I think it must be summer. For one thing, the tourists are out in full force. Even at the late-lunch hour of 2pm*, the Haight Street Market was overflowing with people ordering sandwiches in interesting accents; some lady mistakenly went in to browse in the shoe repair shop; and everyone is wearing brightly-colored sneakers and meandering slowly down the [filthy] sidewalk four abreast.
Also, I can't stop thinking about my vacation as though I needed to pack tonight when, in fact, it's a month away. A whole month! A month during which I will worry constantly about what shoes to pack. This has become my latest preoccupation though, sadly, it is largely irrelevant which shoes I pack because my feet seem to have deteriorated to the point where there is no such thing as a comfortable shoe. Every morning I wake up with aching ankles, which seems like a rather esoteric malady, but no less concerning for its exoticism. Yesterday I walked about four blocks and there is still residual throbbing nearly 24 hours later. Not good. Usually, I do a great deal more walking in New York than I do at home, but maybe not this time. Taxi drivers, things are looking good for you.
Tomorrow, in an act of reckless hope, I'm going to a foot clinic at a local pilates studio. In addition to the class fee, I have to buy a "foot kit" for $25 though I believe it is comprised of quite ordinary balls of various sizes (I'm thinking tennis ball, super ball, etc.) that I could get elsewhere for much less, but since I haven't actually seen them, can't. Sigh. The pilates people are very clear that "there will no foot kits for loan!" Slightly disappointing, but since we're supposed to be rubbing our bare, flawed feet all over them, it's probably just as well. What if I got someone else's foot cooties? Maybe someone else has leprosy or something. The last thing I need at this point is more to be wrong with my feet/ankles/knees/hips. It's already a festival of ow.
If the Rub Your Foot on a Ball cure doesn't work (an outcome that seems very likely), I think I'm going to hire four strapping men to carry me around on a litter. If I'm going to be infirm, I might as well be glamorous about it. Surely someone in this town has already constructed a litter for Burning Man or their burlesque show or something. I'll bet I can rent it cheap for the off season.
*I really shouldn't wait till 2pm to eat lunch, particularly since I seldom eat breakfast. When I get that hungry, I can't resist the sultry come-hither of the chocolate milkshake. I know this. As I greedily hoovered it in while waiting in the deli line for a more sensible lunch option, three tourists asked me where I got it. I do appreciate knowing that I'm not the only one afflicted with milkshake weakness. However, by the time I'd gotten my sandwich, the milkshake was gone and, unsurprisingly, I was (and am) no longer hungry. My sandwich, fully wrapped, is hurumphing beside me even as we speak.
I'll be honest, this week hasn't been so hot. It's been all falling asleep fully clothed on the sofa, unauthorized hotdogs and milkshakes, general slovenliness, and crazy leg-aching. I have high hopes for next week, though. See you there.