Being somewhat warped of priorities, I celebrated my 61st birthday with a run. A half marathon. All by myself. It was a preamble to having dinner with Lily and her John.
It was cold. The wind was brutal. The sun offered no warmth at all. In the sixth mile, I felt the not unfamiliar sensation that suggested I needed to attend to a personal commitment long before this run was over. And yes, I carry a fistful of tissues just for this occasional occasion. Paperwork, you know. All this despite a double dose of Imodium 90 minutes earlier.
I looked far ahead. No one. I looked far behind me. No one. I ducked down into the woods by the trail for a suitable spot, and there I met the spirit and letter of of my commitment to the black bean, all the while holding onto the tree for all I'm worth lest I tumble without dignity down the slope.
As I'm processing the paperwork, I notice movement at 11 o'clock. It's a hiker and his fuzzy poodle pup coming down a trail I did not know was there. I have no option but to ignore them both.
And so it was over. I stood, adjusted my waistband, and set off for the trail to continue my birthday celebration. As I stepped on the trail, a commotion erupted. The hiker was speaking loudly, insistently, to the fuzzy poodle pup. And then louder. With a staccato series of NO! NO! The fuzzy poodle pup was apparently hard of hearing.
As I glanced over my shoulder, I espied with my little eye the cause of all the commotion, and in that instant I stepped it up to double time and stealth mode. I needed to not be there lest the hiker decide to pursue discussion with a ranger regarding me and my unsolicited feeding of the fuzzy poodle pup, who was all smiles as last I saw him.