I was running behind on everything. Sure, I had made a schedule earlier in the morning, but nothing was flowing the way I imagined. The intended check marks next to accomplished items were missing and probably doing something a lot more fun. The sun was shining and I was feeling very, very, Minnesota pasty. (Warning: Minnesota pasty is a condition not to be witnessed without sunglasses or a strong stomach for whiteness.) I decided to spend one hour pulling weeds to appease my growing frustration with the meadow that is supposed to be a semi-groomed lawn, and to get some sun on my skin. (I know, I know…sun bad. But so is 99% of everything I do. I even eat mayonnaise with my French fries just to annoy the cholesterol gods.)
As I got into the rhythm of uprooting mostly weeds, I quickly became pretty hot. With a quick glance around I decided nobody would see me if I took my tank top off and just weeded in a bra and shorts. I pulled the tank over my head and folded it on a nearby bench. Back to work– pull, pull, yank. Pull, pull, yank. Moments later I looked up in time to see Booker racing off with my tank top. “Noooo…” I yelled, but that only made him run faster… away from me. I don’t want you to imagine this, but you will… older sweaty woman, half naked, arms flailing, sprinting after a puppy wearing– I swear–a smile and a tank top on his face. I ran after him, made two or three laps around the yard in blistering pursuit, and finally cornered him in the garage. He spit it out with a look on his face that said, “Is this what the fuss was about? Why didn’t you say so?” Holding the now puppy-slimed tank by two fingers, I realized something. I can still run when I need to, and maybe my bra should offer more support. Don’t ask. Anyway, it was the best part of my day.
