So, my neighbor was out running this evening with his two elderly yapper dogs — who, it should be noted, like to bark at my dogs while they sit on the back of the couch surveying their kingdom (hey, no need to tell them it’s not their kingdom, I just humor them) through the window of their castle, and who in turn set forth a wild, shrill chorus in response to the impertinent interlopers. Yeah. Such fun.
At any rate, my neighbor was jogging past as he is wont to do and stopped to chat while I exited my car, as he is also wont to do — and which is almost always met with dread on my part, because really, I just want to get into my house and away from overly perky neighbors — and on this particular evening, he asked, after a smattering of chit-chat, “so, do you ever run?” somehow implying that our neighborhood was great for this overly sweaty exercise regimen that I have absolutely no interest in doing. I pondered how to answer this question as I quickly calculated the time it would take to continue this unwanted conversation if I were to answer in detail about the lack of a fitness program in my life versus the desired result of never having another similar conversation should I just provide a terse, “you’ve got to be kidding,” kind of response. All the while, in my head, I was thinking, why yes, yes I do run. Out of patience. Out of vodka. Out of fucks. Out of money. And sadly, out of cheesecake. What came out of my mouth, however, was “no, actually no, running is not my thing.” My mother would be so proud. Of my nice response. Not my lazy lifestyle.
And with that, I escaped into my house — not quite on the run — which is all I wanted to do in the first place.