WEATHER: Take a guess.
MILES THIS WEEK: 24.
WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home
I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write? Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).
Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers. Sometimes it’s all too much. Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop. Sometimes you need an escape. Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”
Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.
And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.
Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7. Why seven? Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.
So, without further ado, I bring you:
Chapter One: A Rundezvous with Destiny
Jessica Boudoir had problems.
She had career problems. Her one-trick-pony snooty dull-as-all-get-out writer boss, for whom she was a publicist, had been writing about globalization for YEARS and was wearing out his welcome in the academic community. He was also wearing out his welcome in the Jessica Boudoir community, as he had long ago given up on innuendo (“I want you on my staff.”) and struck out for the territory of all-out harassment (“Huh. I remember your tatas being bigger.”).
She had family problems. She was 34 and single (and thus very clearly not a stand-in for your dear author, who is not 34, so stop drawing parallels that are not there, dear reader, just stoppit), which was in and of itself not really an issue, except for the constant phone calls from her mother to reminder of this fact.
“You are 34 and single!” her mother would say, calling at 3 AM on Sunday. She would also usually add something to the effect of, “I ate a goldfish! Where are my slippers?” (Jessica’s mother, an aging hippie, was also reverting back to her 1960s self lately. This involved dropping copious amounts of acid, making Mrs. Boudoir a convenient source of color and comic relief in Jessica’s otherwise altogether formulaic existence.)
She had personal life problems, as her simply incandescent beauty — her brown eyes with the intensity of Prefontaine at the start of a 5K; her collarbones jutting out from her body like a beauteous natural rock formation along the Leadville Trail 100, her hip-length, flowing blonde hair running free and easy and pale down her back like a pack of Russian women winning the Berlin Marathon…well, it was simply too much for many women to compete with, and thus she had made few friends in the two weeks since she had moved to Washington.
She even had running problems, as this impossibly handsome man in her new running club — a man with impossibly shapely lats for a distance runner — had begun flirting with her, which usually ended in embarrassment for her, as she was apparently determined to be as awkward as possible.
“You have some wheels on you,” he had said with a wink the day before, at a water stop around mile 14, by the Washington Monument.
Jessica Boudoir had responded by goobering Mocha PowerGel on her singlet.
It had been a long time since she had felt this way about a person — the way when she felt a sensation in her skivvies that had absolutely nothing to do with chafing.
Jessica’s biggest problem was that her IT bands were killing her. And thus she found herself at Rundezvous Sports, investing in a foam roller as well as a case of HammerGels.
“Will that be all for you?” asked the checkout guy as he bagged her items.
“Mm? Yeah,” said Jessica, flipping through a magazine, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
She turned. It was the running club guy.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi,” he responded, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve formally been introduced.”
“Would you like to join our running club?” asked checkout guy.
“No,” said Jessica. She turned back to this new handsome creature. “I’m Jessica Boudoir,” and she grinned eagerly. Too eagerly. Dammit.
“Hi,” he said, still smiling. “Rod Deltoid.”
“Push debit or credit?” said Checkout Guy.
Jessica fumbled with the keypad without taking her eyes off of her new friend, Rod Deltoid.
“So are you coming to club on Wednesday?” she asked.
“I’m doing the long run on Saturday,” he responded. Then, without missing a beat: “Come carbo-load with me on Friday.”
Her heart skipped five beats and her resting pulse raced over 40 beats per minute for the first time in 5 years. Checkout guy shoved race flyers into her bag and before she knew it, she had said a breathless goodbye to Rod and was running to catch her bus. But then, behind her:
“Wait! When do we bone?” called Rod Deltoid.
“I’m saving myself for Chapter Four!” she called back, running for her bus.
Mmmmmmm-HM. That’s some gooooood steamy readin’. Stay tuned.