Dog doo and a dipper or two

When it comes to physical activity, running has never been at the top of my list. Most often heard from my lips when the subject came up was "if I'm running, rest assured there is a big guy with a bigger knife chasing me." I hated the gasping like a landed trout, the coppery taste in my mouth, and the muscle fatigue. So, imagine my surprise when, at the ripe old age of 40, I started running and actually began to enjoy it. Oh it didn't happen all at once. I had decided that, having already lost their father, my children might not react well if their mother made them an orphan. I started running. Well, I started some activity that might loosely be called running. More of a slow jog interspersed with long periods of walking. (Complete with the aforementioned gasping, coppery aura, and FATIGUE.) Being of a rather stubborn nature, I sucked it up and now do my little 2 miles quite easily. Crap. That probably means I should increase my distance...or my speed. Which is the least painful option? Being a basically lazy person, I definitely want the path of least resistance here. But I digress.

My point is that on these little jaunts around my neighborhood, while my children are locked securely in the house, dreaming little boy dreams of mayhem and chaos, I have started to enjoy this most hated form of exercise. Tonight was a fabulous night for a run. The sky was remarkably clear for a Washington winter. The waning quarter moon was brilliant enough to light my way in the darkened areas of the neighborhood where the porchlights didn't reach. As I ran, my breath coming in steaming puffs, Lenny Kravitz singing about going his way, I looked up into that clear black night, and smiled at the stars. It's been a long time since I've noticed the stars and how vast the night sky can be. I recognized my elementary school constellations of the Dippers (can't call them the Ursas...my brain cannot fashion any bear-like shape from those two ladles in the sky), and wondered why it was I've never learned to tell the difference between a planet and a satellite.

In the midst of all this musing, I felt a resistance on the end of the leash. Experience has taught me that this can only mean one thing. Which is why the dog always goes out before we go run. Which is why I no longer carry poo bags with me. Which is why I now needed one, because Murphy is a sneaky little bastard and he tries to screw with the uptight homeowners association at every turn. As this all happened at the farthest end of the neighborhood from my house, I had to continue running until I reached the house and my supply of pooper bags. We then ran to the general area and began a search mission that I ferverently hoped would not end with my shoes in a mess. Success (and mess free). I now had in my possession a bag of aromatic poo. I decided, as these are biodegradble bags, that we would walk the rest of the way to the house, as I didn't know what kind of stress test these bags undergo. My only consolation was that if, by some strange chance, I was accosted, I had a near perfect weapon to dissuade an attacker. If only I had a lighter, it could have then been the perfect weapon, favored by redneck juvies everywhere. We arrived home in time to hear Shaggy singing about "couscous perfume, I love your sweet smell." Irony. Har.