I went for a run today. I almost never do that but Echo and Nathan were having their "Echo and Papa" time and the list of things I wanted to do in that time was longer than possible. So instead of a leisurely stroll in which I walked, talked on the phone, and looked for deer hidden among backyard bushes, I decided to strap that yellow dog onto a leash, tie on some sneaks, and bolt through our usual route.
It worked. I was home in half the time. It probably wasn't the preferred speed for my canine companion. So many smells passed by. So many bushes left un-peed upon. And now he's back in his hairy bed with a look like: What happened?
On the run I got caught behind two gentlemen making their way with two bicycles and a shopping cart. I couldn't quite squeeze past them and the cart kept getting hung up on edges which would cause the pusher to ram it again and again and shout loudly. I eventually snuck around behind and was intending to just yank that cart up over the lip so these fellows could get on with their day and I could keep running but at the last moment an angry heave shoved the thing forward.
As I passed within inches of these guys I noticed that the surly and ineffective pusher wore a wig under his dirty cap. If the wig were a car you'd call the color champagne. A champagne wig. Four or more inches of it sticking out before it got caught up in the t-shirt/coat collar vortex.
I don't know what to make of it. I can't stop thinking of it. At first I thought: Well if I'm ever in a similar position I hope I am able to throw vanity to the wind and just enjoy my shopping cart and my 40 oz of Olde English. But now I think that sounds snooty, like you have to be free of alcoholism or have to have a home in order to care about going bald.
Down a similar thought path I have often vowed that if I ever get put in the slammer, sent away for life for some heinous crime with no hope of parole, I wouldn't lift weights. I wouldn't run the track or try to keep myself up in any way. Instead I would smoke packs and packs of cigarettes because when else would I allow myself that kind of vice?
But how can I be sure? I might want to continue feeling good even if I'm wearing an orange jumpsuit and will never, ever, even go to the county fair again.
I guess that cart pusher might have some struggles, not just an unruly shopping cart, but he still wants to look good. He wants to feel good. And a champagne wig does the trick.
So be it.
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