I worked out at the Uptown YWCA today, in an effort to get the most out of the final 2 weeks of my membership. In the shower was a guy with a Nike Swoosh tattooed on the outside of each foot. In my sneaker-mad adolescence I might've modified my body in the same manner, but the intervening years have endowed me with a certain amount of restraint and integrity. Even though Nike's athletic shoes can still inspire in me orgasms of aesthetic ecstasy, I've been innoculated against supporting their slave-labor practices. New Balance, for all its derivative shoe designs and Chinese-made products, is much more to my liking now. But this brand loyalty is based on substance, not style. Well, maybe a little style.
Will this seemingly inconsequential paragraph on shoes provide the jumping-off point for a discourse on some topic of immense gravity? Probably not. I just happened to eat a Mocha Swiss Roll from the Wedge (quite tasty) and am wiling away the early morning hours until the caffeine wears off. Since I packed in my steady corporate gig last year I've noticed an increased sensitivity to caffeine, and I was never fond of the buzz of coffee to begin with. Eating those coffee beans nestled on top of the roll was a mistake, but I just can't say no to a chocolatey dessert late in the evening. It will surely prove my undoing.
It's 2:01 am and one of the two people who live upstairs in our duplex just got home. I wonder what he was up to. There are things I could write about my duplex-mates, but I'm afraid of hurting their feelings. It will have to wait for another time. The hour grows late, and I weary of this ennui.