Last night, I agreed to dinner and a movie with the RSF on the condition that we hit the gym first.
I figure it’s not exactly cheating on my gym buddy, since we’re not, you know, exclusive. It’s a big gym. I can’t be tied to one buddy.
I had just found my running zen, heart, feet, salsa rhythm all keeping the same beat, when it hit me. The Stink. Now, if there’s two people on a long row of treadmills, one of which being me, and I know I didn’t create that funky smell… Well, you get the picture. Farting Guy totally stunk me right out of the happy running zone.
I retreated to the suana.
Steamed, showered and hungry, the RSF and I opted for dinner in Harvard Square, which shall henceforth be known as Really Slippery Icy Nightmare Square. And the incident in which I fell, and lay laughing on the sidewalk, shall be known as That’s Gonna Hurt in the Morning.
And indeed it does.
I’m sporting a bruise the size of a small Baltic nation right on my ass and my wrist looks like I tried out for Ninja Amateurs Night. At least I was smart enough to ice it before bed. On several cold margaritas.
Now that’s thinkin’.
I wiped out once on the street in front of my house, skidded down about forty ft. of street on my backside, and came within a hair’s width of an oncoming car. That not only left a mark, but was about as close as I’ll ever come to living on the wild side.
The guy can fart AND run at the same time? Now that’s impressive. Difficult, but impressive.
Which nation?