to click “confirm” and realize that, even though it’s months away, an adventure awaits. Not in theory, not something that I hope to do until factors change and make it impossible.
Confirmed.
Derek Lowe remembered the rules, which made for a very special night at Fenway on Saturday.
The Rules, Pitcher’s Edition:
- You are encouraged to deliver a strong performance, reminding your former hometown fans of why precisely they loved you so dearly during your tenure.
- You are not to pitch a no-hitter, shutout or perfect game. Such antics are strictly prohibited.
- You are encouraged to engage in a pitchers’ duel, but only with the understanding that you will succumb.
- When the time comes that you are taken out of the game, you are to tip your cap to the fans who are applauding you. Because they will applaud you, Pitcher. Fenway never forgets.
Well played, DLowe. It was truly a pleasure to have you back.
An amusing aside – it’s the eighth inning, there’s one out and Beckett’s starting to look like he might be in trouble for the first time all night.
“Come on, Josh,” I say to no one in particular. “One pitch, double play, you’re out of there. Do it.”
Pitch. Crack. Ball’s hit back to Beckett hard. He turns, whips it to Green who sends it over to Kotsay. Bam. One pitch, double play, he’s out of there. Done.
The guy in front of me whips his head around. “Who said that?!?” As I laugh, he grins and high-fives me. “Awesome. AWESOME CALL.”
