Smooth Segues are in first place, at least

As I currently do not have a wife and therefore am placed dead last in my social circle's wife arms race (not to vulgarize the pre- and post-matrimonial bliss in which everyone is partaking), and as I am not in a physical shape that could be described as ideal, resolutions have been made (albeit passively).

Now that the weather is mostly nice, I'm going running one morning each weekend. I am going to run up the Promenade and over to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then across the Brooklyn Bridge, and then ideally back, unless I die first. I am going to wear a Columbia tee whilst running, which will catch the eye a goodly number of physically-active/attractive females, each wearing college tees of their own. A rock-scissors-paperesque calculation will be performed whenever one of them crosses my path, and if my tee is from a higher ranked university (based on a formula of my own devising not quite as biased [read: down on Columbia] as the U.S. News rankings), I will win. I am still a bit unclear on what the tangible results of winning will be–perhaps I get to douse her with my water bottle? In any case, this will do wonders for my love life.

I made good on this resolution (or at least the practical portions of it) this past Saturday. It was a triathlon of sorts, with strong showings in both the walking at a normal pace and slouching-and-panting events, but a questionable performance when it came down to running. In any case, the Brooklyn Bridge is much too crowded for sustained running during the weekend. I found my mind wandering a bit during one of the slouching-and-panting spells, puzzling over how they manage to route tens of thousands of marathon runners through the bridge's narrow pedestrian path. I then realized that they must have the participants run down in the lanes meant for auto traffic, which I considered trying myself until I also realized that they must block off said auto traffic prior to starting the marathon.

I wasn't in a position to negotiate a betrothal given that level of physical and mental fatigue, though I can only assume the
Columbia Daily Spectator tee (one of maybe six extant?) on my doubled-over torso generated a buzz amoungst the opposite sex. But
at least my hamstrings now hurt like nobody's fucking business.

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