Sunday, February 03, 2008

It rained all day today. The neighborhood was full of cars, including people parked in our alley way where my side-yard growing out into the gravel road causes me to mistakenly feel entitled and proprietary about what is actually a public right-of-way. Three houses up the street the neighbors, really the next-of-kin to my recently deceased neighbor, were holding an estate sale. The woman who lived there died quietly in her old age a few months ago without a ripple. Until today when, ripplingly, people are haphazardly parked on my lawn to make off with her washer/drier set.

I couldn't bring myself to go simply because I couldn't bring myself to do anything at all but eat oatmeal in a significantly esoteric manner in front of the heater, imagining how on Earth I'll get out running. Ritual is the last refuge of rootless vine like myself. I laid out my running clothes. Some of them, a neck gator I adapted from my snowboarding gear into a hat, gloves and jacket, are still damp-ish but can be worn again. Shirts and sports bras I never wear twice, reeking like they do of ammonia. Yes, after I run I smell like a locker room full of felonious, untrustworthy men for at least a layer or two. In the summer I have been rejected outright by my husband. BABY WOAH! SHOWER AND COME BACK NAKED, BUT RIGHT NOW, DO NOT GET ANY CLOSER.

Everything else, socks included are usually dry and clean after I run. I may be an emotional tornado but at least I am not at all hairy, don't sweat much and have feet that have never smelled bad. Being me, there are so few consolations but occasionally, yes, I get to wear my socks twice. Anyway, I sniff tested myself dressing to run. And then.

There is no reason to not run just because it is raining. It makes more sense to go run 7.5 miles in the rain for your own ghost then it does to walk 75 feet for someone else who died. I have my own life to run for. Besides, once you are moving the raindrops can't hardly find a place to land.

Around four and a half miles I see a family down the street leaving their house to get into their car. The son, 6/7ish, starts charging around when he sees me coming. His mother laughs, partially apologetic. YOU WANT TO RACE? thats me asking, not slowing down and his mother is like YEAH, RACE HER, SEE IF YOU CAN and he charges after me, surprisingly fast. I have more then enough gears that I can keep ratcheting up my speed and he is still coming after me, churning and red in the face. Finally, nearing the end of the long block, not willing to let him win but not wanting him to lose, I hold out my hand behind me and he slaps me five and the race is over. He runs home and I run home, circuitously, between rain drops.

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