In an act of supreme bourgeoisie fuckery I am blogging from the poolside on my iPad. It’s harder to type like this than I anticipated… so the act itself is quite willful. Truth be told I’m bored. (And getting fidgety) I’m also not entirely sure what I’d rather be doing… but baking my dermis to resemble either a jacket potato or lobster thermidor (basically the only two skin tones in my current field of vision) seems like conceding to peer pressure. And so I’m blogging.
I’ve been up since about 5am. Been for a run along the beach every morning. A couple of kilometers in either direction before eating my body weight in bacon and sunny side up. I’m trying to zero out the effect of being a glutton, with, if the bathroom scale in the hotel room can be believed, less than stellar results. Will have to take on more substantial measures when I get back home with some heavy lifting and not eating for a week.
Done some obligatory touristy stuff. Took my daughters to the aquarium. (Feels weird using plurality since the other one is only ten weeks old and generally not really appreciative of anything except the boob… but singularity also doesn’t sit well with me)
The older one loved it. Had to drag her out by her ankles eventually while she left claw marks on any available surface area that provided grip. I’d love to be able to experience that sense of wonder again. But alas, at this point in my tenure on planet earth, I am mostly just jaded.
Echoing this sentiment is my selection of pool side reading. Ha ha.
I’ve noticed some disapproving looks. I’m one of the few people with a paperback. And people are nosy to see what you’re reading. There’s a guy three loungers down from me reading ‘the subtle art of not giving a fuck’, with its garish orange cover. He occasionally pauses to recite a particular profound passage to his significant other… I resist the urge to walk over there, take his book away, smack him across the face with it and then drown him in the swimming pool. This is for your own good I will shout (and maybe for the good of all humanity).
So far I find myself mostly agreeing with ‘Against Empathy’… although, as usual I’ve found myself thinking ‘this could have been half this size’ and still conveyed all the critical concepts adequately. Publishers don’t like 125 page works though (neither do we) and so writers are forced to waffle, equivocate and add fifty page apologetic prologues and forewords. Ergh!