I opted to rollerblade the six-mile loop around Central Park to complement my jogging the reservoir. I had some trepidation because I'd hadn't laced up and snapped on my skates in quite some time.
I usually wouldn't think about falling on my skates, but a small, still voice tried to prevent me from leaving the apartment. Was it that little red dreadful pointy-tailed creature hovering next to my right ear, or was my fear justified?
I descended the stairs backwards, as always, and checked my reflection in the lobby mirror. Yes, the chubby cheeks in the reflection owed themselves to all those times I bought Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream on sale, two for five dollars at any number of grocery stores on the Upper West Side.
Excuses and fears oozed from me like the perspiration most likely would as I hit the three-mile mark: the street was unsafe due to current construction in the area, someone who knew me at my former lean life (see picture of me African dancing in Central Park below) would see me and snicker at me, hand across their mouth, or I'd be so winded that I'd be unable to complete the six-mile loop.
I swore off the Portuguese bread I recently fell in love with from the store across the street and Doritos that accompanied my tuna sandwiches, as one too many people whizzed by me on their skates and bicycles.
I was successful in my first day back on wheels and working up a sweat. The hills felt like mountains as I pushed-walked-rolled to the top before gliding down, careful to look on both sides, lips closed for fear of insects taking refuge inside my mouth. Twenty-eight days to go! Wish me luck, and please, keep all bad carbohydrates, Oreos, and strawberry cheesecake away.
P.S. There's no middle Sunday play at Wimbledon! The rain hasn't been kind to the athletes this year. The All England club might want to reconsider this, and definitely expedite the new retractable roof before 2009.