Week 9 of 2025

It’s March already? My god. I’m 13 days out from my spring “A” race -- the NYC Half -- and we can see the first glimmers of a weather forecast. Currently: cold and wet. I think I’d prefer that to hot and humid, but it’s certainly not ideal. I have a second half marathon 8 weeks after this first one, and my goal is to go sub 1:50 in one of these races. (Both, even.) I’m feeling in pretty good shape right now, but I don’t have the confidence that the time is a sure bet. Everything has to go right, and ha -- when does that happen?!

I just got back from the gym. Mondays are deadlift days, but I’m quite unenthused with my lifting right now. I still do it, because I know the strength training is probably more important than the cardio I do. In part, I think the bar is just very very heavy, and there’s really no turning back from that. It’s psychologically not just physically grueling. (Running is also grueling, but there's the added bonus of "the runner's high" and the fact that my mind goes blank, which doesn't happen when I'm pushing or pulling more than my bodyweight.)

To carve out more space for the mind and body to handle this fall’s challenge -- my first marathon -- I’m probably going to cancel the triathlon I have scheduled for this summer. I’m not swimming at all right now and only biking to and from the gym (less than 10 miles a week); adding these two sports on to my training load just feels overwhelming. I’d rather spend the summer dialing back the running a little and progressing the weight training. Or maybe adding another ballet class instead of the latter. LOL. Who am I?!

And work -- writing, speaking -- is really picking up, and it’s already tricky to get everything done that I need to do. (And I still need to write that damn book proposal. I'm sort of frozen with fear over this.) This past week, I sent two Second Breakfast newsletters -- one on Friday, and one this morning. These weigh in at about 2000 words apiece, and I'm definitely enjoying writing them. But it's a lot of work. I also recorded a podcast with a friend -- perhaps a new project, we’re not sure yet. I chatted with some conference organizers about a spring speaking engagement, and I scheduled another spring speaking engagement on top of that one. I’m heading into a couple of classrooms here in the city as well in the coming weeks to talk to and listen to teachers and to students. I listened in on an online presentation about AI and surveillance in the classroom and felt that the speaker in question really didn’t have much expertise in ed-tech -- it’s both thrilling and depressing to find myself in such demand again, to know that my expertise and insights are necessary. I do wish they weren't; I really do. Then again, what the hell am I supposed to do with this one precious life, right?

I’m reading David Golumbia’s book Cyberlibertarians right now. My heart really aches with how much I miss him. As I read the first chapters yesterday, I thought about just how angry he made people -- like stuttering, spluttering, spitting mad. What an absolute inspiration. I’m reminded, as the foreword by his friend George Justice makes clear, how those in power move to professionally censure those who refuse to toe the line.

We watched The Last Showgirl the other night. I won't lie: I kinda adore Pamela Anderson; I read her memoir, and I think she is funny and whip smart and not at all (and/or not simply) the Baywatch dumb blonde stereotype she’s long portrayed/been portrayed as. It’s notable that The Last Showgirl and The Substance both came out this past year; they have frequently been reviewed side-by-side (often with some pretty gross misogyny and ageism, even by women writers who seem unable to find "feminism" in either Demi Moore or Pamela Anderson’s “star texts” -- whatever that means), as though these on-screen stories herald a shift in how we view older women. Maybe. Maybe not. There’s something about the unruly body here -- the unruly aging body that still has a tenuous connection to the ideals of white female beauty -- that doesn’t actually feel that transgressive at all, perhaps because of all the talk of “trad wives” and “back-to-nature” stuff in circulation in social media. (I still really enjoyed both of these movies, I should say.)

Poppy gets her stitches out tomorrow afternoon, so just one more morning without our usual Central Park meander. She’s moody as hell that we’ve abandoned the ritual. I’ve kept her on all the medications she was initially prescribed, if only to keep her calm and quiet. (Is that wrong? I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if she’s in any pain or discomfort.)

Obligatory eating updates: we ordered wings from Chick Chick. It’s a Michelin “Bib Gourmand,” and it was fine. Korean fried chicken -- I wasn't mad. We ordered bagels again from Kossars. I added a bag of rugelach to the order -- these were pretty good, but second to Mr. Lee’s up in Harlem. (Note to self: head up north to get some of these again.) We had Burrito Box burritos delivered on Saturday. Again, fine (maybe closer to "mediocre") but fine only if you forget about how damn good burritos are in the West. Burritos aren’t the worst thing about Manhattan. That’d be our politicians: Eric Adams. Donald Trump.

Artwork by T. Admired by Poppy