Tuesday, 04 September 2001 | My muscles and I

The only time I don't notice is when I sit perfectly still. Otherwise, which is most of the time, I can feel the unoiled creek of my sore muscles complaining about my Labor Day weekend. We (my muscles) walked around New York for hours without taking a break. (I didn't have any money on me, really, and stopping meant I had to buy a beverage or something, so I kept going.) We carried shelves and books and chairs up narrow stairs, loaded, unloaded, lifted, set down. We dragged suitcases full of unnecessary items through the Newark airport, bags on the left shoulder, switched to the right, and back again. We sat cramped on planes, trains, and automobiles, hunched over, awkward, and unhappy.

I had a much better trip to New York than my muscles did. On Saturday I helped Ingo move from a one-room efficiency into a two-story apartment carved out of a newly renovated 19th century house. On Sunday we took the train into the city, wove patterns in the streets, ducked in shops, and drank coffee. On Monday we unpacked and organized and drove to the beach and looked out of more train windows.