I am a consistently slow runner. I’ve made peace with this - I don’t mind being at the back of a pack of runners, running solo, in my own thoughts and taking in the view from a slowed down perspective. Recently, I ordered a t-shirt from a running store. It was a men’s size large. I put it on and it certainly wasn’t roomy. Then I pictured how male runners look – thin and sinewy. My body is neither thin nor sinewy so I shouldn’t be surprised that the shirt is a little snug.
As I jog the streets of Richmond, I’m alone in my thoughts. Sometimes, I have an audible book playing to distract me from the effort of running. Other times, the audible is my own thoughts. Here’s what I think about when I’m running…
Why doesn’t Michael Myers from the Halloween movies ever run? How does he kill so many victims walking in that slow manner? Maybe he is running? I’m faster than Michael Myers.
Oh. I see you loud car. I bet your driver has a very small penis.
I’m going to be kind of sad when Halloween is over and all these decorations go away….. maybe there will be nice Christmas décor?
I’m really glad this neighborhood is relatively flat. That park though – that’s a bitch.
Running and working out generates a lot of smelly laundry. Recently, I’ve decided that I’ve inherited every undesirably trait from my parents and ancestors although it’s not as though I have memories of them sweating like sinners in church. I’m sure I inherited some desirable traits too but honestly - who’s to blame for my heavy sweating during workouts? Aging is not gentle. It’s a series of cruel injustices. Recently, I was in the shower and heard Andrea gasp just outside the shower.
“Oh my god! Look at my hair! It’s so gray!” Andrea exclaims.
“Yep. Welcome to your 40s.” I reply. The decade that robbed me of my ability to read small print. During a recent conference call at work, an attendee asks, “Do you have a very extensive glasses collection?”
“Yes.” I reply. “I’ve officially reached the age where I can’t read the back of pill bottles. I just shake a few pills into my mouth and hope my liver can handle it.” Adding, “I now keep readers in every room. I understand why people put their readers on a chain around their neck – but I completely draw the line at that.” Another trait undoubtedly passed on to me by my bespectacled parents.
One day, I see an age spot on my hand as my hand rests on the steering wheel at a stop sign. I squint at my hand, “Does my hand look like my mom’s hand?” The light changes so I abandon the scrutiny of my hand.
How old is Michael Myers? No wonder he’s slow. Also – no wonder he wears a mask. Wrinkles? To hell with that – I’ll cover them with this creepy assed mask.
Hm. Maybe Michael has the right idea? I picture myself on a work call wearing a Halloween mask and dismiss the idea. Pretty sure they’d fire the HR lady for that – preferring my natural, aging face.
Yesterday, I learned that a “kid” I attended high school with and lived near died. I message a friend the news and ask her, “Why am I still surprised when someone dies? It honestly surprises me. I think it’s because I still picture people the ages they were."
We talk and the friend says, “Yeah – we are not spring chickens anymore.”
“See? That’s a shock.” I reply.
“It’s crazy to me how many people our age bracket have died.” The friend says.
“Yes! Because we aren’t that old. Jesus. We have more time than these people got.”
I don’t know how much more time so I’ll keep shuffling around the neighborhood while I still can, taking in the sights, my random thoughts as company.
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