So after all my belly-aching about how much stuff I have to pack and how hard it is to move these piles of boxes around the apartment -- three guys climbed off a truck not more than two hours ago... and they're done. They moved those boxes like real men. Stuff all gone; truck all loaded... And I'm sitting here wallowing in self-loathing.

And not for the first time this week!

Yesterday, as I jogged past Crestwood station on my way back from my run, two fit-looking women overtook me jogging in the same direction. I responded as would any male afflicted with testosterone poisoning -- I straightened my posture and quickened my pace. But they didn't notice me... They were too busy chatting. This really annoyed me. Not only were they running significantly faster than me, but they weren 't even breathing hard (even at a slow jog my lungs sound like I've just run through a cloud of mustard gas).

So of course I tried to keep up with them. Which, of course, was pathetic (which, you'll remember, is defined in the Encyclopedia Mastandrea between the entries for panettone and pizzaiola). By the time I got to the Pirate Ship Playground to turn off and head home, they had already crossed the bridge and were even with me on the other side of the Bronx River.

If I could think of another bad pun, I would put it here. But I can't, so I'll just talk like Big Vito and mutter to myself: patetic.