White Legs Johnson 3/26/10

I didn't run today, since I was still getting over yesterday's effort on the roads and the multiplex. So, today's entry relates to a windy, cold morning from a couple of weeks back, which was unrelated at the time, probably because I thought some list, or haiku would work better.

I was determined on that day to run in shorts, despite the temperature-about 32 degrees-and a wind so strong it deserved a reading on the Fujita scale, like F10. Before I undertake any run, I have to do my chores, which is why I had the trash bag in hand as I walked toward the dumpster in long-sleeved shirt, Nikes, and red short-shorts. My slouching gait allowed me to see, all at once: the bag, the shoes, and the legs, all of the same horrifying whiteness.

For the man who was the boy who wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, and Carlos Santana, and Willie Mays, this was a blood chilling sight. I got the chicken skin all over my pasty piernas. Where had all the melanin gone? Accursed Winter! Purloiner of pigment! I began the run with a feeling of loss, and a realization that I would never be more than seasonally sun-marked. I cursed my Hibernian ancestors and headed down the road.

My misery was made even greater, as if it needed to be, by a woman walking her dog the opposite way, who upon seeing my bare, white pines pushing palely up the hill, pulled back on her Schipperke, and shrieked, "Oh, my, your legs!." See, it's not just me.

Thanks for humoring me.