Living in Black and White

I like to walk. A lot. Those of you who know me, know that this is an understatement. Maybe it's because after years of knee problems, I like walking because I know I can do it -- especially after essentially learning how to walk twice in the 2000-01 school year. (Once when I was in a cast for 4 weeks (to try to avoid surgery) and all my muscle atrophies and once after surgery. (The cast didn't so much do what it was supposed to...))

But in the last 18 months, I've become a huge fan of walking during night. I even have pre-mapped out routes depending on what time I go (in order to maximize safety).

With old jazz recordings buzzing into my ears, the island of Manhattan becomes a black-and-white, smoky, basement jazz club. Oscar Peterson playing "It Ain't Necessarily So" or Duke Ellington's "Mood Indigo" or "Prelude to a Kiss," I feel as though I belong in Woody Allen's Manhattan, complete with voice-over. (And is there anybody you can think of whose inner-monologue would be most like Woody Allen other than me? I certainly can't!) (I highly recommend that everyone watch the opening sequence of this film, which is one of my favorite 3-and-a-half minutes in cinema history.)

As I walk down a hill with the wind blowing against me, I can't help but think of myself as a human anachronism, born 40 or 50 years too late. I feel like I belong in that basement jazz club with a cigar and a scotch, kickin' back listening to Miles.

But I guess I'll stick with my late-night walks, MP3s, and chocolate chip cookies I inevitably treat myself to.

I like living in Black-and-White, though.

And did I mention that I like to walk? Like...a lot?