Dismissal

9.6.19

What makes these feet superior? What gives them the right to feel smug towards all other feet? What puts the “high” in high arches?

Oh, like you don’t already know.

I went for a stagger, that’s what. Most people would call it a run, but let’s not get TOO high in the arches.

But wait, you say, because you are very attentive – Pru, you don’t normally run on Fridays, do you?

Well, no. But my last weekend sugar binge has been slow to relax its grip on me; my get-up-and-go got up and went. I actually skipped Balance Class yesterday (which is unheard of; sometimes I don’t make it to class because I have to do something else, but I never, ever give in to the urge to roll over and go back to sleep… except for yesterday). And when I’ve committed to running on my own over the weekend, I obsessively watch the weather to ensure I run on the coolest possible day.

And today it’s SEVENTY-FOUR DEGREES. Lord love a duck, that is some kind of blissful. Tomorrow it’s going to be in the 80s; same for Sunday. So: Run on Friday.

(You might say Fun on Riday if you were whimsical, but “fun” and “run” might rhyme but honey, they don’t go together.)

I had an all-morning meeting today. By the time I got home, it was ALMOST time for the local high school to get out. If there’s a way to make it worse to plod along in a pudge-trembling sham of a run, it’s to do it through drifting rafts of teenagers.

No – wait: It’s to plod along like a sea turtle amidst parrotfish AND THEN HAVE TO SLOW TO A WALK. Huffing and puffing.

So I really, REALLY would rather do my trotting before dismissal.

But I underestimated the speed of high schoolers when the release bell sounds. There I was, stomping along, perpetually confronted by the startled look of horror in the face of the tiny life form who only looked up from the phone at the last possible minute to see that the iceberg was DEAD AHEAD, SIR!

Sorry, kid, I huffed. Or would have huffed if I’d had any spare oxygen.

BUT I made it around the loop anyway, and no adolescents were harmed in the making of this run.

And now I’m sitting on the porch with my feet up, feeling smug. So, THAT’s done.

By the way – here’s the update: 81 is still too hot, but 74 is pretty danged dreamy. If you have to run, I mean.