Sunday mornings in the Valley of Love and Delight meant waffles. Specifically Belgian waffles and a concoction of syrup and butter heated in the microwave and poured on top. This combined with a liberal amount of coffee would produce a high great enough to transport one through The Rape of the Lock or whatever academic hazing the Daves had decided to perpetrate. It was not uncommon for Emilizer, a fellow fugee from tha Wood, to burst into my room at 8:45 singing “I’m a morning person, a morning person” at the top of her lungs with the understanding that it would both awaken me and annoy me enough to get me down to brunch. At the time, I would have claimed to be a night person.
Rising a few minutes before 7 this morning, I found myself surprised by the effort it took to emerge from sleep. If asked, I would now describe myself as a morning person. 7 o’clock counts as sleeping in. Being so slow to get going is a bit unusual but understandable given the pace of work for the last several weeks combined with the heavy, black, and pendulous clouds hanging over the Land of the Suaree. This latter condition is what I imagine Scotland to be like. Ace’s Mini could confirm this theory. Fortunately, I have found a way to counteract the negative effects of Scottish weather: the Kilt Run.
Faithful readers will no doubt recall that my Sweet Lady gave me a kilt for Brumalia this year. Despite persistent misgivings about un-bifurcated garments for men, she has also insisted that I not shy away from an idiocy of my own making. I, therefore, have embraced the notion that real tough men wear skirts. Really real tough men wear skirts when they run on muddy trails in misty 50 degree weather. Said tough men get funny looks from hikers and their dogs. (Can we just take a second here to put in a word for leashing your dog on the trail? Seriously folks, it is not ok to shrug and say “She’s kind of skiddish.” She is kind of going to get herself hurt.) Sure, owning trail shoes makes you hard core. But when you run on muddy trails through rain soaked forests in a kilt, people can clearly see you’re nuts. When the weather is crap and the job is crap and the family has done all they can to ease your tension, it is time to say “fuckall,” put on a skirt, and go run in the woods.