My mother always told us not to run with scissors in our hands. I can still hear her voice in my head...painful and annoying...
"don't run with those scissors in your HAND!"
What my mom failed to mention though was to not run with anything sharp in our hands. Case in point: when my younger sister was about 3 years old, she was running through the house with a butter knife. (Don't ask me why a 3 year old was in possession of a butter knife, much less running with it.) My mom, as good as she was (except for that part about letting kids play with cutlery), never told us not to run with a butter knife in our hands -in our house, apparently scissors were the only danger. As I remember the story, Beckie was running down the three stairs from our kitchen to our living room, tripped over something, and stabbed herself in the knee with the butter knife - that fleshy part right below the knee cap. I can still see it in my mind just like it happened yesterday.
I should probably give full disclosure at this point: I was a pretty popular kid (not sure what has happened in my adult years), so while I have this entire story entrenched in my brain, the reality is that I probably wasn't even home when it happened. I'm sure I was on a play date with one of the other neighborhood five year olds. But, I've heard the story so many times, I have convinced myself that I really was there when it happened.
Fast forward 29 years, and I have discovered that my mom forgot to warn me of a few other things like: 1) when grilling kabobs, never put the vegetables on the same skewer as the meat; 2) running with a 28 ounce can of tomatoes in my hand is impossible; and 3) the biggie: regardless of how much tequila I have, I will NEVER be a good singer. (I'm going to give her a pass on the last one because I think she's had three drinks in her entire life - so how would she have known that margarita-induced karoaking was going to be so painful and annoying to everyone else.)
But, look at number two above: again, for a second time in my life, she failed to tell me that running with objects, other than scissors, and more specifically a can of tomatoes could be dangerous!
Now, you might be thinking: how in the world would I know that run + tomatoes = disaster?
I know because that is exactly what I did yesterday.
I needed a run.
I need fire roasted tomatoes.
I live exactly 1.3 miles from a grocery store and I run right past it for any respectable length of a run (and by "respectable" I mean 3 miles).
You see where I'm going with this, right? It's a logical combination....
So, I left my house...running shoes on and $5 in my teeny-tiny running shorts pocket. My original goal was to get a jar of spaghetti sauce to go with the leftover pasta in the fridge. I thought it would be smart to get most of my run out of the way prior to stopping by the grocery store, to minimize the amount of time I'd be running with a jar of Classico. (Note to self: I love how I thought any of this idea was "smart.")
As I got closer to my destination, I started to wonder if running with a glass jar would really be such a swift idea. What if my hands were sweaty and I dropped it? Then I'd have to contend with glass on the sidewalk, possibility of getting sauce all over my brand spanking new Saucony's, and well, then I'd be left with plain, boring pasta for dinner. I quickly flashed back to the latest episode of The Biggest Loser, where Victoria is making dinner (also known as "another product plug for Ziploc") and she adds a can of tomatoes to some chicken, vegetables, and pasta! Problem solved: I'll grab a can of fire roasted tomatoes (add a bunch of other leftovers in the fridge) and make a delicious pasta dinner!
When I arrived at the store I decided that I needed to purchase a bottle of water as well. Not only for the rehydration factor, but also to even out the weight on my hands (another note to self: a 20oz bottle of water does not feel the same in your hand as a 28oz can of tomatoes). I also decided to place the tomatoes in a plastic grocery bag (which I despise) so that I could wrap the handles around my hand...you know...ease in carrying, right?
Wrong. For starters, every time I began to run up a hill, the bag took on a life of it's own...swaying back and forth, narrowly missing a club to the hip bone. Second, do you want to know how gross that plastic feels in your hand once they begin to sweat? Yeah, it's that nasty. Add in the fact that the change from my purchase is jingling around in my itty bitty shorts pocket, the water in the bottle is swishing back and forth...and oh yeah, it's nearly impossible to run with something in each hand. Trust me on this one. So, I was really running with everything in one hand, at an angle because that side was weighing me down, and I'm pretty sure I sounded like a Salvation Army bell ringer to everyone I passed. Oh, I should also mention that I looked like an idiot.
About a half mile into my mile run home, I decided that walking was not only in my best interest, it was my only option. So, I made it home in one piece, well hydrated (I figured if I was going to walk, I might as well drink that bottle of water), and dinner was delicious.
In other words: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
And no, I won't be multitasking like that ever again.
But here's the part where you can get nauseous and hate me: as I neared the house, I spotted Troy getting in my car. I wondered "where is he off to in such a hurry?" I crested the driveway, he saw me and parked the car...turns out he had arrived home from work, looked at Facebook and noticed my status update said something to the effect that I was running to the store, literally, multitasking at it's finest. So, my sweet kind adorable husband decided to come find me and retrieve said sauce so I could finish my run empty handed! How sweet (disgustingly sweet) is that??
Have a great Thursday!