Secrets of the Night

I’m still walking to Quality Dairy for my morning coffee,  a round trip of about 40 minutes. As noted, QD opens at 6 a.m.

I started this exercise in late May, when it was already light out at 5:45, my usual time for leaving the house lest I walk too fast and arrive before 6:00. (Some day in July the cranky employee that I ticked off on one of my earliest visits complimented my French braid and we’re all chummy now.)  First shift turnover is terrible, though, and every time I use my sparkliness to win over a new cashier, she leaves.

Now, though, there’s barely a streak of light in the East when I leave the house. This has led to a quiet, secret new activity: jogging.

I don’t jog worth a damn. I’m heavy, ungraceful, I can’t jog far in any case, I get winded quickly, my body bounces in unflattering ways, and there are few places one can go to jog where sleek, buff, built joggers of both sexes don’t fly by you, making me, anyway, feel very self-conscious.

But. But in the middle of the dark, where no one can see you have to stop after a short way, where there is no competition (even if that competition is only  in my mind), I can indulge in short, “Yaaaay Snakelady” spurts of activity down quiet, sleeping, neighborhood streets.

Be ye of calm mind, about your neighborhood as well, quiet victories are won by strangers who like your choice of siding.