Coming back from vacation is never the greatest feeling in the world, but this week is turning out to be slightly more difficult than most. I'm still dealing with the combined effects of jetlag and an accumulated sleep deficit and, to make matters worse, I haven't seen more than a few minutes of sunshine since being back in New York City. The forecast over the next few days calls for a mix of sun, clouds, and rain (my favourite).
Although we were away for only nine days, it's obvious that this was just long enough for summer to drift away and fall to creep in. The air is definitely chillier (though slightly less humid), and I've worn a sweater to work twice this week. I feel like it was only yesterday that I hailed the arrival of spring, and suddenly I find myself two seasons later. Autumn in New York -- characterized by brilliant colours, cooler temperatures, and the odd day filled with sunshine and warmth -- is possibly the most enjoyable time of year. It also marks, however, the beginning of increasingly late sunrises and early sunsets. This might not present much of a problem if I were happy to roll out of bed at 7:30 am and head to work, but over the past few months, Zdenek and I have become accustomed to 5:30 am wake-up calls and early morning rides in Central Park. It has become a treasured and favourite part of our daily routine and, indeed, provided much fodder for this blog.
Sadly, my little red Giant has sat idle all week long, bringing her to almost two full weeks of stationary neglect. The alarm has still gone off at 5:30 am every day this week, but in the pitch blackness of our room, our response has consisted of a disgruntled groan and opting for another hour of sleep. It is near impossible to motivate myself to get out of bed in the darkness of the morning to ride a bike, especially when my bike lacks a light. Running, maybe. Cycling? No way. And so I've been a little down this week, mourning the passing of another season, long days, sunshine, and cycling. This is, truth be told, pretty typical behaviour for me. I do not, for example, enjoy celebrating my birthday (one year closer to death and a reminder of everything I still haven't accomplished). I even loathe Fridays on occasion, because they signify another lost week among my finite allotment.
Nevertheless, over my recent vacation, I was encouraged by the discovery that some things really do get better with time. I used to laugh inwardly whenever I heard that life is better after 40, let alone that senior citizens are happier than their younger counterparts. I couldn't imagine that I'd rather be forty years older and greyer than I am today! But last week, my girlfriends and I busted our guts laughing at a 20 minute movie (thanks, Laura!) that took us through all the painful hairstyles, fashions, and boyfriends of our past 15 years together. Sure, we have a few more laugh lines and grey hairs, as well as reduced abilities to cope with hangovers these days. True, we're 15 years further on and there have undoubtedly been a few lost opportunities along the way. But it was clear from the photos of years past that, today, each one of us is more confident, aware, and beautiful than at any time during the last decade and a half. The passing of one season may make me melancholy, but the passing of 60 seasons seems to have served us well.
Although we were away for only nine days, it's obvious that this was just long enough for summer to drift away and fall to creep in. The air is definitely chillier (though slightly less humid), and I've worn a sweater to work twice this week. I feel like it was only yesterday that I hailed the arrival of spring, and suddenly I find myself two seasons later. Autumn in New York -- characterized by brilliant colours, cooler temperatures, and the odd day filled with sunshine and warmth -- is possibly the most enjoyable time of year. It also marks, however, the beginning of increasingly late sunrises and early sunsets. This might not present much of a problem if I were happy to roll out of bed at 7:30 am and head to work, but over the past few months, Zdenek and I have become accustomed to 5:30 am wake-up calls and early morning rides in Central Park. It has become a treasured and favourite part of our daily routine and, indeed, provided much fodder for this blog.
Sadly, my little red Giant has sat idle all week long, bringing her to almost two full weeks of stationary neglect. The alarm has still gone off at 5:30 am every day this week, but in the pitch blackness of our room, our response has consisted of a disgruntled groan and opting for another hour of sleep. It is near impossible to motivate myself to get out of bed in the darkness of the morning to ride a bike, especially when my bike lacks a light. Running, maybe. Cycling? No way. And so I've been a little down this week, mourning the passing of another season, long days, sunshine, and cycling. This is, truth be told, pretty typical behaviour for me. I do not, for example, enjoy celebrating my birthday (one year closer to death and a reminder of everything I still haven't accomplished). I even loathe Fridays on occasion, because they signify another lost week among my finite allotment.
Nevertheless, over my recent vacation, I was encouraged by the discovery that some things really do get better with time. I used to laugh inwardly whenever I heard that life is better after 40, let alone that senior citizens are happier than their younger counterparts. I couldn't imagine that I'd rather be forty years older and greyer than I am today! But last week, my girlfriends and I busted our guts laughing at a 20 minute movie (thanks, Laura!) that took us through all the painful hairstyles, fashions, and boyfriends of our past 15 years together. Sure, we have a few more laugh lines and grey hairs, as well as reduced abilities to cope with hangovers these days. True, we're 15 years further on and there have undoubtedly been a few lost opportunities along the way. But it was clear from the photos of years past that, today, each one of us is more confident, aware, and beautiful than at any time during the last decade and a half. The passing of one season may make me melancholy, but the passing of 60 seasons seems to have served us well.
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