Malbec and Hemingway

The evenings after work are difficult. I always have to develop these systems and schedules for myself in order to function. The year began with the Run Read Regime. Each night I would take whatever delicious book I was reading to the gym and I’d run a kilometer then I’d read a chapter then I’d run again and so on until the night had passed and I could get to bed like a good girl. A good and sober girl. In this way I filled, I avoided the unbearably long and boring nights where I could not figure out what to do with myself on the spot. I always need to have a plan.

The only thing I can think of to do on the spot is to go and get a bottle of wine.

Six weeks and one hundred eighty miles later, my attention span was maxed out and I needed a new plan. Some weeks passed. Some bottles of wine were had. Not too many. I’m caught, ripped to shreds, between exhausted passions, old habits, and new desires, hidden talents, pending explorations that burn. I have a thirty kilometer race coming up, a track membership, a gym membership, an art gallery membership, a desire to just stay home and cook and read and write. I’ve enrolled in not one but two art courses that begin right after the race I am not sufficiently training for. I have begun a poetry game with a mysterious boy on the Internet and I am making a million first-and-last dates with a million online strangers who are nothing but a blur and a bad habit to me. Oh. Plus two more twenty-five kilometer races during and after the two art courses.

I am all over the map without an anchor in sight.

To keep myself afloat, I am pondering a new routine. Come home, cook, read, write. Enjoy the little apartment that I absolutely love and others find ghastly small. Then, when it gets dark, go run. The track is open until midnight after all and that is usually when the guests come home and the peace is not broken but shared, diluted.

This plan might work but it’s already dark outside and I’m already falling apart.

The plan is new and tentative and I am not as sure about its effectiveness as I had been about the Run Read Regime. I am smack in the middle of A Moveable Feast, there is half a bottle of red left, and there is boy waiting in the world wide web for a response on whether I will meet him tonight or not. Each minute passes more quickly than the one before. The anxiety mounts in proportion.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And so it is.

Malbec and Hemingway.

Perhaps I will run in the morning.

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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