There’s nothing in the world that I can say about Cheeto Jesus that isn’t already floating around my Facebook timeline, and if I’m being honest with myself and I know my audience (about 1% of my Facebook friends on a good day), it’s just a matter of preaching to the choir. And clogging up more gigabytes with He Who Shall Not Be Named – and the only people I know who will vote for him unfriended me about four months ago. And it’s not even because I bashed Cheeto Jesus online (I haven’t, however tempting) – it had more to do with questioning the mental age of someone who would use the word “libtards” with no irony at all. (Side note: when a Canadian Jew with Russian heritage starts complaining about refugees, you do have to question their capacity for reasoning a little bit.)
When I was thirteen, my parents took me on what might be described as a new-age Judaism bicycle retreat, which are a lot of words you might associate with my parents, but possibly not all in the same sentence. My memories of that weekend aren’t many (Kiddush wine got me like whoa), but one of the few involves having gone to a meditation session in a pagoda and dozing off. My head started rolling from side to side, not in that zen way that you do at the beginning of a yoga class, but in an overtired teenager way. I conked out.
In two and a half years in the UK, I’ve managed to get away with never once driving a car. I’ve almost driven when I’ve gotten in on the wrong side of the car (happens a lot), and I’ve cycled a ton (shoutout to Henry), and I also know how to cross the street by now without getting killed (on most days).
Part of being a 6 AM-loving, recovery-drink guzzling bike racer throughout my teens meant that spring break, or Spring Break, the institution, was out of the question. With collegiate season starting in March, and the elite season starting in April, every hour not spent on the bike in the spring was … actually, every hour was spent on the bike.
Ever since starting a new job in November, I’ve had to change my commute (as one often does when not working in the same place anymore). I have, of course, chosen to work in exactly the opposite corner of the city from where I live – a 45 minute commute in total. Not bad at all by London standards, but I used to be out the door and at my desk in about 25 minutes by bike – a luxury I no longer have. Now I leave the house at around 7:10 AM, cycle fifteen minutes to the Borough tube station, and hop on the Northern line all the way up to Primrose Hill, a little under 20 minutes. It’s definitely not too bad at all, and it gives me plenty of time to read everyday. (I’ve been reading Anna Karenin since mid-November, and I’m pretty sure this book is trying to kill my soul.) I definitely miss riding my bike straight to the office, though.
Having not grown at all in the past decade, but still being hopeful that a few inches are yet to come, I’m happy to announce that I still fit into a pair of jeans that I’m pretty sure I bought in either junior or senior year of high school. They are bootcut, with holes on the inner thigh, super faded, and very loose around the waistband, so basically perfect for days when I don’t have to see people.
One year ago last night (as in, the first Sunday after the end of the holidays) last year, at around this exact minute (9:44 PM), I was sobbing over a half-eaten bag of Starburst to Lindsay via FaceTime, telling her how much I miss home and several other things that are slightly too embarrassing to recount publicly. I was a homesick, SAD- and post-holidays-blues-stricken, hormonal mess. It wasn’t pretty.
Sometime late last year, I decided that I needed a change in the theme I had on my blog (which Gabe had worked so hard on a few years prior), and I preceded to ruin it completely by trying my hand at WordPress design (spoiler alert: I’m not very good at it).
Fast forward to this summer, and I decided that if I’m going to convince myself to keep writing, I would need to have a nice space in which to do it. Since my current apartment doesn’t allow for a dream writing space (read: distressed wood desk, endless supply of tea, floor-to-ceiling windows, piles of cashmere sweaters, and perfect lighting), I would have to create that space for myself virtually – as in, redesign my blog.
I’ve spent the better part of the past twenty-five years preaching about my hate of Coca-Cola. I’ve never been a huge fan of soda in general, but the flavor and smell of Coke in particular made me queasy. I always found it a little too syrupy and sweet, and the better part of two decades living in a major American city has taught me that soda is the fastest road to being a statistic. You know, that statistic. The one where everyone is fat.