this is the trajectory.
i get out of the house as soon as i can, preferrably before 9am. it's frightfully cold. i zip to 18th street, drop off some goat soup to vito, hit up the container store for these under the counter baskets for my bathroom sink and my kitchen, then go to the apple store on the upper west side to take care of business, which doesn't take as long as i thought it would.
i run all the way back to harlem, to an at-home rehearsal with jon diaz for a solo show idea i'm growing in my winter residency about reparations called the big payback. a part of the reason why jon is so fantastic is because nothing i throw at him is ever out of bounds. i've got beef marinating for stew. as we rehearse, i cook it down while jon polishes off the last of that goat soup, which is shockingly good. he's never had goat before, but he says he'll try anything once. good man, that jon.
by the time i leave the house again, the stew is on a low boil on the back of the stove. over the course of the rest of my day, i will think about it periodically and wonder if i haven't burned down our apartment.
i actually make it to a boxing class -- on time. i push myself hard. my teacher, who is a total eastern european junk yard dog, is suitably pleased. afterwards, i stand under the shower and exfoliate my skin into oblivion. then i sit in the steam room until every ache in my backside disintegrates into nothingness. this is probably the best part of my day. maybe because when things are physical, i can see and feel the progress i make. although it's pretty obvious that i'm way better than i was when i first picked it up, and jon is so encouraging, i don't feel as though i'm making progress on guitar. i'm sure that i am because i'm playing. boxing is different. my body is reacting more and falling into position with less effort -- and my thinking while i fight is less deliberate. there's a flow to things. my stamina is increasing. i can last longer.
no wonder boxing makes me so happy.
i get home by 11pm. my permanent boyfriend had dinner with one of his best pals -- a guy i openly refer to as his girlfriend -- and he's sitting on the couch, having a glass of wine and watching the daily show. the place smells amazing. i tuck myself under his arm, against his chest and suddenly, i'm exhausted. but i can't go to sleep. instead of wine, i opt for coffee. after he goes to bed, i sit up and work on rewrites for an hour or more. clearly, i've got work to do.
...and that's my day.