I’ve Gathered Moss

As I sit here drinking my beer — the beer that almost caused Mini-Meltdown II — I think, “I’m going to shamelessly appeal to my readers for support and butt-kissing.” I’ve got a big butt folks, so pucker up real good.  Your facial muscles have had sufficient preparation after all the long-necks you’ve thrown back this weekend.  So, if you want to skip reading this long post, just jump down to the comments and leave something like, “My, your hair looks great today!” or “Have you been working out?  Your ass looks great in those jeans!” Or just, “I’m behind you and your behind all the way!”

But first:  Mom’s divorce proceeding against Jackass I is coming up and he’s accelerated the intimidation and jackassedness.  He even went so far as to break into Mom’s house to take things that weren’t his. In his usual, caring-for-no-one-other-than-himself modus operandi, he left the broken door wide open so the neighborhood thugs could do their own broken-window shopping.  Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but he just didn’t give a damn whether it did.  And yes, as the mascara streaked faces of Susan Lucci or Melissa Gilbert will attest in, oh, just about every Lifetime movie ever made, the police can’t and won’t do anything until he actually, physically harms her. 

And now, there is also the Jackass Spy — it would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic — who goes around impersonating Mom.  Yes, there is one family fruitcake who, perhaps because she believes Dad’s lies or — giving her credit for some semblance of intelligence — maybe because she just enjoys being malicious, actually goes around saying she is Mom trying to get info to use against her.  Jackass Spy, I know you are reading this and SHAME ON YOU!!  Oh, and Jackass Spy?  Remember that book you wrote a few years ago?  The one about integrity?  Yeah, um, maybe you should read it in between lying to people about your identity. 

So, readers, send all good thoughts Mom’s way this coming week.  She got a real kick out of your comments on my Cougar post and I know she’ll appreciate your support this week.

But what caused my meltdown, you ask?  (Okay, maybe you didn’t ask, but you got this far into this post.) No, it was not Jackass I or even the fact that my dickhead, may he rot in hell, piece of shit brother Jackass II is back in the picture causing the kind of mayhem you’d only expect from comic book villains.  I’m pretty sure Jackass II is out there destroying entire city blocks with breath fetid from devouring the souls of his own children.  That is, of course, when he’s not out biting the hands that feed him or turning his back on those who’ve helped him. 

So, was it lack of sleep that caused my meltdown?  Family drama?  School stress?  Dishes piled so high in the sink at home that God got worried and made Mr. Dingo and I speak different languages until we washed them? 

No.  It was vanity.  Pure, simple, beautiful, ever virtuous vanity. 

While helping Mom organize her home office I came upon my old modeling portfolio in one of her file cabinets — the one Jackass I didn’t ransack — and decided to take a leisurely trip down memory lane.  It turned out to be the Autobahn to Hell.

I remembered preparing for one photoshoot and worrying that I was too fat, too ugly, and too old.  And now, I would give anything to look like the girl in those photos.  Before I even knew what was happening I started bawling.  Great, big, heaving, snot-filled sobs.  Then I started laughing at how ridiculous it all was.  And then crying again. 

I had goals for this summer.  I wanted to fit into the sassy pink bikini I wore three years ago.  I wanted to wear the sundresses I bought last summer.  None of that has happened.  My skin doesn’t even fit.  I am a ten-pound sausage in a five-pound skin.  With a couple of eggs and, oh, what the hell, bring me some pancakes, too.  Although I’ve run a 10K, I’ve had a successful legal career, and I’m loving my new life in academia, at that moment on that floor, I just wanted to be pretty. 

Pretty like you’re pretty.  Pretty like all those people in People magazine are pretty.  I mean, it’s called People magazine.  Those are just people, people.  Regular, average people.  And they’re all drop-dead gorgeous.  You’re all people, too.  And you’re goddamn gorgeous, too.  Hey, I’ve seen your blogs!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest hypocrite of all? 

I’m always telling my students to accept themselves and love themselves as they are.  Many of our class discussions are about cultural conditioning, prejudice, tolerance, and acceptance of ourselves and others.  When I am teaching, I truly believe the Deepak Chopra/Dr. Phil armchair psychology stuff I espouse.  But when I am teaching, I am not a pathetic puddle of tears because my size eight jeans no longer fit over my thighs without the assistance of our local EMT’s Jaws of Life.  When I am teaching, I feel more self-assured and whole than I ever did in my twenties.  Teaching also has a way of making me feel young.  Except for the occasional chill wind whipping through the generation gap.

