February 9, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Revisit an old injury today -- emotional or physical. You should find yourself better equipped to handle it, and even to heal it, but you may find that you have to move through some difficult territory first.
Coffee with Tamara this morning. I hopped on the Canada Line and met her downtown as she took an extended coffee break. Who knows what important meetings she rescheduled? When you’re newly dating, you’re dying to know what your friends think.
“He’s really nice.”
Apparently, I shouldn’t have said that. It was just my opener, but Tamara pounced. You’d think I’d said he was a cross between Donald Trump (without the money) and a pile of horse manure.
“See, that’s why I put off having you meet him. You always look for the worst.” Ouch. “No wonder you’re single.” Owphh. “I don’t know why I’ve kept you as a friend all these years. Pity, I guess.” And TKO.
“I said he was nice.”
She started to cry. Wail, actually. Tamara always likes to be noticed. The woman beside us took her mug to the counter and asked for a to-go cup. Wish I’d had that option.
I sat and waited. Sipped my coffee. The dash of cinnamon added flavor. Got up and grabbed a wad of napkins. Tamara wound down to sobbing and I gently eased back into the conversation. “What’s going on?”
“He wants to take a job in Edmonton. Edmonton!” Poor city. She said it like it was a cross between Chernobyl and, well, a pile of horse manure.
“Does he want you to move with him?”
“He hasn’t even asked!” And Round 2 of wailing.
I managed to convince her we should step outside, walk a little and enjoy the beautiful day. The lady behind the counter telepathed an earnest “Thank you.” After another hour of weeping, recovering and weeping again, Tamara hugged me. “Sorry ’bout what I said. You’re a good friend. The best.”
Yeah. After all these years, I was quite familiar with Tamara’s lash-and-burn tactics. They still wounded, but the recovery was quicker.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
MAYBE I’M NOT CUT OUT TO JOG ANYMORE. I HAD MY 2ND GO AT AN EARLY MORNING RUN & IT WAS WORSE THAN THE 1ST. COLDER, TO START WITH. HAD IT IN MY HEAD THAT WEARING GLOVES WHILE JOGGING WAS THE SIGN OF A WUSS. LOSING THREE DIGITS TO FROSTBITE MIGHT MAKE A MANLY TALE, BUT IT’S DAMN STUPID, TOO. WILL TRY TO PICK UP A PAIR LATER TODAY—AND NOT THE OMNIPRESENT CANADIAN OLYMPIC MITTS.
CONSTANTLY RUBBING ONE’S HANDS TOGETHER ISN’T STANDARD RUNNING FORM. NEITHER IS LIMPING. SADLY, MY LEFT KNEE GAVE OUT SOONER THAN LAST WEEK. I HAD TO HOBBLE BACK FROM SCIENCE WORLD—OR WHATEVER THE RUSSIANS ARE CALLING IT AS THEIR OLYMPIC SITE. SAW THE GUY IN THE WALKER AGAIN. NEVER MANAGED TO CATCH HIM.
FIGURE I’VE GAINED INSTEAD OF LOSING THIS WEEK, THANKS TO THE SUPER BOWL PARTY. SURE, I VOMITED APLENTY, BUT IT LOOKS LIKE I’M REACHING THE 7TH OR 8TH MONTH OF PREGNANCY. IF I CAN’T RUN, THEN WHAT? DON’T THINK I CAN ROUND UP THE OLD GANG FOR TOUCH FOOTBALL THESE DAYS. BIKING? THE COLD’S GOTTA FEEL EVEN WORSE ON WHEELS.
I’LL TRY STRETCHING MORE. HOT TUB THE KNEE TONIGHT. BUY A BRACE. EVEN IN PAIN, JOGGING BEATS SLAPPING ON A PAIR OF RUNNERS AND RACE-WALKING AROUND DOWNTOWN AT NOON WHILE IN A BUSINESS SUIT.