Of Angry Knees and Stabbing Pain

I believe you should take inspiration wherever you find it. This weekend I engaged in my very own “I Don’t Ever Want To Look Like That Guy” program. I know, it’s not a very catchy mission title, but it’ll do for now. Suggestions welcome. I may never be able to do a frog kick or have an ass like the Chinese woman at the Y, but hopefully, with luck and determination, I won’t look like That Guy. Sunday morning I drove to Chicago to pick up my brother & sister in law, who just returned from San Diego. They had spent a week helping their Marine son settle in to his new assignment after a hitch on Okinawa. Their trip was immensely cheaper by stopping in Chicago rather than direct to Grand Rapids, so out of the goodness of my heart (shut up, you who know me) I awoke at 2AM to make the 3-hour drive. I heard all about how oppressively 80 degrees and sunny it is in other parts of this great country, and gained a new appreciation for the snow of my hometown. On the way back, we enjoyed a King's breakfast of sausage & grease, with croissants, eggs, & cheese, with a side of potatoes & grease. It was damn tasty, but several miles later I noticed my gut had expanded. Today’s the day I decided to pick up jogging. It’s one of those activities I don’t normally do, because I hate it. Mushrooms, I simply dislike. Telemarketers annoy me. Jogging, I hate. It’s almost on par with Inflatable Christmas Decorations. I have friends who are so into running, both of their vehicles' vanity plates proudly display their perverse love of the sport. The whole fam damily is chronicled in the halls of their home, with action shots from the Boston Marathon and so on. Not me. Historically, I’ve only run when a fire breathing coach and a herd of my pimple-farming peers were chasing me, or when faced with a pack of ravenous dingoes. And I can tell you exactly how many times that has happened. I bundled up in my most fashionable exercise getup (sweat pants and a hoodie), leashed the dog, and set out into the wild. It’s exactly 1 mile around the circle. Soon my enormous Dutch feet were slapping the slush, soaking poor Grace with salty spray. I don’t know what you may have heard about men with big feet, but it’s true. They sure can kick up some slush. Thankfully, there were big patches of road covered with slick, packed snow. Good excuse to walk part way. Or most of the way, I wasn't counting, but I certainly didn't want to slip and fall in my highly-reactive-to-gravity state. Since it’s colder than a you-know-what’s you-know-what, I tied a kerchief around my face, cowboy style, to prevent my uvula from crystallizing. My legs now hate me, my right butt cheek is unresponsive, my spine has been driven another ½” into my skull, and I’m sure the neighbors were disturbed by the sight of a flabby Cowboy Unabomber. It’ll all be worth it if my photo never appears on the internet.