Near the end of the last semester, while talking to one of my students about his final paper, he asked me an unexpected question.  He asked me if I’d ever heard of The Rolling Stones.  The.  Rolling.  Stones.  I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.  Did he think I was too old for The Rolling Stones?  Was Glenn Miller more my speed?  Or, hell, maybe he thought I sat around at one time waiting for Mozart’s latest opera to open?  Or did he think I was so unhip that I would have no idea who The Rolling Stones were?  No, that couldn’t be it.  I am most decidedly hip.  And hop, too.

Me:  Um, yes.  Duh!

Student:  Really?  Do you know the names of anyone in that band?

Me (okay, now the kid is just fucking with me and I’m going to have to give him a smack down):  Are you kidding me?

Student:  No, someone said that I looked like someone in the band and I was just wondering.

Me:  Who did he say you looked like?

Student:  Is there someone named Mack?

Me:  Mack?  No.  There’s a Mick as in Mick Jagger. 

Student:  No, I’m pretty sure it was — Is there someone with a last name McJagger?

Me:  No, the lead singer of the greatest rock and roll band in the world is named Mick Jagger.  Two names.  First.  Last.  Mick.  Jagger.  Are you serious?  You’ve never heard of Mick Jagger?

Student (still not convinced):  I think I’ve heard their stuff on a commercial or something.  Is there someone else?

Me:  Keith Richards? Charlie Watts?

Student:  No, I’m sure it was Mack something or other.

Me (incredulous):  Okay, you know what?  You’ve failed this course.  Off with thee now and don’t return until thou can namest all the members of The Rolling Stones and recite the unabridged history of Led Zepplin.

The fact that at least I know who The Rolling Stones are did not make me feel better as I sat on the floor in Mom’s office.  The tears, puffy nose, and wild frizzy hair reflecting back at me from the glass in the computer monitor was a far cry (and cry, and cry) from the fresh, skinny, young woman in the photos I held in my hands.  Those should have been size-four tears streaming from my face!  Maybe size two!  It’s been a long time.

Instead, I looked like one of the Honkey Tonk Women the Stones’ growl about.  I looked like a Beast of Burden.  I looked like Keith Richards on a bad, bad, bender.  Or just normally.  Or Mack something or other.  Actually, I looked like either one of them.  On a good day.

So, that was Mini-Meltdown I.  No, there was no epiphany.  No realization that I am wonderful just as I am.  Just the cold hard fact that should we avoid getting hit by frozen urine falling from airplanes on our way to work or dying from toys made of dog food from China, we’re all dying a little bit each day and sooner or later we all turn to ashes and dust — and some people’s ashes will be better looking than others.  And I’ll need a larger than average urn to fit my ash in it.

Mini-Meltdown II was less dramatic and, as this is already a long post, I’ll make it short.  I didn’t get carded buying beer this weekend.  I know, I know, I am weeeellll over the age limit for carding but I ALWAYS get carded.  This time though, the kid at the register gave me a cursory glance, a dismissive nod, and rang up my six pack with nary a raised eyebrow.  I was tempted to giggle like a teenager and throw a pack of condoms on the conveyor belt next to an issue of Teen People, but I didn’t.  I went home, popped open a beer to wash down my Geritol, and settled into my rocker for the Matlock July 4th Marathon weekend. 

Our country turned 232 years old this weekend.  And so did I.

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I’ll Make My Own Lemonade

I got back to NYC late last night. Woohoo!  Now I can catch up with my blog reading and commenting and you can catch up with commenting on mine (comment-whore hint).  Although Mom kept me busy shopping, cleaning out gutters, and installing an Odd Boy alert system, I managed to stick to my running schedule.  But not without mishaps.

I went for a run yesterday and got lost.  In a subdivision.  What was supposed to be a three-mile run turned into a four-and-a-half-mile slog through a tangled knot of streets with names like Dancing Deer Lane, Dancing Deer Lane Court, and Dancing Deer Court Lane Partridge in a Pear Tree.  Is it any wonder I got lost?  I bet even Santa, being the deer expert that he is, loses his way in this neighborhood. I would feel bad for the poor toyless tykes of this neighborhood except not one of those little fuckers had a lemonade stand set up yesterday in the ninety-degree heat.  What’s up with that?  How do these kids make money?  They can’t all be mowing lawns at $65 a pop. So, no lemonade yesterday, and thus I made sure that Santa will get lost in this neighborhood by switching all the street signs.

