The one redeeming quality of Election Day is that you knock your brains and then you’re done with it.
Except where I work.
After last week’s Texas elections, last night was Round 2, this time in California. Last page at 4 a.m., home at 4:45. Mo is up and totally freaked out. Turns out I had turned off my phone in the budget meeting. She has been politely inquiring as to the status of my pulse for a couple of hours with no reply. I assure her, yes, I’m dead.
I turn on Lucy. The old negligee salesman gag. I drink a Corona Light (what is the point of a Corona Light?), eat a coconut popsicle (what is the point of a coconut popsicle?) and lament that I’ll never be able to fall asleep.
That’s all I remember. Now it’s the next day. I awaken in a puddle of my own urine. No, wait. It’s amber. THAT’s gonna be hard to explain. I’ve slept about four hours. The pain in my right calf is an indication that the Cramp From Hell somewhere in the wee hours wasn’t just a dream.
Im so tired, I havent slept a wink Im so tired, my mind is on the blink. Uh oh. I realize this is my favorite song on the White Album. The fact that it didn’t play at all on the shuffle Monday is a sign not to be trifled with.
My head is full of marshmellow creme. I’m spent mentally, physically, spiritually, cosmically. I’m five hours from going back again for an even harder round.
But first, I must run. At around 2 p.m., the hottest part of an oppressively muggy day. It’s a natural day off, but some freakin’ rodent thinks otherwise.
The jungle rot on my foot throbs. My calf aches. My psyche is in the toilet. It’s an amber color. I am going to hate this.
And then it hits me.
It’s National Running Day!!!
I wish it were American Running Day. Then I could just use a Designated Runner.
I down a cup of coffee. I look for my duct tape. I wonder why Ethel put up with so much crap. And I get ready to go out for another five pointless miles. It’s just what I do. I have absolutely no recollection why.
Happy national runner’s life …