The not-running streak, that is. Didn't feel any worse, but no better, either, so no run for Papi. I'm not sure how I'm going to run twenty-three tomorrow. When asked for their opinion on the matter, millions in Haiti, Chile, and Turkey said in their respective languages, "Who gives a f***?"
Baseball season begins in a couple of weeks, and that makes me think of grass, sunshine, warm weather, seven-dollar light beer, and snakes. Another harbinger of Spring is the season's first snake, which my wife photographed, then scooched into the yard with a piece of mail, so that it wouldn't get squished. The yard may actually be the more dangerous habitat. The Last Snake of Autumn was decapitated in the same yard by one of those lawn service mega-mowers, then left on the sidewalk to intimidate the other snakes into considering early hibernation. It worked. St. Patrick couldn't have done it any better.
We found a live snake in the bedroom of our old apartment, which was in this same complex. My wife, the Snake Whisperer, found the little viper in a pile of dirty laundry. It was making one of her blouses dance in a way that neither God, nor the Devil, intended. I was called in, as the newly appointed head of the Poisonous Reptile Removal Unit, to dispatch said serpent in a manner that would provide swift, and lethal, results. I did so by smothering him with a twice-used pair of running shorts that had been sitting in that pile for a couple of weeks. It was an epic struggle: Man vs. Pencil-Thin Pre-Pubescent Garter Snake. It went on for fives of seconds.
Unjustifiably proud of my accomplishment, I had the demon skinned. His hide now adorns our toilet handle.
These are the things I think about when I don't get to run.
Thanks for reading.
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