A kiss and a baggie of shit, please.

Runners who cross paths with my walking ass have no idea how close to death they have come.  Lately (since my running hiatus) my legs literally shake with the desire to trip them.  Maturity is mine indeed.  I am like Ghandi only I'm mean and small minded.  And alive.  And female.  ("Enough" commands my inner Aslan; even he is weary of me today... but his voice still thrills me.)  

The last time I ran was at Alki beach in West Seattle.  It is my favorite run for many reasons (see how I am speaking of running in present tense? There is no past tense with running.  Nope.  Nope.................... nope).  

There are no major hills along the waterline at Alki which is good for my shins and knees (thanks Dad), and the run is 6 miles which is good for my ego (thanks Dad).  The scenery transforms with every bend - the focal point shifting from the city to the mountains to the beach, each upheld by an expanse of ferry infested water.  I love coastline running because there is no "loop" involved.  Somehow whenever I run a loop I end up playing five times the mental games than when I have a single path on which I know I will backtrack. On a coastline run my whole body concentrates on getting to the "end", and then ramps back up for the run back (which always feels like half the distance).  On loop runs I end up setting up camping spots and stopping in to diners and hitch hiking.  

On this particular day I came to the always consistent halfway mark of my run (the beach! How convenient...) and fell like a asthmatic drunk to a bench where I pretended to stretch while in reality my goals for bench time were: "do not faint" and "do not vomit loudly like a lion" ("loudly like a lion" being the only volume of vomit available to me).  

The previous day had been shockingly warm for Seattle which made this day's cool air feel particularly biting in contrast.  The wind created a hazy fog of sand all along the beach that looked soothing and interesting until you felt it in your eyeballs.  Each time a gust of wind, gusted (awkward), I could feel the prick of a thousand needles stinging and sticking to my sweaty skin.  

My heart was beginning to regain some semblance of a beat when I saw that the usually packed beach was completely empty except for two people, a man and a woman.  The man was laying with his back against the sand, propped up by his elbows behind him.  The woman was positioned over him in a graceful straddle, touching him only with her mouth.  They were very young and very attractive, and their kiss was perhaps the most beautiful thing I have seen in a year.  

I am all about PDA (anyone want to meet me at Kerry Park tonight?), but PDA is not usually art - it's more like two twits trying to suck each other's throats inside out (again, anyone?).  The beach was public, and their display of affection had a sweaty audience of one, but their kiss was so tender and restrained and intimate that I felt I had stumbled upon something sacred and ancient, like the emerging of a phoenix or a leprechaun masturbating.  

I watched them kiss until I had to turn away.  Yup, you guessed it.  My gaze adjustment was not out of respect or disgust or boredom but because I remembered that I also cry loudly like a lion.  And mid run, in front of two lovers, on a beach in the cold sandy wind is just not the time.  But, as in the case of my shins, my body has proven itself very able to say "fuck you."  My heart ached so violently from my accidental voyeurism that I cried all the way back to my car.  The sadness wasn't loud like a lion, though.  It was too deep for that I think - it just looked like I was running in cold, stinging, sand-filled wind.  

   

"COME ON" a piece of me that sounds exactly like Job from Arrested Development screams.  But I won't come on.  And I am coming on.  And every sentence I wanted to follow this with ended in, "that's what she said."  

I am that person who is going to a play by herself tonight.  And I'm going to look great and enjoy myself and have a drink beforehand.  And seeing plays and movies by myself are some of my favorite things. Really.  But tonight I SORTA feel like I'd rather eat a baggie full of golden retriever shit.  Why golden retriever shit?  No idea.   

I can do this by myself and be cuteish and strongish and happyish, right?  Not just the play or the afternoon or the nights or the tomorrows or the month or the year, but this?  

There is the person you wave and say "howdy" to every few weeks.  And there is the person you really thought would be in your life until you died, and when that person leaves, it's hard to breathe.    

I have been thinking about getting a tattoo of a phoenix (or a masturbating leprechaun), but maybe I should get a tattoo of a ventilator.  

I want to be a phoenix.  But I think I'm more like Ariel from the Little Mermaid who keeps bursting her sexy torso out of the water, only with no background music, no long hairs, no big boobs, no water and no Eric to seduce.  So ya know, without those things it just ends up looking like I'm continually having an epileptic fit or pretending to be a gigantic chicken.  

Some guys like gigantic epileptic chickens, yeah?  

Comments

[Kensey]

You're back my gigantic epileptic chick sister! I have missed your writings. MISSED. And i love the photo of Stephen. Something about his face though makes me wanna cry.. give him lots of hugs.

[Mike]

HA. Get a tattoo of a masturbating leprechaun and I'll have no other choice but to love you forever

[Collin Brice]

Like we were talking about my conditional love last night. Masturbating Leprechaun will cancel out the love points you got from provocative dances.