It seems that every time I celebrate a return to running, I end up wrapped in my towel, face still a deep sanguine (I was looking for a word that evoked the image of dark pink fleshy meat) color, hair dripping from a shower that couldn't get cold enough--blogging. What an awful sentence that was. I'm sure some literary titan or Expos preceptor could analyze the hell out of a stupid, simply poorly constructed sentence like that. Something about the anticipation of the action being intensified by the passive nature of the description and the parenthetical comment revealing the narrator's ... oh to flaming hell with literary analysis. For serious. For love of all things serious.
So today I ran in Cambridge around the Charles. I felt strong. The cold air held me like sashimi in a bed of ice, and it wasn't until I stopped moving that I felt my face flush that familiar color which would make everyone ask if I was okay. The entire run was basically flat. I was wearing long sleeves. I'll keep you updated.
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1 comment:
I like sashimi.
-acup
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