Standing barefoot in the YMCA locker room by the sinks, rain-soaked socks in one hand, wall-mounted hairdryer on High aimed point-blank at the socks in the other. Rain-soaked sneakers, rain-soaked pant legs, rain-soaked umbrella, half-rain-soaked gym bag drip-drying profusely over in the locker. I point the dryer down each sock’s mouth and the sock creepily inflates, a sort of phantom air-foot. The dryer’s roar is high-decibel and Winehousianly abrasive. The socks refuse to dry and I am feeling extremely stupid standing there holding them. I note that I am minutes away from jumping into a pool and becoming 100% drenched. Dryness seems arbitrary.

Also: Tuesday morning while swimming I have to wimp out halfway through because for some reason my arms feel like wrought iron starting at lap one and real quick the whole workout deteriorates into chelonian freestyling through Seussian oobleck. Lack of sleep may be to blame. Insult to injury, I keep getting passed by a pint-sized middle-aged woman clutching a kickboard and dolphin-kicking with scuba flippers on. Farkin’ flippers in the lap pool. Like a flamethrower at a knife fight. I slink home humiliated, down a glass of whey-protein barfoplasm in pursuit of the elusive positive nitrogen state, and hit the green tea till I incandesce with antioxidants.