This, this is my dad’s breakfast, and here I am having it for lunch after a run and before the Purim party.

The baseball team has shoveled out a patch of grass for home plate, a thin apron for the outfield, batting practice in the frozen wind. I’m standing over the heat vent in my office watching swing after swing, eating the last slices of this browning pear.

I’m that Facebook sticker of the round-edged bunny maybe banging his head against the wall over and over again. Sometimes the office still surprises me, the way work and ego foil each other, how hard it is to do simple things. But thankfully lunch was simple, packing it in advance helpfully removes a decision from the day, I had reheated chili and it was great, this Runner’s World recipe is so great, though I’m aware it’s the body of a cow that makes it so. We do what we can. I read twitter. I ate a pear even thought it’s not ripe yet.

K. packed me a lunch this morning. I put away the clean dishes and washed the dirty ones. I fed O. and K. walked him to school. The cable guy came early. I didn’t even know I wanted something like this.

I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich at the cafe just out of the subway station and ate it walking down towards the Red Hook water, such great sun, and I got into the Brooklyn Half, and if I could get to K.’s house before I had to pick up O. I could drop off my computer and steal a pear from the crisper drawer. All was good.

Rolling around in it, this time-off thing, so so ready for it, totally loving it, came home from a midday run and made lunch and sat down and ate in front of an episode of Ink Master, easily the best show I’ve ever seen ever. There’s every other thing I’ve ever seen on tv and then there’s Ink Master.

K. sent me out at the crack of the day with soup to reheat and a pear. I got to the soup at 3:15, 15 minutes after one meeting and 15 minutes before the next. All I had was a fork. Long day, long week.