You may be getting sick of me saying, “while I was on a run”, but what can I say - this is where I do my best thinking. Some people meditate. I run. I head south and then make my way back north, along the West Side Highway, past the dogs that look like their owners and the tourists who look like they regret booking the early ferry to Liberty Island. Somewhere between mile two and three, I usually find my next existential crisis.
This week, it was socks.