While on a recent vacation, I attended a family dinner complete with all the trimmings: spaghetti with delicious meat sauce, salad with vinaigrette dressing, champagne for toasting and a scrumptious ice cream selection for dessert.
Stories were flying back and forth across the table. Laughter was in great supply. A good time was had by all. I headed back to my domicile with a full stomach and a happy heart.
The next day I awoke at the crack of dawn (in my world 9 a.m.) and went out for my walk, jog, walk workout: walk for 15 minutes to warm up, jog for 40 minutes to workout and walk again for 10 minutes to cool down. At 55 years old, my jog is more like an exaggerated sliding motion in order to minimize pounding on the knees and hips and hopefully avoid an expensive and painful partial body part replacement in the future.
It was a crisp Fall morning and I felt especially energetic as I made my way through this unfamiliar neighborhood I was residing in while on my visit.
As I began my 17th minute (or two minutes into my slide/jog) my colon suddenly awoke with a vengeance. The Spaghetti/Meat Sauce/Salad/Vinaigrette/Ice Cream combination that had been winding it's way through my body suddenly came to it's point of exit: my anus!
As I slid along I began looking for a place to make my deposit: behind a tree? in some unsuspecting stranger's front yard? I needed to make a quick decision. Fortunately, I had just passed under a freeway overpass and beyond was a tangle of blackberry bushes grown just high enough to hide my white buttocks. I made a bee line for the bushes, squatted down and expelled my noxious load. Aaaaaah! What a relief!
As I began to pull up my rather tight running pants, I began leaning precariously to my left right into a puddle of water left by a recent rain. With swift reflexes, I compensated by thrusting my right leg out......and into a waiting Blackberry Bush replete with it's grasping nettles. Since my running pants came only to the knee, I looked down to see a bright red gash the entire length of my right shin; dripping; gleaming and throbbing.
Having already wasted two minutes of my workout time on this endeavor, I licked my palm, ran it down the length of my shin to remove the excess blood and continued on with my sliding: no one ever the wiser until next Summer when the neighborhood kids start eating the strange tasting blackberries they found on the bush, on the corner, underneath the overpass in an Oregon suburban neighborhood.
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