Natalie Makes Good

The fact of the matter is, it is cold outside. It is the kind of cold where errands leave you frozen and chapped, where any flakes that fall are just remnants of dead clouds, clouds mercilessly attacked by icy winds. Cloud dandruff. Because it is cold. It is cold outside and I have nothing more to say about that.

I wasn't going to go running today because, have you heard? It is freezing. It is so cold that even the dogs don't want to be outside. Not at three thirty when all those punk junior high school kids are walking past our fence, and not even at five when Jerry lets his dogs out and there is promise of a fantastic battle at the property line. It is that cold. Serious business cold.

I have a rickety treadmill of terror that I like to turn to on days such as today, days when the bright sun overhead throws its hands up in defeat. I may be here, but I've got nothing for you! That is what the sun told me today after I left the hospital where I had my blood drawn for some lab work. There I was, missing two vials of my adorable blood, and all the sun could do for me was look pretty. Isn't that rude? As I shuffled to my car parked three blocks away with my face buried in my coat and my hands pulled as far up my sleeves as they could go I really did think about maybe telling the sun to not even bother. I mean, pretty only goes so far, you know. And here I am bravely facing down all manner of pokey needles, after having already endured a pap. Really, Sun! I mean, really. The injustice of a thing like this is too insurmountable for words! I was repeatedly jabbed and poked and penetrated and stuck and then I was weighed, fully clothed. The injustices I have faced today are enough to make a martyr of me, of that I am sure.

I had grand plans for myself and the treadmill. We had a date, the two of us. My sneaks and that rickety thing, we were going to make beautiful miles together. In a heated bedroom. With Hulu on the laptop. And then The Holbs made this sort of off-hand comment you know. Something or other about being a wimp? Or that maybe I wasn't man enough to handle the elements? References to poultry? It was something crass along those lines, it hardly bears repeating. And now, you have to picture it: here I am, little old me, having endured all manner of medical rudeness; here I've been a big girl all day long, didn't pass out when they hauled out the big needle, didn't flinch when the doc put stuff in places stuff don't belong, and you're gonna what now Red? You gonna start something with me? Huh? You think I can't take it?

Suddenly my afternoon contained one three-mile tour of the frozen tundra, but I had some conditions. You know, terms. Any good negotiator knows how to lay down the terms. The terms were that he had to go running with me and freeze his little tushy off too, and also he wasn't allowed to complain about how slow I am. This is how little I ask, do you see how lucky this guy is? Then I put on every article of clothing I owned. Cause it's cold, guys!

I will skip the part of this story where I started off faster than The Holbs expected and he had to sprint to catch up with me; I will skip the part where he complimented my form so as not to brag; I'll also skip the part where I blasted it up the hill and didn't even stop once even though I really really wanted to; I will also skip the part where The Holbs had to pee in the porta potty on the trail. What I will not skip is the part where The Holbs had a cramp in his side and I did not, because this merits some elaboration.

So, The Holbs, he gets this cramp, see.

Ow! he says. He slows down.

What's the matter? I say, not nicely, but in more of a tauntingly nature you understand.

I have a side ache! He wheezes.

I stop. You have a side ache?! I am incredulous. This is the captain of the high school soccer team! The "I-Run-For-Fun!" guy. The "If You Run, Your Butt Might Shrink!" husband. This is the runner, and he has a side cramp? I checked for my side cramp. My side cramp wasn't there! Suddenly my husband has a side cramp and I do not, and . . .

OH-HO! I shout. It is dawning on me. I have just kicked my husband's trash.

You gonna be okay? I ask, not nicely.

Yeah, he breathes heavily. It's just, it's right here. He points to his rib cage.

Are you having a heart attack? I ask. I am not really concerned, let's not forget.

No, no, just not used to running is all . . . I've been doing more lifting lately, because I don't have as much time at the gym because of finals . . .

I am tuning him out here, and also maybe doing some jumping jacks, you know. He keeps going on and on, I'm checking my watch thinking, well this is really going to screw with my time. Finally I have to cut him off. His excuses are boring.

Oh, well, see you at home, I say. I start to trot off. This is the part where I usually speed up, see, I call back, just to stick it to him, you understand.

Then I ran, hard. The Holbs nearly caught up with me about a block away from the house but I ran even faster. I didn't know my stumpy fatty legs could go that fast! And you know what? Through a little side-ache luck, I totally beat that danged redheaded ding dong home. Little old me! Beating the crap out of her husband! Well, lah-dee-DAH.

Later to show that I was a good sport I let The Holbsloser take me to the mall to get a chicken burrito, no rice. Then we toured the Christmas sausage store and sampled some cheese, we checked out the New Moon merchandise at the Hot Topic (seriously - ??), and then on our way out we passed a bassoon orchestra of sorts playing a Christmas concert in front of the local Ross Dress For Less. This bedazzled me more than trumping my husband at running. (If you can believe!) I immediately set to documenting this happenstance for time and all eternity on my memory card.

Then The Holbs waved me over. You will get a much better view from this angle, he said significantly. I did not know what he meant by that until I saw it through the lens.

Sometimes the world is just too good a place for words, isn't it though?

So thanks, Holbsrunner. I may be faster than you, maybe also more athletic, not to mention smarter and more good-looking, but don't ever let it be said that you're not good for something.