top of page
Search

I Was Gonna Go And Jog, But Then I Got Shy

As if I didn’t need any more excuses to not go out for that daily run


As if I didn’t need any more excuses to not go out for that daily run, I quickly find the next scapegoat.

I wake to the shrill sound of a howling storm outside. I gently remove myself from the welcome warmth of my big down comforter. I trepidatiously tip my toes toward the source of the auditory disturbance.

I hesitantly part back the curtain to my bedroom window, and see nothing, but black. That’s probably because my eyes are closed. It also would probably help if I opened the lids, a little.


I open my occulars and am rudely met with nothing now but pure, uncut white. My eyes squint at the wall calendar behind me. Yep, it is March, and yet The Great Outdoors would aggressively disagree, by yielding a far frostier result. Now, I know where I live is oftentimes prone to longer winters than most places. That is the Faustian Bargain one must make in order to live on this blue and green floating space rock, sure. Still, cut me and humanity at large, some slack here! This has gone and graduated far beyond the point of Sadly Comic, now into the big bad realm of just plain Cosmically Ridiculous.


Would it behoove oneself to go and shovel the walks outside? Yes, it would certainly behoove oneself. Does that mean I want to go outside and actually do it? Survey says: No. Not one iota. And yet, I suppose I should go and be neighborly, and whatnot. I’ve been accused of many things, but being altruistic, has never and likely will never-- be one of them. Although, the day’s still early, I haven’t had my regulatory caffeine fix, so jury’s still out on how particularly magnanimous yours-truly is truly feeling.


The entire time I suit up with layer upon layer, to brave the entirely inhospitable elements, my mind throws its best courthouse defense against why I should just stay inside. Every lackadaisical reason I present, is matched blow-for-blow with every single article of clothing, I don on my at-battle-body. Let’s just hope I don’t become so unencumbered, that I reach the point of complete immobility.


Alright, that’s it. Forget it. I’m staying inside. And that’s final. The internal temperature of my human meat-puppet promptly fluctuates in response to my rebellious cerebellum’s internal vacillation. I’m now utterly drenched in sweat. My body’s become its own personal hotbox, and not the fun kind, mind you.

A Hotbox from Hell, rather. Everything’s overheated. I force myself out the front door into the unknown. If only for the briefest of reprieves.


I never thought I’d be happier to live in a place where the air hurts my face. I’m immediately reminded of that Blink 182 lyric from Snake Charmer: “Cutting like a razor-- like fire through the snow-- then straight down to the bone.” I do a faultless heal-turn, on a dime. One with the gentle, practiced grace of an Olympic figure skater, so as to return promptly indoors. Until I stop even more promptly than that, in deep Rembrandtic thought.


That big black shovel rests casually against the wall of my house, and silently judges me for its lack of intended use. Well, I might as well, while I’m out here. Fine, but I won’t enjoy it. The worst part of the snow here is that it’s so thick and compacted together. Makes it that much heavier. I feel my lungs burn though in utter agony, with every heavy and repetitious dump of night-sky-descended, white powder.


I take a moment to catch my breath. At least what’s left in my body. I look to the end of the block. The old woman that lives in the last house on the left was always kind to me, and has sadly become a shut in. Through no fault of her own. I should probably get to her sidewalk too. But don’t get it twisted. I’m not doing this for the good of all mankind, and I certainly won’t enjoy it. Any part of it. The entire time. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.


Before I know it, the entire block has been cleared. All that snow’s felt the wrath of my grumpy disposition. An imperceptibly small smile that’s so foreign to my money-making visage, slowly creeps its way up the corners of my mouth. At what? At a job well done. Alright, fine. Maybe I feel a little warmth around that dead-inside thump-thump that pump-pumps blood through my perma-cynical corpus.


I take one step back toward my own private domicile, and like something out of a totally-zany-wacky-drug-fueled Saturday morning cartoon, take a madcap, slapstick pratfall. Onto my backside. Hard. That’ll leave a mark. If it’s not bruised, then my pride and ego definitely will be. Time for a hot shower. I think I’ve earned it.


Something-something... no good deed goes unpunished. Let’s just crawl back into bed. I guess that’s what it means to be a hero. Doing something good for someone, and they’ll never even know it was you.

Maybe I am something of an altruist myself. Huh.


My lower back, however, would vehemently disagree. Can I get some ice, for that ice?

Mary-Jane



11 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comentarios


bottom of page