My running times were slower this week.  It could have been because of the god awful humidity but it’s more likely the lack of snark material on my run.  There was no one to distract me from my collapsing lungs.  And the only change in scenery from one cookie cutter house to the next was the color of the Honda Civic in the driveways.  I did not come across any other runners this week.  There were kids on bikes, a few skateboarders, and one rollerblade.  No, not someone on a pair of rollerblades but a kid peg-legging his way down the street on one rollerblade.  It was so pathetic that I can’t muster a snide aside even now.  Okay, I snarked a little at the time but it was so lame, I’m not even going to share it with you.  I did see one old lady with a cane walking on the sidewalk.  She did not look like she posed an OLWW-type threat.  She was just going to the mailbox but I made a note to myself to keep an eye on her just in case.

I should’ve brought my iPod to help me pick up the pace but I’ve been running without it lately.  Trying to keep the earbuds in my tiny ears was just too distracting and I like being able to hear my footsteps and my breathing.  I can also hear the water sloshing around in the water bottle strapped to my waist.  The fact that I have to use a bungee cord to get the thing around my waist is a drawback.  It feels like a corset or an external gastric bypass.  The waist belt is so tight that I can’t breathe much less drink. And if I’ve had any liquids in the last month or so, the pressure of the belt as it jostles my waistline sends ripples to my bladder making sure that I have to pee when I am at the furthest point away from home.  Being one to plan not only for zombie invasions but other worst-case scenarios, I have this potentially embarrassing situation already figured out.  First, drink all the water.  Then, pee in the water bottle, relieving my bladder, and, finally, make some money in the process by selling it as lemonade to some unsuspecting runner.  These suburban kids may not know how to turn a buck but I am a survivor. 

So, why did I buy a waist belt that was too small?  It was on sale at Target.  Duh! 

Speaking of Tar-zhay — and I always seem to be speaking of Tar-zhay — as Mom and I were walking to our car at the very back of the parking lot earlier this week, I made the non-judgmental observation that the people here seem very, very out of shape.  Especially compared to the people in NYC.  I think it’s because the people in NYC walk so freakin’ much.  And then there’s running after cabs, so even if you do end up taking the cab across town, the brief sprint to beat out the guy on crutches trying to carry two bags of groceries counts as both cardio and strength training — and you get some resistance training in there too if you have to hold the door closed as he tries to yank it open.  No, this did not happen to me.  I just saw it happen to others a few times.  Really!  And if it had been me, I would’ve pushed the guy down on the way to the cab so that there was no chance he could come after me.  And that counts as contact sport training, too.  Anyhoodle....

You know, one of the most humbling and encouraging lessons that I’ve learned is that fat does not mean unfit.  I have about @&! pounds to lose and when I started running I thought that people would wonder what this chunky monkey was doing taking up space when there were real runners trying to get by.  And you know what?  Some of those real runners were much, much bigger than I was and they blasted by me on the running trail without even breaking a sweat or breathing hard. It boosted my confidence in a fucked up kind of way because, as they zoomed by me, I wondered what those chunky monkeys were doing taking up space when there were real chunky monkey’s trying to get by.  Even though I haven’t lost much weight, I feel so much stronger and more confident.  In fact, I am confident that, if ever faced with a cab duel with a guy on crutches carrying two bags of groceries, I could not only beat him to the cab but I could hold the door closed without so much as breaking a nail in the process. 

The second most important thing I’ve learned from running is how to spit.  Oh, don’t twist your face up like that.  Before I began running I would throw an undisguised look of disgust at runners who spit.  I usually watched the Ironman from the comfort of my couch, but occasionally cheered marathoners as they passed by during an early happy hour.  As I double-fisted a high quality brew like Natural Light while maintaining my balance on a bar stool barely bigger than one ass cheek, I was certain that, while I may not have been fit, at least I had class. Now, however, I understand.  No matter how dry your throat feels or how dehydration has caused your eyeballs to shrivel up like raisins and rattle in their sockets, there will be a nasty loogie waiting at the back of your throat.  It must be expelled.  Yes, that’s gross, but so is swallowing the loogie.  Do you want to swallow the loogie?  No, I didn’t think so.  I’ve learned two cardinal rules of spitting: 

1) Do not spit directly in front of you, especially if it is windy.  It is very important that you turn your head to your side. 
2) Make sure there is no one running by your side.

