It legit looks like a fucking crime scene.
But today is Sunday—the start of a new week! A new me! Screw Scott and the waify blond event planner he knocked up and left me for. Who cares if the professional pictures of their brand-new baby are posted all over Instagram with hashtags like #bestdayever and #welcometotheworld and #familyfirst. That was a poor excuse to get intoxicated last night, but I’m a forgiver, and so, I forgive myself. Now, I just need to get my body to forgive me too. Advil oughta do the trick. And maybe we’ll wash it down with a little—no. No. That was yesterday’s Gracie.
Today’s Gracie’s going out for a jog.
I squeeze my boobs into a sports bra and try not to notice the tiny bit of new back fat that spills over the straps, which reminds me of howScott used to call me “Lil’ Chubs.” Ah, the good ol’ days. I could laugh it off back then because it’s not exactly like he was some prize, with his furry ass cheeks and the carpet full of chest hair he used to ask me to help him shave off on the reg. Also, he’d put a ring on it, so I thought we were down for the long haul—hence my discomfort with him knocking up our damn wedding planner who I paid top dollar to planmyhappy ending.
Side note—spandex pants are the absolute worst. They must have been invented by Satan himself.
Sneakers? Check. Fitbit? Check. Phone’s dead, so gotta let that charge. Old school iPod for tunes? Check.
I leave my building—that’s right, I still live in my co-op in Brooklyn instead of the house we were supposed to buy on Long Island—turn the iPod on, and hit “shuffle.”What kind of pump-you-up music does the universe have in store for me?I wonder.
I look down at the screen when Hillsong United’s live version of “Lead Me to the Cross” comes blasting through my headphones.
That’s right. Now I remember—the iPod was a gift from a born-again guy I dated like a decade ago.
I shake my head. Dammit. The closest thing I’ll find to hip-hop or power pop on here would be that rap song about Jesus and the sheep. The slit in my stretch pants masquerading as a pocket becomes the iPod’s temporary new home. I’ll throw it back in my nightstand and save it for a future time in my life when I’m feeling particularly spiritual. Today, my church is the bagel store where I ditch my workout plan in favor of an everything bagel with lox and cream cheese, a giant slab of crumb cake, and a Snapple.
Ha! Maybe Iamgetting in touch with the big guy upstairs—after all, it’s a commandment not to work on Sunday.Message received!Instead, I head back home to watchReal Housewives of Somewhere in Americaand sink my teeth into this scrumptious breakfast.
OnMonday, Gracie 2.0 will emerge.
Colin
Ever since Elle and I split, Sunday has become my favorite day ofthe week. She used to love to sleep in and then waste the day away catching up on work. She’d get bitchy if I got up too early. God forbid I should have to pee and accidentally disrupt her majesty’s neurotic sleep schedule. Now that I’m on my own, I can get up as early as I want and go out for a run. It has become a ritual for me—some people go to church on Sunday; I exercise.
Astoria has lots of redeeming qualities, but running space is not one of them—a man can only loop around Astoria Park so many times. Plus, since my car gets no love during the week, lately I’ve been killing two birds with one stone by doing a tour of parks in Queens. Today I’m off to Kissena Park. It’s in Fresh Meadows, over near Flushing. Dom lives nearby, so we’re going to meet up at nine and get a little batting practice in since softball starts this Wednesday.
I have about an hour till he gets here.
I started running in the fourth grade. Dad said, “Colin, running is the foundation for all other sports,” and I was ten, so I believed him. He enrolled me in a CYO track program, and we ran at Van Cortlandt Park a few times a week. By the time I was in middle school, he had me running track, playing baseball, lacrosse, soccer, and football, and doinggymnastics once a week. Ihatedgymnastics, but Dad insisted it would help with flexibility, balance, and agility. I think any sport that requires boys going through puberty to wear skintight uniforms is just cruel.
I don’t know what that man thought I was going to do with my life. Become an Olympian, maybe? End up on a Wheaties box? Compensate for the fact thathecouldn’t go pro?
We fought about it, and I begged my mom behind closed doors to let me cool it with the sports. It took years, but eventually she helped me negotiate a compromise: I had to choose two sports andcommitto them, and then I could get rid of everything else. That’s how I ended up playing baseball and soccer in high school. At the time, I was so happy to be rid of all the excess activities that I didn’t realize how much I would miss the smooth, rhythmic running of track: sneakers kicking up dirt, wind in my face, the sound of a steady pace quieting my mind.
Today’s run begins at 7:45 a.m. and takes me around a big loop, down a flight of stairs, around a duck pond, and back up the stairs. Repeat twice—five miles in the books. When I’m done, I lie down in the grass, sweating like a beast. I feel healthy, dirty.Alive. I look up at the tree I’m under. It has five trunks that all split at the stump. I’ve never seen a tree like this before. I bet it would be perfect for building a treehouse. I close my eyes and see Elle and the kids we were supposed to have in a backyard oasis with a swimming pool, a swing set, and a kick-ass treehouse, built by yours truly. My son would have begged me to teach him how to use power tools while my daughter practiced cartwheels in the grass.
Nope. Notmylife. Instead, I’m the guy who got divorced after six months and has little to show for it other than the flat screen TV I got to take and the brand-new car I bought to accommodate our adjustment to suburban living. Elle kept everything else: the house, the yard, my self-respect—you know, the basics—and I moved to a studio apartment in Queens that always smells sort of like souvlaki. I chose that though;even thoughshedestroyed our marriage, I still wanted to make sure she was taken care of.
I’m an idiot, I know.
And evidently, a fat balding idiot, according to my inbox.
I take the last swig out of my water bottle. I still don’t understand—why would Gracewritethat—out of nowhere, after all these years?
What did I ever do to her?
I check my phone; it’s almost nine. I stretch my hamstrings and jog back to my car, where I grab a new bottle of water and my gear.
By the time I get to the softball field, I see Dom crouching next to a bucket of balls, on his phone. He looks up. “Bro, where’d you park? Guam?” he says.
“Nah. By that back entrance,” I reply.
He nods, finishes up a text or whatever, and slides his phone into his bag. “Yo, I heard the Tooth Fairies got two new hygienists,” he says, grinning. “Bangin’.”
The Tooth Fairies are an all-girls team in the league. It’s a dental office run by Dr. Macarena Rankin, whose face is plastered on bus shelters and subway platforms all over the city. Dom swears it’s a front for either a sorority or a brothel, because she only hires cute girls to work there.
