I am quite certain I am getting a lump of coal in my stocking this year.
I belief using the f-word when describing the jolly stocking filler - in fact, using a string of them - is hardly conducive to receiving anything else.
Why the hate, you wonder? It's easy. Ari had to work today. At 2. Which is fine, because I'd been up since waytooearly working, and I remembered to kick his door as I went past to remind him. What I hadn't remembered to do was stuff his work shirt in the wash, which I hurried to do. Reminding myself to listen for the pinging to tell me to get it into the dryer, I immersed myself in 3 separate work pieces and forgot.
All of this is long winded way of saying I had to drive him to work because we were hauling his shirt out with mere minutes to go til his shift started. Scooting out to the car with no coat on, hair crammed up in a pony tail and my glasses sliding down my nose, I swung out of the court. And came to the light where all manner of festive people were setting up for our annual Santa Claus parade.
Aw. How darling. Right? I glanced at the clock, and reckoned I had 2 minutes to get back before they put the barricades up. I dumped Ari off with nary a backward glance and booted it back home. Barricades. I deftly swung down a side street (46 years in the same house teaches you a few tricks), only to meet more barricades and a cop who was suddenly struck blind and deaf. Damn.
All I wanted to do was get back to work. Yay for Santa, and small children, and doggies in little knit boots and neighbours up to their elbows in bon vivant. Awesome. Just let me get back to my deadlines.
Because you can't start screaming like a madwoman in front of dogs in little knit boots, I parked the car and started running. That is a generous description: I was more like trotting. My pseudo burst of speed had a twofold use: I was freezing to death, and I didn't want to stop and chat with all the neighbours I know. And I like them too much to subject them to Work Lorraine, a vision of pre-shower loveliness who was now panting like she'd run a marathon instead of a single block.
The plan was working splendidly until I felt my lungs ripping out of my chest. Be quiet. I have never claimed to be a symbol of fitness, and to go from inert to sprint would test anyone who hasn't run since the relays in grade 4 at Lakeshore Public School. To stop a block from home was out of the question. That would mean not only having to talk to people I know, but to be panting and wheezing in front of them too. Aware this would take their attention from the fact my glasses are noticeably crooked and I have a spaghetti splotch on my shirt, I still opted to keep running, putting my health in jeopardy as I ratcheted up my reputation as an eccentric. I am currently neither old enough nor rich enough to be eccentric. I kid myself that I'm not firmly parked in 'weird'.
Recalling some advice that an athlete should focus to work through the pain, I concentrated on the fact that I wasn't wearing a bra. This is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. I finally decided I was grateful I even had shoes on. I usually drive Ari in my slippers.
Rounding the final corner, I limped up the front steps. I had run 2 blocks. Small blocks. I exploded over the threshold and with my last breath took the name of Santa in vain. As I cursed that I pay a billion dollars in taxes and should be able to park in my own damned driveway, I suddenly had a glimpse of Toronto Mayor Rob Ford in my head. I realized that his declaration that the 'war on cars' was over was intended for people who were saying the very things I was now uttering. Slapping my own self, I said an apology to Santa, and my neighbours who had had to see what they did when they'd only gathered to take part in a festive parade.
I am going to get my walking speed up to a true trot. I may break out a run by January.
I've seen Ford. He should consider the same.