This wasn’t such a concern here in the ‘burbs but it’s something to keep in mind if you ever run the loop around the Reservoir in Central Park.  Helpful tips, I gots ‘em.

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Taxes Not Included

By now you know that no visit to Mom’s is complete without a trip to Target.  Or an encounter with Odd Boy.  But I think GeekHiker jinxed me a few days ago by mentioning that Odd Boy would one day grow up to be Odd Man.  Well, yesterday I met Odd Boy’s future, and it is odd. 

I was sitting on the front porch reading — I know, I should just go read in the back yard, right?  Wrong.  It is a mosquito-infested bog.  And besides, the hammock is broken.  If I am going to be assaulted by West Nile assassins, I want to do it in luxury.  And although the sounds of frogs, toads, and other unidentified insect-eating amphibious creatures punctuate the night air disrupting my beauty sleep as they belch the alphabet, they have had zero impact on the mosquito population.  Zero. 

But this is not about mosquitoes.  Nor is this about the time earlier this week when I stepped out onto the back porch with bare feet and the perfect pedicure to let Dingo Girl out for her evening poop patrol and kicked a big-assed toad.  It had a J. Lo.-size ass and it wasn’t happy about having my size 8 ½ foot, (perfect pedicure or not!) imprinted on it.  He belched his protest and instead of hopping away, three more J. Lo. toads jumped onto the porch to back him up.  It was an ambush!  I was trapped! 

I screamed like a city girl and jumped away from my slimy attackers, landing five perfectly pedicured toes on a giant garden slug.  I am sure that I have never before heard the sound that rose from my throat.  I think it was a shriek garbled by vomit.  And so, that is why I don’t go into the backyard anymore unless I’m wearing my combat boots.  And it’s just entirely too hot to wear those this week.

So I sit on the front porch where the breeze kisses my face, the scent from what’s left of Mom’s flowers hangs in the air, and the “curse-said” (thanks, Mrs. Chili!) crop circle taunts me.  The front porch also makes me the prime target for Odd Family across the street.  I saw Odd Man pull his 1970’s-child-molester brown-on-brown conversion van into his driveway yesterday but I did not look up from my book or wave (in the South, y’all, you wave to everyone so look at what they have reduced me to!).  It didn’t stop him from coming over to talk to me.  Now, before y’all go thinking that I’m not neighborly, let me just say that Odd Family moved in a few years after I’d already left for college so I don’t really know them except from holiday visits home and phone calls conducted in hushed whispers.

Me:  Mom, speak up, I can’t hear you.

Mom (strained whisper):  I can’t.  Odd Family just pulled in across the street and I don’t want them to know I’m home.

Me:  They can’t hear you from across the street.

Mom (frantic):  Yes, yes they can.  They’re like bats!  They hear everything!  Well, darn it!  I left the porch light on, here they come.  If you don’t hear from me again, remember, you were always my favorite.  Always!

Me:  Mom?  Mom?  Moooooooommmmmmm!!!

Odd Man can talk the ears off a mule.  Except a mule would probably have the sense to walk off and leave Odd Man with his jaws a-flappin’.  I just sit there with a polite smile stuck to my face and murderous thoughts drifting through my head.  Although I truly believe, that even from six feet under, Odd Man would continue to talk.  He would be the one dead man to tell a tale.  And then another.  And then another.  So when Odd Man saw me sitting on the porch, I knew my peaceful afternoon had come to an end.  I immediately regretted shunning the company of my web-footed companions in the back yard.  At least if the big-assed toads annoyed me badly enough, I could seek my revenge with a frying pan and a pound of butter.  Odd Man has no such redeeming qualities.  His legs are knobby and hairy and should be kept hidden under long pants. 

Odd Man walked to the edge of the road and stood there for a few seconds.  Then he walked slowly up Mom’s driveway, stopping to smell the roses, before coming to stand in front of me.  And he started talking. 

Odd Man:  You reading that book?

Me:  Yes.  I don’t have a lot of time to read for pleasure these days so I —

Odd Man:  I have to read a lot too.  With my new tax business, blah, blah, blah…yaddah, yaddah, yaddah…snooze, snooze, snooze…so that’s why I have the docking station in the van.

