I spent 45 minutes on the Stairmaster at the YMCA this afternoon, sweating more than necessary because the air conditioner in the cardio room on the second floor was broken and the windows and doors do not provide enough ventilation. But apparently some members prefer a warm room full of stale air—a confusing revelation that I learned after talking to the manager, who has recently taken to confiscating the remote in an effort to keep the A/C running—and it occurred to me that perhaps one of these "hot cardio" fans had gone so far as to sabotage the unit itself. Would someone really do that though? (Of course they would.)
Outside, the snow was melting and I walked alone (Allison was at work) on the back streets near Monroe Avenue ruminating about being back—home?—in Rochester, where I grew up. It was warmer than it had been lately, but windy, and I wasn't really enjoying the walk. I was annoyed that none of the temp agencies I've called in town hire copywriters or editors, nor have I been able to land any gigs through Upwork, a website for freelancers that sounds great in theory, except that everyone on it seems to be grossly underpaid. I have been freelancing for 10 years now—I'm not going to start taking jobs for $5 an hour just because things are "competitive" in the global, Web-based freelance economy. I'd rather live on a beach in Thailand or something, especially if Hillary Clinton becomes president. I think I'd actually rather vote for Donald Trump—or is that too insane?