Summertime and the living is easy

I walked ten miles yesterday. I set out on the bike path around eleven and ventured forth, taking the same route as last week only this time I intended to go further, possibly even reaching my grandmother's house.

My initial concern that the heat would sap my energy and make for a laborious walk was allayed almost immediately; though the temperature was predicted to reach upwards to ninety, there was a steady breeze and little, if any, humidity. By the time I reached Arlington center, the point where I turned back during my last walk, I had plenty of energy and hadn't really broken a sweat. I crossed Mass Ave and met up with the bike path, wondering how much further to my grandmother's house in Lexington, the next town over.

I walked a few miles and decided to head back. I was still in Arlington and knew it would probably be another several miles to my grandmother's house. It was such a glorious day; I was glad to be outside enjoying it. I was a little stiff by the time I reached my place, but I felt great overall. I hope to go even further next week. Soon enough, I'll reach my grandmother's house, not quite over the river and through the woods, but pretty damn close.

Mara called me in the afternoon and said there was a music festival going on in the park near my house. I wondered if she had the right park because that one is very close to my house and I hadn't heard a lick of music all day. She said she was going to check it out and asked if I'd like to meet up with her there. I obliged.

Sure enough, there was music in the park. I walked through the orange glaze of the waning sun to the top of the hill where the park is situated and met up with Mara, who was sitting on a stone wall off to the side of the stage. We relocated to the lawn and listened to the blues band, who were pretty good, for a while before walking over to Yoshi's for some sushi. I had just eaten and told her I was just along for the ride, but I ended getting some sushi anyway. I knew I would.

I eventually dropped her off at a friend's house and headed home. I was tired and wanted to relax. I picked up Ficciones, which I had been reading from off and on all weekend, and settled in to the night.
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Rich stays in his room almost constantly. There are days that go by where we don't see him. Or hear him, for that matter. Sometimes he bunkers down to such a degree that you wonder if he's even home at all or, worse, dead. His room is right off the kitchen and often, when I'm in there preparing meals or getting a snack, I don't hear a single peep coming from his room. It begs the question: What is he doing in there? I'm sorry, but I don't want to weird myself out contemplating the answer.

I've figured out, though, that he frequently leaves his room, only when Janelle and I are not around if he can help it. Often, usually right after I head upstairs at night, I hear him skulk out of his room, like some midnight gnome. If I had just opened a window, he closes it; if the heat was on, he adjusts it. He works the late shift, this one.

I frequently hang out in the living room late at night and read. Doing so, I get to see how much Rich scurries about. And this motherfucker scurries a lot! I'll be on the couch reading and I'll hear a faint creaking sound. I look towards the kitchen and see his head poke out, checking to see if the coast is clear. Seeing that I'm no immediate threat, stretched out with a book in the other room, he goes back and forth from his room to the kitchen, his room to the bathroom, and so on and so on. One night I decided to count how many times he makes these nocturnal trips and stopped counting after twelve. Only twenty minutes had passed. Twelve times - in and out, in and out, in and out. Going to the fridge for some diet coke, heating up some tater tots, going to the bathroom to piss out the copious amounts of diet coke and Gator Ade he spills down his gullet, back to kitchen to drop off a plate, more tater tots, etc.

Notice how I haven't made the obvious and apt comparison to a rat. I neglect to do so because comparing Rich to a rat brings to mind the wrong connotation, namely that he is a snitch. I don't believe Rich is a snitch, but his behavior does mimic the rat in other ways. Still, out of respect to him, I'll not pursue the rat comparison.
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Maybe some World Cup tonight, maybe some music. Maybe both. Most likely, I'll be reading at some point. Whatever I do, I'm about to begin doing it.