The fluctuating temperatures and early-spring pollen have wreaked havoc on my sinuses, so when I woke up Saturday for the first of the seven races I’ve paid for this spring and felt terrible, the goal was simply to complete the race.
Then, when I got out there and was actually able to run in longer bursts than I thought I’d be able to, the goal was just to finish under 50 minutes.
Despite pushing it so hard in the last stretch that I barely was able to yell “On your right!” to two teenage girls who ambled onto the race course like there wasn’t a giant banner that said FINISH thirty feet away and a bunch of sweaty people wearing numbers heading right for it, my time was 50:01.
That’s What He Meant
Our neighborhood had a beer festival this weekend, and Stephen bought tickets ages ago for both of us. Even though I don’t drink beer since going gluten-free a year ago. And even though I had a sewing class scheduled in the middle of the festival.
We gave my ticket to a college friend and, when I returned from my class to pick them up, I had my finished project in the back seat. While I navigated away from East Park and the hordes of people walking toward Five Points, my hands wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles were turning white, Stephen picked up my project and asked, “What did you buy a pillow for?”
I’ll take that as a compliment.
Month two of the Remedial Book Club brought a change in venue to a non-smoking bar and Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
Some books—like last month’s selection, To Kill a Mockingbird—get better as you get older. Others? As Randal said, “This book was about as exciting as actual fishing.”
Our weekend ended with a trip to Target, as weekends often do. We stopped by the Easter section to see if there were any Peep-themed non-food merchandise we might wear at next week’s race (Rachael Anne named our team “This is For My Peeps”). That’s where we first crossed paths with a mother about ten years older than us and her two small children still dressed for church at suppertime. The kids were in high spirits, excited about Easter.
When I remembered I needed wipes for the car interior, we crossed paths with them again. The boy, about four, was whining that he’d found something he wanted to show her to buy for him.
We ran into them again at the checkout line. There were only three registers open and about twenty people with carts waiting. There were people of all colors and ages and three different types of religious headwear. I noticed this because we were all sort of looking at one another. Every last one of us was trying very hard to ignore the screaming blond boy who had taken off his tiny penny loafers, thrown them, and planted himself on the floor of the store and cried until his face turned pink. Someone else’s little girl carefully collected his shoes and placed them nearby, only for him to throw them again. His mother continued to purchase her cart, stopping only to chase after him when he made a break for it and started to run back into the store.
They were still inside, and he was still screaming, when we stepped into the crisp evening with our purchases.
“SNOOZE,” I said, my eyes wide with disbelief at the spectacle we’d just escaped.
“No joke,” Stephen said. “I hope you didn’t break the alarm clock chucking it at the wall.”