I just got back from the most uninspired run ever that I actually kept running. It was a fat-girl grind* through-and-through as I waddled up and down hills. I felt one with the ducks huddled next to the pond, deciding their evening's festivities. It didn't look like a late-night swim was in the works. Five 14 year old girls stuffed into a pink golf cart, driving kamikaze-style, provided my other entertainment. Teenage girls baffle me even though I was one; I promise I was a different ilk than this giggling gaggle. Not that my friends and I weren't as annoying, we were just more imaginative (because we had to be). Please, golf-carts are so 80s.
Sometimes I'm a gazelle who's as graceful as a ballerina who thinks poetic thoughts when I run, but not tonight.
Note on word usage: "Grind" in the sense of the Grouse Grind in Vancouver not the Clubbing grind on MTV.
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