actor portrayal; not the actual author.
yesterday was my birthday. i'm now 44.
today i went for my first run as a 44 year old. the results were decidedly mixed.
on the one hand, i trudged like a clydesdale. on the other, i did over four miles in 34 minutes, on a hilly course. and i didn't get hurt.
i can't complain.
along the way i asked myself why i continue to run, to work out, to play basketball. the first thing that popped into my head was, "so i can run with my son one day, when he's getting in shape for his sports."
that's partly true. but i also like feeling as though i could run from something dangerous if it were chasing me: a land shark, or a republican, or an angry toddler.
of course i'm also running from death, and damned if satchel paige wasn't right: every time i look over my shoulder, the grim reaper is gaining on me. relentless bastard. doesn't matter. i'm going to delay the inevitable as long as possible. when it arrives, i intend to insult it with rude comments about its wardrobe and personal grooming habits.
by the time my son (and then my daughter) is old enough to run a couple miles, i'll be at least 50. damn, fifty. it seems ancient...it's hard to imagine i could ever be so old. but being 44, and one day 50, beats the alternative.
hey, death, you need a flea bath. and that cloak looks ridiculous. something in pink plaid would be an upgrade, jaggazz.
see? death may be on his way, but he'll get no satisfaction from me.
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