Snibble, No. 4

I had a breakthrough discovery yesterday: I’m a grown up. An adult. Old(ish)...

Around two o'clock yesterday I left work and headed over to Subway to grab a quick lunch. As I was standing in line, I turned to my right just in time to see a teenage couple avidly making out. The guy wore this focused, intent expression; a “Yeah, I’m doing this” sort of look. The look, combined with the licking-the-entire-inside-surface-of-his-girlfriends’-mouth kissing technique employed by teens (and frat boys) everywhere, was more than my almost-thirty self could handle. I shuddered and looked away quickly, and my mind automatically bounced to the phrase “damned kids.”

Usually, when I see public displays of teenageness, I smile and fondly recall my former curious teenage self. I think about kids learning and exploring, constantly testing boundaries, and what a normal thing this is. I see their defiance, their sullen expressions, their need to both fit in and to stand out, and I always think of this awkward stage as an important part of growing up. (I can’t help thinking this kind of crap – stupid psych classes…) I don’t know what it was about this situation – the overcrowded restaurant setting, the especially unkempt appearance of this particular set of teens, or perhaps it was the sweaty, oxygen-deprived, beet-red face of the boy –
but it grossed me out.

Damned kids.

Snibble, No. 3

I was at a department store the other day and found a super cute little khaki skirt on sale. I took it to the fitting room and eagerly stepped into it, only to discover that there were tiny pants sneakily hidden on the inside. (I'll delve into the realm of "too much information" here and say that it felt a little bit like wearing a skirt with a giant diaper... bulky and unpleasant.)
It's a depressing notion that I'm old enough to shop in the skort department. My mind has always linked skorts with soccer moms and - well, people older than me. I defiantly hung the skort on the "no, thanks" rack and went in search of a strappy tank top or some ridiculously cute shoes - decidedly more youthful selections than the scary skirtpants.

Snibble, No. 2

A couple of weeks ago I met my friend Andy for dinner. Andy is a preschool teacher - a rare twenty-something male who is passionate about education, human development, and kids in general. He has great stories about the random things little kids say - he made the mistake of telling me that one of the kids in his class can't pronounce either "teacher" or "Andy," and so she calls him "tee-shirt Annie." He just went and earned himself a brand new nickname with that little disclosure...

After dinner, as we were standing downtown chatting, I did a little shuffle from one foot to the other - I'd come straight from work, still wearing four inch pumps, and my feet were starting to ache. Andy, however, interpreted my little dance in true preschool-teacher form and asked, "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I nearly died from laughter.

Snibble, No. 1

(Author's note: snibble was my grandfather's word for a 'little bit', usually in reference to a snack or other food item. In his memory, I have decided to call short, single story posts "snibbles." Love you, gramps...)

____________________________________________________

Last night before bed Luis was reading his Runner's World magazine, giving me some tidbits from the Human Race section. He told me about an ultra marathoner (someone other than Dean Karnazes) who runs crazy distances - and fast. This guy ran a 100k race (62 miles), and then the following week he ran the Boston marathon in two and a half hours. (I should add that this is only slightly longer than it takes me to run half that distance. Holy crap.) Then he read to me about a blind guy who ran seven marathons in seven days, each on a different continent. The blind guy's slowest marathon time was about five and a half hours - still a little faster than my anticipated marathon finish.

The crux of this story? I run slower than a blind guy with jet lag.