Are you happy, Ben? You've browbeaten me into doing something else against my will so you can get your way. JK, OMG, LOL. The more I thought about it, a blog for you and Zach might be kind of fun so here we go.
This morning after dragging my a** (ass) out of bed, I walked out of my building into what you see above. Apparently the Chicago Marathon route went up one side of my block and down the other. I was being flanked by sweaty jack-holes who were preventing me from getting to any bus stop so I could get to work. I was already late at this point despite skipping my shave and shower to save time. Calm down, I totally wore a hat to hide my greasy hair and I wore a baggy shirt to keep my body stink trapped inside what soon became a cotton B.O. balloon in the unseasonably warm temperatures.
So after walking from one end of my street to another, my hand was forced and I knew the only way I was going to get to work was to blast through the mass of runners to get to a bus stop. I wasn't about to close my eyes and jump into the stampede, so I stepped to the edge of the curb to get a feel for the ebb and flow of the river of marathoners. I let my eyes unfocus as if I was waiting for the 3-D dolphins to appear at a Magic Eye mall kiosk in 1996. As the heavily-breathing masses blurred past me, I quickly realized I was in trouble. The pace was still fast and the bodies were still toned. They weren't at a Kenyan pace, but these weren't your average weekend 5K jerks, either. That meant it was still relatively early in the race and any hope I had of waiting the race out and getting to work at a decent time was dashed. I knew at that point that I couldn't even afford to wait long enough for the marathon cabooses (middle-age women in weight-loss clubs, the inspirational handicapped stories, the elderly, out-of-shape weekend quarterbacks who started walking after realizing they were in way over their heads when they started puking at mile two, etc.). I had to make my move.
Younger reader alert: 1980s reference coming up!
I took a deep breath, focused past the runners on the opposite curb and tried to recall all my skills learned playing hours of Frogger as a child. I had to smile as I imagined myself hopping in Doc Brown's DeLorean and telling my 7-year-old self not to put down the Atari controller because those finger blisters are worth it because someday those talents will get you to get to a horrible, low-paying job a little late instead of really late.
I should tell you I had some things working against me (other than my body fat and horrible stamina). I was wearing jeans and flip-flops and had a moderately-heavy backpack. In other words, I wasn't going to just slip into the crowd and blend in with hundreds of athletic machines wearing extremely short shorts. My crappy data-entry job beckoned, however, and I couldn't wait any longer. I said a quick prayer to Barry Sanders, the patron saint of quick, elusive running, and stepped off the curb. I was immediately blindsided by a very slippery, shirtless bald man with a goatee. He stumbled, let out a "Come on!" and kept keeping on, leaving me with a moist spot on my shirt in the shoulder region. I was briefly disoriented, but I quickly regained my senses and pushed on.
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(Amber just called to go get something to eat, so I'll continue this later.)
