Better Living Through Introspection

Ironman Novak? Naw.

It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon. My body aches from being ill — symptoms
that I blamed on West Nile for its trendiness, but then realized were probably
just flu symptoms — and from helping Krista move into her new abode with the
even higher wrought iron stairs of death. I just want to lie in bed and sleep
it all away. I turn on the tv, hoping to find something to lull me to sleep…NASCAR
racing always has a pleasant drone…but I make the mistake of lingering on NBC
a little too long. They’re re-broadcasting the 2000  Ironman world championship from Hawaii…I
recognize the stories, each one more inspirational than the last, intentionally
schmaltzy, intentionally pulling at what’s left of your heartstrings — there’s
a phrase worthy of later contemplation: heartstrings — puppeteering your
emotions as you lie there, left vulnerable by mental, emotional, and physical
fatigue.

And the story of one man…Bill Bell, I think was his name…comes on. He’s 77, and this is not his first
Ironman. They show the footage from his race in ‘95, how his back kept
spasming, making him collapse meters from the finish line, how people kept
helping him to his feet, how he would lurch forward and collapse again, how he
finally collapsed with one arm outstretched, just enough to touch the finish
line. This year, there are no collapses, but he misses the midnight deadline for race completion. Yet he
perseveres. He walks across the finish line at 1:20am. And people are there to greet him, to congratulate him.

And that’s just one of the stories.

It’s enough to get me out of bed and out into the rain. At first, I
think about using the walk/run combination that CV had mentioned when we were
talking about her marathon training, but it’s raining. I’m not about to walk in
the rain — I want to keep my temperature up because even though it’s July, it’s
cold, and I’m sick.

So I run. And I don’t stop. I own Rock
Creek Parkway: the rain has frightened the less
dedicated; the path is empty, save for me. There is only the sound of my feet
hitting the ground, my breathing, the rain on my cap, and the cars whispering
through the puddles on the road. I make it to the boat center in record time.
And continue, past the Kennedy Center
to the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol, then turn around for the long road
home.

Ninety minutes of running nonstop in the rain. My longest training run
to date, and it’s nothing compared to the Ironman…but the feeling is the same,
I think. Knowing that you’ve surprised yourself, that you’ve exceeded your own
expectations. It’s a small conquest, but you feel a little unstoppable.

You wonder what else you can do while you’re on this high.

Dancing the night aw–what the?! 4am?!

Saturday. 8:30pm. I was just going out for a little while. A little going-away party, then a stop at Rendezvous for a birthday. Nothing major, nothing to keep me out into the wee hours of the morning. Then somehow I got sidetracked somewhere on the way home and ended up partying at some random ritzy condo until 4am. Did I say condo? I meant “palace.” The living room — I mean, the dance floor — I mean, the ballroom — was roughly the size of my studio. (By roughly, I mean “approximately twice the size of.”)

Sheesh.

But despite the near-debilitating waves of envy that kept causing me to unexpectedly shout “Aaarrraghghhallebbvbvbvvvvah!”* (inwardly, thankfully), I had a blast. How do you not have a blast when you dance the night away with pretty women? Of course by “dance” I mean to flail oneself wildly about in a semi-helpless or hopeless fashion because you really have no idea what you’re doing but you’d much rather be “dancing” with the ladies instead of hanging out on the sidelines with the guys who apparently have only two skills: drinking and standing around watching everyone else have fun.

The one drawback of the evening: the hostess yelling at us for trying to improve the music situation. Whoever was “dj-ing” simply didn’t have the mad skillz we possessed. You’ll never know what you missed, chica.

A special thank you to my dance partners for the evening. You know who you are. Remember, I’m the funny one.

Aaarrraghghhallebbvbvbvvvvah. An incoherent exclamation, often internalized, denoting a great amount of salary-envy. Sometimes expressed audibly as “I shoulda been a lawya!”

At last!

To all of you who have been waiting patiently
for some little scrap of something to read,

Finally got my computer up and running. Still have a few boxes to unpack, but the new office here at HDN Studio is shaping up nicely. Did I say office? Yes I did. My office. With a view. Amazing what a difference it makes not being in some gloomy cube tucked away in some forgotten corner of Siberia.

And this orange wall…my office is sunny even on cloudy days. Beautiful.

Cheers,

Novak

Oh my my my

I’ve found another detour. I was intrigued immediately, but it was all things sacred that hooked me. Oh my my my. So good. Thank you, textism.

This is it.

Who thought I would ever resign from the world’s greatest pr firm? Apparently, no one. Which explains all the phone calls and e-mails of surprise.

After almost five years of working, working at, and being worked by this agency, I’ve decided it’s time to move on. Unlike the majority of my peers, I’m not moving to another agency. Rather, two of my colleagues and I are starting our own design firm, HDN Studio (link forthcoming).

Stay tuned for details, in which you’ll actually be able to detect my level of excitement.