Me (waking up):  You have a docking station in the van?

Odd Man:  For my laptop.  For when I go visit clients.

Me:  You see tax clients in your van?

Odd Man:  Yes, I make house calls.

Me:  Wouldn’t house calls mean that you go to their house?

Odd Man:  I do.  I park out front and then they come out to the van and that way I can show them stuff on my computer.

Me:  You have a laptop.

Odd Man:  *blink* *blink*

Me:  Why don’t you just take the laptop into their house?

Odd Man:  Ohhhhhh....  Say!  Didn’t you used to have a dog?

That Odd Man, nothing gets by him.

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Phone Company Grass

I’m headed to Mom’s again for a few days to help out around the house.  What that means for me is a lot of cougar training shopping yard work.  What that means for you is cougar training shopping Odd Boy updates.  Do you see all that I do for you?  No sacrifice is too great to keep you, my dear readers, updated on the Adventures of Odd Boy. 

Fortunately, the kids from Mom’s youth group came over this week to mow the lawn so all I have to do is some weeding and hedge trimming when I get there.  There’s much more weeding to do now that the phone company updated the underground fiber optic lines.  They ripped out Mom’s beautiful flowerbed by the front walk and, after they had finished, reseeded the area with grass.  But not just any old grass.  This Phone Company Grass is some of the toughest grass I have ever seen.  We’ve uprooted it, sprayed it, and cursed at it. Well, I’ve cursed at it.  Mom’s strongest curse is a half-hearted, “Well, darn it!”

No matter what we do to the Phone Company Grass, it keeps coming back.  It is the herpes of grass.  Osama Bin Laden may be made of this grass or, at least, hiding under it somewhere.  Meanwhile, where the phone company did not touch anything, there’s a giant bare spot in the front lawn that looks like someone has been making crop circles with battery acid.  I had better keep a closer eye on Odd Boy. 

Odd Boy, you see, has a fascination with Mom’s lawn.  He’s always offering to mow it.  My mom told me that he seemed genuinely hurt to discover that the kids from church were mowing her lawn this week.  He walked over to where Mom was dispensing iced tea and cookies to ask about her use of child labor.

Odd Boy:  Is that your lawn?

Mom: Um….yes.

Odd Boy:  Are those kids mowing your lawn?

Mom: Yes.

Odd Boy:  Do you pay them to do that? 

Mom:  No, they’re from my youth group.  They do it to help out.

Odd Boy:  Well, I would’ve charged you to mow the lawn.

Mom (always wanting to help and thinking he might need the money):  How much do you charge?

Odd Boy:  Sixty-five dollars.

Mom:  Sixty-five dollars!  That’s… hey, how come I never see you mowing your own lawn?

Odd Boy:  I’m not allowed to mow it by myself.  My dad has to watch me.

Mom:  So, how would you be able to mow my lawn?

Odd Boy:  My dad would come over and watch me.  Can I have some cookies?

Mom (handing him cookies): Of course!

Odd Boy:  I would still charge you sixty-five dollars.  My dad watches for free.

That Odd Boy, he drives a hard bargain.

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If Miles Were Measured in Donuts

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because most of it consists of things like, “Oh my holy hell, it’s hot y’all!” and “Someone talk me out of this madness!” But overall it’s going well.  I have about seventeen weeks until the marathon.  Yes, seventeen.  I had to make a wee change in my plans.  I am not going to Florence for the marathon.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, I am still running a marathon.  It’s just not in Italy.  It’s in Massachusetts. Cape Cod, to be exact.  Racing in Florence with a weak dollar and the cost of everything rising due to oil prices seemed like a big burden right now.  So, instead, I decided to race in Cape Cod, which is just like Italy with fewer popes.

Why Cape Cod?  Well, everyone knows that Italy is shaped like a boot, but did you know that Cape Cod is shaped like an arm?  Check it out on a map.  I am all into running in places shaped like extremities, so Cape Cod and Italy were the natural next choices after my first race in Manhattan.  Hey, if any of you are truly disappointed by this change in plans, I will reluctantly accept donations of cash, air miles, free drink coupons, duty free discount certificates or, hell, any old thing, toward the Send Dingo to Florence fund. 

The Cape Cod Marathon is sponsored by Dunkin Donuts because, you know, donuts and exercise go hand in hand.  I’m counting on them to have donut holes at every water station.  Or even instead of water stations. I can bring my own freakin’ water, but I want to make Dunkin Donuts put their “America Runs on Dunkin” money where my mouth is.

