I miss New York City. It's not what you think. I spent the greater part of yesterday kneeling on all fours in my kitchen (I wish this was a racy story - it would be much more enjoyable for all parties involved), with industrial knee pads borrowed from my husband (not for), scrubbing all the "character" out of our terracotta floors. I get the character thing, but when it looks like someone hasn't scrubbed a floor in ten years and it's not even my own dirt, I take matters into my own hands. In fact I scrub - like hell. And I mop, and steam (thank you Mom for the steam cleaner - well kinda). And I scrub again. With each successive ‘wax on, wax off’ rotation, I found myself fantasizing about my tiny New York City apartment's rented floors and the magic cleaning lady who appeared once a week to save me from inspecting the dirt from the position I found myself in yesterday -- all fours. When you rent, in the end, it’s someone else’s problem. One simply needs to wait out the lease. But I bought these terracotta babies, and we'd like to stay treading on them for quite awhile. So, in my knee pads, I packed all the elbow grease I could into a modified yoga cat-cow pose (thank you yogi Amanda, I miss you too) and focused on my investment. I'd like the "character" to at least be ours. I don't really miss New York City. In New York City, instead of scrubbing dirt, I would be at work. I'd be tired because I got up at 6am after staying up far too late trying to pack in as much as humanly possible into a Sunday, and cranky because it was 6pm and I'd be at work for at least another hour and itching to get a run in outside with the fleeting moments of daylight. And then, if it was a good day, I would get that run, and it'd feel darn good, but I'd be sucking fumes off the West Side Highway, contemplating the long week ahead, the day trip travel to Akron or Minneapolis, or Phoenix, wondering how I was going to make my budget, where my bonus would come from, where my passion had gone, and why I squandered my purpose. Trade offs. I don't have a magic cleaning lady (though I would like one), but I do have something I call my own (a few, actually), and love enough to get down on all fours for, repeatedly.
Up next, more dirty pleasures: Rhubarb and the Tart.