Lazy but slightly intellectual

Excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one, and they all stink. Or so my boyfriend often likes to tell me.

Tonight's excuse for not running is that I have too much to do. Blogging as soon as I get home instead of making supper and doing laundry might reveal otherwise. But believe me, I'm really really busy. I had to run an errand at CVS tonight. I also have several loads of laundry that need to get done, and I'd rather not eat a bowl of cereal tonight. That means I need to turn on the oven. I'm trying to barrel through an 800-page book, Until I Find You, which is not the sleazy romance novel the title might lead you to assume. I want to finish it by the end of the weekend, so I can donate it to a charity book drive Ben knows about. He gave me a $25 Amazon certificate, so I could donate my books instead of sell them to make money for more purchases. And, I'm beginning the job search. I have to revamp my resume and craft a cover letter that will make me out-shine dozens of other equally-qualified candidates.

The thing is, I put off running Monday night, too. I had a good excuse. I had been in the Twin Cities all weekend for a wedding. I got up early and went to bed late three days in a row. I also accomplished a decent medium-distance run on Saturday. Pat on the back, right?

By tomorrow, I'll feel crappy about taking a day off. And my body image won't be so good. When I run I feel skinny. When I don't, well, I feel like an elephant.

Maybe I will get my butt out of bed early tomorrow morning and make it to the gym before work. Then again, I'll probably have an excuse, like my toe hurts or something.

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I subscribed to the New Yorker about three weeks ago. It was a bargain -- 47 issues for $47. The buy made me feel smarter, even before the magazine got to my mailbox.

When I got my first issue last week, I clutched it close to my body on the way to my apartment. A smile snuck across my face. I was proud.

I told a fellow intern about the subscription. He said it was very intellectual of me -- this coming from a guy who is three years younger me, probably twice as smart and goes to Harvard. Indeed, I am an intellectual.

Some of the articles are too artsy for me. And it takes me a while to finish the longer pieces. They're not always the flowy prose you find on a bookshelf. I like the announcement section on plays and shows. When I read about a new show, I feel like a New Yorker, even though I'm not. Maybe I'll live there someday. I love the idea of being a journalist there, albeit briefly. It gives me goosebumps, even though I'd probably be writing from Jersey or one of the boroughs.

The decision behind getting the magazine is plain and simple: I want to be a better journalist. I think I'm a hard news girl, and you'll continue to see my byline in daily newspapers. But I don't want to limit myself. In a magazine writing class I took in college, I let the teacher and class know I'd never be kind of writer. I was a reporter. Somehow, I thought the titles meant totally different things. But now I can be both. I want to be both.

For now I'll read the magazine. But maybe someday, you'll see my byline in there, too.