While my race training has gotten tougher and the hills don’t seem to be getting any easier, I have reached a running milestone.  The other day, I finally passed the old lady with a walker I see on the park track all the time when I run.  And I did it with style and only a small amount of gloating because I’m just humble like that.  When I first started running, Old Lady With Walker would kick my ass.  She would come out of nowhere and I’d think, “I may be slow but at least I can beat Old Lady With Walker.” Only, I couldn’t.  I could never catch up to her.

At first, I thought I had the upper hand.  OLWW is always dressed from head to foot in a white calf-length puffy coat — the kind you wear when the New York winter is at it’s worst and the mayor is telling everyone to stay home from work so the snow plows can do their job — and leather gloves.  She looks like the Michelin man, except I don’t recall ever seeing sweat stains under his armpits.  Anyway, I figured if I couldn’t catch up to her on my own power, she’d eventually fall out from heat stroke and I’d be able to hurdle over her prone body and claim victory.  Unless I was really tired from running.  Then I would have to step on her.  Gently. 

But I think OLWW has a tricked-out walker.  It’s sort of the Sports edition of walkers.  It has thick SUV wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front ones.  Tennis balls!  How could I compete with that?  She pushes this walker up and down the hills of Central Park like she just won a $5000 shopping spree at Tar-zhay and has only five minutes to reach the check-out line.  I thought, “Day-um!  I should be able to beat OLWW!” But I just couldn’t.  The distance between us would continue to increase until finally she came around behind me. 

And then.... this week, the impossible happened.  I passed OLWW.  I didn’t just pass her.  I passed her going uphill!  I was ecstatic.  Rocky Balboa couldn’t have been more pleased when he reached the top of those famous steps than I was at that moment.  I heard his theme music in my ears, danced a jig and did a couple of fist pumps in the air before becoming so out of breath my vision began to blur.  But I wanted to savor my victory.  So I turned around to see if she was choking on my dust.  Folks, I am just mastering the art of forward movement.  Running backwards is the Ph.D of coordination and apparently I don’t have that gift.  I tripped.  And fell. 

The world looks completely different when you are only six inches off the ground.  I did not relish having the Nike Swoosh tattooed onto my forehead by the approaching runners who did not stop.  Yeah, no one stopped.  They just kept on running although I think I heard one woman say something to her running buddy about stepping on me gently.  Through my haze of embarrassment, I swore I could hear OLWW’s wicked cackle as she anticipated leaving walker tracks across my outstretched body, so I quickly jumped up and continued my run. 

You would think making a complete ass of myself would dial back my snarkometer to acceptable leveIs, but you would be wrong.  The only thing that can make you feel better after an incident like that is to make fun of someone else.  It’s really not hard to do.  At my pace, there is plenty of snark material running right past me every few seconds.  The normal people pass me too quickly to fully engage my Bitch Vision, so all I’m left with is the freak parade.  Now, I know what you are thinking, and shame on you.  I am not a freak.  I just run like one.

I was not disappointed.  Two of my favorite runners appeared up ahead and instantly lifted my mood.  First there was the guy who runs like he’s on his way to a Broadway audition or the Extreme Cheer Challenge competition.  Arms bent at the elbow, fingers fully splayed, he has the perfect jazz hands. My internal iPod doesn’t know whether to start humming tunes from A Chorus Line or reciting dialogue from Bring it On: In It To Win It .  (Shush!  Don’t judge me! I’d like to see your DVD collection!) I always want to slap a Spirit Stick into his hands just to see what happens. 

Speaking of flashy numbers, did you know they make gold lamé running shorts?  Well, they do!  And my second favorite runner, Lame Lamé, has a pair for every day of the week.  Either that or she wears the same ones over and over again, but that’s just too nasty to think about.  Luckily, they make gold lamé running shorts in various sizes so you can choose ones that are two sizes too small, allowing everyone to see the shape of your girl bits.  I am glad I wear sunglasses because the reflection off her ass can scorch your corneas.  When she passed me the other day, the heat from her vulva-laser caused me to stumble, but I somehow maintained my balance.  Not only would falling twice in the same run have been mortifying, but it would be a sad day indeed if the last sight I ever had of this world was a pornographic baked potato and OLWW tennis balls approaching my forehead.

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