Lion and Magic Boy

Yesterday I figured it was high time to make good on that stupid idealistic promise I made (publicly, I might add!) to do more running more walking less complaining about the (muffled sound of struggle) pounds I have added to my frame since, say, August when I moved to this backward and godforsaken state Pennsylvania.

So I’m out there running walking with occasional spurts of loping running actuality in the darkening gloom of late afternoon, and all I can think about is the fact that asphalt is much much harder than the smooth springy surface of my treadmill, the one I gave up last August because a.) it might not have fit on the moving truck, b.) there was no place for it in the new house other than down in the basement (and would that have been such a bad place for it after all? it’s cool, and quiet, and private, and I can run faster than the spiders), and c.) I really, really, needed the cash. Said treadmill was reluctantly Craigslisted and duly handed over in exchange for a small wad of cash. Though I secretly wonder whether Mr. Craig will ever use the thing, judging by his admirably large belly which likely took years to grow. At least Mr. and Mrs. Craig now have a new towel rack.

So I’m out there, trying not to think about the numbness of my fingers, especially in my right hand, the one that keeps retrieving the iPod from my pocket in order to check the time (hard to see now in the darkening gloom), haven’t I been out here for HOURS? No? Oh, it’s been 17 minutes? Shit. Keep running walking. Even though, look, a rapist! There in the trees! With his dog! Oh, no, he’s going the other way. Maybe he didn’t see me, even though my shoes, remarkably non-wind and cold-resistant, evidently light up like mini beacons, to attract not only would-be rapists but also to deter drivers from thinking I’m simply some deer begging to be made into roadkill (they do ASK for it, don’t they? And leap onto moving cars? At least, that’s what The Ex keeps saying about all the deer he’s plowed into he claims have hit his car, I think the death toll is up to 3 now).

And through the deepening rapist-free gloom, all I can think about is (naturally) my next blog post. Aren’t you glad I’m thinking about you like that? Like, ALL THE TIME? I luv you like that, you know.

Yesterday before the running walking fiasco (which I am completely recovered from this morning I might add, thank you for asking), I went down to the pet store that on weekends has cats and dogs on display for potential adoption. HEY! HERE’S A THOUGHT! What if people did that? For mating purposes? You could go along, see all the men in cages lined up, ties askew, tongues lolling (wait, that’s dogs), all puppy-eyed and hopeful, hurling themselves at the walls of the cages, saying “pick me! pick me!”. I would pay to see that.

As it turned out it was almost a complete waste of quite a bit of my time, both from navigating mall-crazed traffic and from the sheer number of people milling around while holding helpless little but achingly cute kittens at the pet store, but at least I’ve done a bit of reconnaissance for when I bring Serena, Nathaniel, and Eric back there sometime to make some cat-choices of our own (I so wanted to walk out of there with a cat, but I knew they’d never forgive me).

And, I had another I-don’t-need-an-eye-doctor moment — Going past a mini-storage facility, the sign clearly read: “SELF-STORAGE HATRED”. I thought, how handy! You can store all your hatred in one place, far away from spouse or children or that stupid person in the cashier line at Target who has on an asphyxiatingly copious amount of cologne and who insists on having the price checked of EVERYTHING they are buying, like they couldn’t have done that beforehand? AND they are paying by check, which takes them TEN MINUTES to write, does their signature have to be in perfect Spencerian script?

But no, a second glance revealed: “SELF-STORAGE HATFIELD”. Oh. Damn. And I had such plans for storing hatred.