Around here, Friday means FRIDAY ROUNDUP, which gives me the license to write about absolutely nothing, throw all those nothings together, and call it a "post." So, let's begin, shall we?
Oh, Who Cares ... Since last Thursday, we have experienced a long string of obstacles -- some big, some small, but ALL will be largely forgettable by the time I'm in a pitiful heap at the nursing home and cradling a Lee Middleton doll, so what they hay am I whining about? "That's a good question," replied one of my dogs. She remained perfectly still and incredibly attentive as I rattled on and on about the cruel, cruel world and shouted, "Where the heck is the Christmas spirit anyway? In the toilet? With the economy? What is WRONG with people?" And then I sat on the floor beside her and rubbed her head and told her, "Be glad you're a dog."And this is exactly what she looked like ...
I know -- awesome dog, right? And such a good listener, too. You can see it in her eyes. Dogs might not have souls, but this one has soulful EYES. And that's important. She GETS me.
Of all the dreams I've lost or found and all that I ain't got ... uh-oh, the spirit of Dave Loggins has wormed its way onto this keyboard. And as much as I would have enjoyed going to Boston, Denver or even L.A. this week, there was no ejection seat in central Alabama. But of all the things I really did lose this week -- my cool, my patience, my good manners (OK, I never really had those), my amazingly low blood pressure -- I did find one thing. Oh, yes. THE RUNNER'S HIGH. And what a handy time for it to arrive. This may have something to do with the fact that I hopped aboard the treadmill with such ferocity (courtesy of an entire week of puzzling events and disappointments) and renewed determination ... and quite a musical repertoire on the iPod.
If you, too, are pursuing the elusive runner's high, know that running requires some degree of choreography—a beat, if you will. The pounding of your own heartbeat doesn't count. In fact, it's distracting. Worrisome, even. But the right MUSIC, I have only recently theorized, was the missing link to helping me achieve the runner's high. Which is a nice change from the severe nausea. I would like to thank several songs for their support, but the list is just too long. To summarize, I'll just say that any and all African-American men and women who have made their way onto my playlist certainly deserve a big thanks. And that's a long, long list. Nice folks like Aretha, Tina, Patti, Luther, Earth Wind & Fire, The Brothers Johnson ... and this white man:
David Cassidy may no longer be hanging glossy and beautiful on my bedroom wall, but you would be amazed at the endurance a girl like me can muster with him singing in my ear. It's like staring at Tiger Beat all over again.
Today really IS Friday, and you know what that means. It is so very much the weekend, and I am so going to enjoy it, no matter what garbage comes my way. And I hope my mother, WHO CELEBRATES HER 66TH BIRTHDAY TODAY, will forgive me for not putting a card in the mail this week and will have a happy birthday anyway. (Hey, Betty, you know I don't write those cards, right? I just sign my name. But this birthday message? I actually wrote it. That should probably count for something.)