Sunday 10/27/24
Among the matters I've not done a good job with of late is keeping up to date on fitness accounting. Can't go day by day now, as too many have passed and that would be silly, so I'll just have to say that every day the Bunker Hill Monument has been open, I've ran stairs in it. On the days when it hasn't been open, I've ran stairs at City Hall. Most days I walk three miles, but it's often five. I do my push-ups every day. I ran stairs when I was sick. Recently I had three straight days of ten circuits in the Monument. Yesterday was also a ten circuit day. Circuits are harder on the weekends because there's more traffic, and more traffic means more frustration. Yesterday was a ten circuit day. Since August 15, I have done 305 circuits in the Monument, which is 183,000 stairs.
Also yesterday, a woman thrice referred to me as "This young guy," as in "Let this young guy pass," with a "He's in much better shape." There are enough comments of this nature that I must look a certain way to people now, with my fitness being evident. I feel like people wouldn't make all of the comments otherwise. Considering where I was eight plus years ago, I think this is notable. I'm not sure if I'm surprised or not with what I've been able to do. Sometimes these people who make comments of this nature will not be that much older than I am. A friend from college--the one who shared a love of Sam Cooke--asked me if I was Benjamin Button, having seen that before photo from twelve years ago--which makes me shudder when I see it myself--and one from now.
Someone else was telling me the other day that I did all of this at the worst, most painful time, while alone, and in this situation, then they added that it made people hate me more. Made publishing people hate me more. Everything good I do, though, makes people hate me more. Or more scared of me if they like me. Awe intimidates, and it produces inertia and silence in those who are awed. The more awed, the more so. I awe in too many ways.
I also haven't mentioned my non-alcohol streak in a while, which I'm sure would have some people hoping that had come to an end and now there would be a better chance of me going away or dying, but, alas, no.
A word on death while we're here: If you're in publishing and you're a practicer of (always easily provable) discrimination and you die, after having been this way for your whole life, a life in which you added nothing to the good to the human enterprise, I'm still going to keep lighting you up after you're dead. Sy Safransky, Bradford Morrow. What you really were, what you did, and why you did all that you did, and why you discriminated against this person, is all you are ultimately going to be known for. (Someone sent me an update, incidentally, about a person who was featured in one of the earliest Everything wrong with publishing entries, and it's quite a doozy, so I'll be getting to that apace. There's just a lot to get to, but I do get to all of it, which adds, I think, an element of not knowing when it's coming. That can be worse and more stressful. I think everyone knows by now that this guy doesn't forget anything.) There's no getting away with it save not to do it, and it's too late for that, so, having done it, that leaves trying to fix it or just keep getting exposed more. I'm here, I'm up. You know where to find me.
Anyway, today marks 3031 days, or 433 weeks, without a drink. Quite a few of my workout clothes have become too big for me. Old sweatshirts no longer fit. Or basketball shorts.
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