I went for a walk tonight. Snow falling gently, cool evening air freezing with each exhale. Darkness prematurely swallowing life from the city. Slick streets nearly empty yet driveways filled with the scraping of shovels.
At first I hobbled slowly; within three blocks my foot hurt a smidge from the choice of tennis shoe I put on ... the ones with the best traction aren't necessarily the most comfortable for my fat foot. (While I'd like to think that's it on the upward swing of being nearly back to normal, it remains undeniably FAT.)
My "trick" knee popping out of place, thanks to the uneven terrain and my lack of activity for nearly for months. Every three to five steps I had to pause mid stride to do the wedgie shuffle, as I've found this particular move to be the most helpful at snapping my knee back into place while standing. In this part of the city, I'm fairly positive that I appeared to be doing a solid version of the crack feind scoot -- half limping, funny jigggle every few steps, and laughing at nothing as I mentally pictured how ridiculous I looked to any outsider.
Bundled against the cold with two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, three carefully layered shirts and an oversized hooded jacket, gloves and hat. Cozy doesn't begin to cover it. I made it just over a mile round trip and only returned home with a cold runny nose.
I scampered through the park, doing my broken foot / funky knee skip-jog combo. I laid in the fresh snow leaving snow angels nearly down to the grass. I wrote poems in fancy scrawl over sloping hillsides in side yards, leaving words of hope and inspiration as I sauntered home in dreamland. I pretended to dance with snowmen whose faces had been wind blown smooth.
It was not me out there tonight. Surely it could not have been me. Yet, who else would it have been?
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