I’ve said too much. A reader did the email version of rolling her eyes, declaring that yesterday’s rant was un-Southern and a betrayal of my inherent belle-ness. (Who knew we had The Belle Code"???)
Evidently, I am honor bound to rise from the ashes, dust my crinolines off, sew new running clothes from the velvet drapes, stand in silhouette against the sunset sky with wind in my hair, and declare in my very best drawl, “With Gawd as mah witness, …” and then come up with something optimistic.
No offense meant, but WHAT PLANET ARE WE ON HERE, GUYS???
First, I lack ashes and crinolines, but do have Nike and New Balance. Second, makeshift garments might have been stylish for Scarlett, but chafe a runner. We prefer technical clothes. Third, wind in my hair makes me look like Dog the Bounty Hunter in drag. Fourth, I drawl only when I’ve had a glass of wine and I want something.
As for coming up with something optimistic, I CAN do that. And will. Right after I run. Until then, all bets are off, baby. This bad time is reality as real as it gets.
Until I can work out a way to wrap my unrelenting distraction around running to stay sane, I suggest that you join me here by the fire. We’re going to get into a circle, hold hands, and sing “Kum Bah Ya” in honor of the closing of the ING New York City Marathon lottery tonight at midnight.
And then we’re going to tie on our running shoes and make life oh-so-much better. If I have not been able to run by tonight, I’m going to post my address. Come get me.