The other night when I was running a loop around the neighborhood, I came upon a man who was running in my opposite direction. In passing, we somehow managed to defy the chasm of space that should have existed between two runners on the vast sidewalk and grazed pinkies. GRAZED PINKIES. I was so perplexed at what just happened that for what seemed like an eternity (but was probably only 0.000001 of a second), I debated on what to do in a situation like that. Do I turn around and apologize? Shouldn't I somehow recognize that we touched and that it was awkward? Do I really just keep running after something this? How did our pinkies brush against each other? Was my hand flailing that far out from my body? Maybe he was the awkward long-armed runner that invaded my space. As my mind pondered, my legs propelled forward, not even acknowledging that one of my phalanges had just gone through something so traumatic. All I could think of for the rest of my run was I hope we don't cross paths again as I loop back around. That would be an awkward reunion... The end.
Actually, no, not the end. I hate running. Absolutely despise it. And my body does, too [see this instagram caption]. It was not made for running. But when I was pregnant with Warner, I read this book, Born to Run, and it was uhhhmazing. Totally inspiring and made me believe that I was born to run, despite my inability to look like a human being while doing so. So I've been running 15 miles a week for the past month. Still can't say I love running, but I love the alone quiet time I get, and that's good enough for me. Now the end.