There is a small basket on the top shelf of my closet, filled with a half-dozen or so scarves. Being as fashion-senseless as I am, this is too many by at least five. However, with the polar weather outside bringing temperatures down to 13 degrees, I have the basket in my hand and am considering options for running.
Minutes prior, I was perusing the web, and then feeling silly for not having looked this information up when it started to be cold. One website recommended a scarf over the mouth to keep one’s breathing air warm.
I decide on a thin, short grey scarf and try to put it on. Then realize it’s too short to really wear, unless I take off my long-sleeve T and wrap it like a gaiter, half beneath my outer layer. It’s still not going to complete it’s intended effect: Solving the frozen spit ball issue.
After a few seconds’ brain-fart about what stretches I actually need to do (I mostly stood against the door frame arching my back awkwardly), I got myself ready and headed out. Within steps of my front door, the scarf was already hanging below my chin. I ignore it and keep going.
Now I am at the nadir of a hill on Comm. Ave, and the cold air is starting to get to me. Breathing is becoming labored, so I tug the scarf back over my mouth and try to hold it in place with my teeth. This works for half a minute, before my body realizes I’m not sucking enough air in.
At the crest of the next hill, I am thinking of my body in terms of molasses–specifically expressions about being slow as molasses in winter months. My suspicion is still that the cold weather is robbing my body of some of its speed, and that I could be going further, faster if temperatures were more habitable. Instead, I am running as slowly as near-frozen sugar extract.
About halfway down the hill, I start feeling guilty for this, considering molasses in January was responsible for the deaths of 21 people and 150 injuries, in 1919, when a tank in Boston’s North End burst and sent a wave of the liquid cascading down the street. I admit (with apologies) that Great Molasses Flood still sounds somewhat comical to me; perhaps, I think to myself, I should come up with a better analogy.
Zombies are chasing me, through my headset, as the characters in “Zombies, Run 2” prepare for a siege from another camp. I feel slightly guilty as my character is bringing false hope to that other camp, as I use the transmitter from one of their runners to spy on them. However, they are the ones who nearly captured me, and have caused other issues throughout the story.
I resume my vigilanteism as I come across the still-caked icy sidewalks of Washington Street, reflecting on how, as soon as I get home and into the shower, my ire at these lazy homeowners will have faded sufficiently that calling the police will not feel worth my time. I zip up my street, and stop just after the mission ends.
It feels good to be back on track.
Shirt of the Day: Portal 2 Space (Nasa Logo with “space” and the Space Core)
In other news: