The Tyranny of Toenails

The other day I ran for the first time since the Art Loeb. Not by choice, mind you. I was buzzing from that experience and itching to go days later. Unfortunately because I spent ten hours slamming my feet into the front of my shoes, I had contracted the apparently common malady of black toenails, with blood blisters on both feet. Painful, unsightly, ominously portending the loss of my precious nails--I was alarmed and queased out, and so have avoided running until now.

I don't often go so long without running, and lordie how I have missed it! I didn't realize how deeply, happily addicted to it I've become. It wasn't the usual twitchy irritable need for exercise--I've been feeding the rat a steady diet of mtb rides--but more of a wistful longing. When I run it's so quiet and simple. My brain shuts off except for the slow trickle of filigreed phrases I store up to write down later. Running has none of the folderol and riskiness of riding; lace up, head out, alone, undaunted.

Since my nails hadn't fallen off yet, I anticipated that first run like a birthday. Back on the trails! Please! After a slow start up the so-familiar rises of Sycamore, I took off. And felt like I was flying.

On Odor and Obesity

I have two seats to myself and my only complaint is that with my proximity to the dinette, every time the door opens an unpleasant processed odor wafts in.
When Jeremy-the-dining-car-manager announces mealtimes, groups of chunky beef-fed Midwesterners hustle past me to check out the chef's special. All I see in their rush are pale hairy calves and flapping t-shirts that reveal acres of back fat.
I'm not one to talk though--my feet have grown puffy from days of inactivity, and I smell a little like a concession stand.

The sky is a pleasant distraction.

Really? You're How Old?

So today I graduated summa cum laude, which is a feat I never, ever would have accomplished at Carolina. After stuffing my face with Pepperidge Farm cookies (yeah, BC keeps it classy--no generic shortbread for us), I rewarded myself with a Coontree run in a thunderstorm. I enjoyed it so much that I turned right around and ran it backwards as well. I tried to turn my adventure into some kind of poignant metaphor for graduation/life, but such lofty ideas eluded me and I was occupied with much baser thoughts. Mainly, that schoolwork is an awful lot like doo-doo.

Really?

Yes.

I couldn't stop coming up with similarities between bowel movements and schoolwork. Both are best accomplished in one sitting, and both are greatly expedited by coffee. I often refer to paper-writing as "pooping one out" because the process is fairly uncomfortable but ultimately satisfying. Both essays and excrement can come out pretty awkward-sounding if you try too hard, and there are grave repercussions if you don't submit on time. Meanwhile my hated nemeses, presentations and group projects, are more like explosive diarrhea: quickly done, with a shitty final product.

The worst part about this scatological reverie is that I could glean no deeper meaning from it. I made no revelations about life, I just ran along giggling about poop and chiding myself for being so gross. I guess it all boils down to the simple fact that I am so glad to be done with all that crap.