Under the influence of 9 PM gelato
Thursday journal, 9/25/25
“For me, the urge to write lies atop a bedrock of panic. The collecting of impressions, hoarding of dialogue and observations, the lists of especially sparkling words—that work is also done in a panic. It is no accident that my three main expressions of overflow were stifled. Crying, orgasming, and epiphany are tiny crises of passion. I do not say this is true of all writers, but for many whom I admire, their work is not created in sedate detachment, but instead, in a troubled fever.” — Stephanie Danler, “In Praise of Panic” for The Sewanee Review, Fall 2023
Thursday, 9/25/25 9:00 PM
Eating Sprouts organic chocolate fudge gelato topped with Maldon. Shouts to my Ray Peat readers. I wish I could claim the Maldon as my idea, but it was Andrew’s.
It’s too late in the day for sugar, but I am ungovernable and maybe a little too accepting of my postpartum body. That probably sounds toxic. Everything’s toxic to someone. I just want to run fast and fit in my AGOLDE jeans again in the name of bodily autonomy. You bitches can’t take that from me.
I often contemplate the “point” of getting faster. I wore beaded bracelets to races that said FASTER and SUB SEVEN because I was determined to run under 20 minutes in the 5k (6:20 pace), and I could always feel my form going out the window as soon as I put my foot on the gas. Bad form leads to injury. I was a handful of flailing spaghetti noodles gunning for the finish line, and I‘d wonder why I’d wobble off the course with a bum hamstring. My time was always, without fail, 22 minutes.
Getting faster made sense when I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. There was an end goal. Of course, once I achieved that end goal, a new one would materialize. Something crazy and unattainable. Sub-3 hrs. Sign up for The Speed Project. Delusion is an unlimited resource. But in the months leading up to the Boston qualifier I was registered for last year, I got COVID and then got pregnant. I’m not kidding, I’ve gotten COVID every single year since 2020 and have had to retrain my body to run every time.
Now that I’m certain I want to have another child soonish, I’m trying to block all yearning for the 26.2-mile distance for another few years. I may never run at the level I did again, which was, at the end of the day, just ok—decent for a normal person who didn’t run growing up, but a sick joke alongside my fast friends. Last June I ran 10k one evening just me and like, four dudes, and God bless them for letting me set the pace.
I have a strained hip flexor right now. I’m making it everyone’s problem. If I had someone breathing down my neck about the importance of lifting, stretching, and mobility, we might not be in this predicament. But I’m on my own here! And when I’m calling the shots, I am running and I am leaving. I am doing the thing that keeps me afloat as the thrum of American violence gives me tinnitus and low-grade agoraphobia. Very light mileage.
Last weekend, I went to barre with a friend. I’m clearly not a true group fitness person, but I think it’s one of the lovelier hangs, a workout and coffee afterward. Both body and mind buzzing is the energetic frequency I’m drawn to. It’s almost so sobering that you feel drunk, which, socially, can be better than actually getting drunk off alcohol.
The first half of class was HIIT and the second half was barre. I much prefer the barre portion. In another life, I’m not a mentally ill runner, but a fucking strong, stoic barre and pilates diva; I live like a monk in wrap shirts and grippy socks. I think I was the only one in this class modifying certain moves. Shockingly, it takes a while to rebuild core strength after having seven layers of your abdomen sliced like a cake! No shame here. There was this one move that involved some kind of jumping twist, and I just tapped my toe to the opposite side of my body like I AINT DOIN ALL THAT JUST YET!!
My willingness to look pathetic in a workout class or really any arena comes from the fact that I am not a competitive person whatsoever. Not to say I’m averse to effort, I just know my limitations and when it makes sense to push them. And I have never looked at someone else’s talent or achievement and thought, I wish that was ME! I’m happy for you. Truly. That’s my greatest flex. You can never make me jealous unless my husband leaves me for you, in which case neither of you would ever know peace again.