More observations on running

It was 38 degrees and very foggy this morning--the ground still saturated after four days of rain showers--so of course it was the morning we went for a five-mile run.

You know how I feel about running. Our entire evolutionary history is predicated on climbing to escape predators. Once we lost our opposable toes, our strategy switched to poking predators with pointy sticks. Never was running a real goal for us. Recreational running is like spitting in the face of Nature.

My buddy, Chris, is running a half-marathon this weekend, so we ran together as he took it easy and I put forth my best effort. It works for us. Chris had a 40-minute one-sided conversation while I did my best to insert grunts where a response was needed. By the end we were pretty much in sync, and Chris had no problem translating my pained groan into "I agree. The NIT is somewhat lackluster because in the end what does it really mean? That you're the 65th best team in the country?"

For about two miles of our run we are deep in the woods around the naval station. This morning, the fog was incredibly dense. We could only see a couple trees ahead of us and the vapor was swirling around our ankles. It was a very Robert Frost or Stephen King moment. I felt that there was an equal opportunity of experiencing an introspective monologue or a murder by hatchet.

After the run we all hung around in the parking lot. I stood there waiting for my heart to catch up (it was still back at Mile 4) and everyone else enjoyed their runner's high, to which as I have previously stated I am naturally immune. Steam was emanating from our sweatshirts, which I think is pretty cool. It also reminded me of just how cold it was, a fact lost on me since my extremities went numb somewhere in the middle of a puddle.

Man, I hate running.

Beware obscure calendrical references

Julius Caesar was stabbed in the back by his friend on March 15 in 44 B.C, fulfilling the Oracle's prophesy, "Beware the Ides of March."

Until today, I didn't give Caesar much credit. If some old bat told me to watch out for a specific day, you'd better believe I would spend that day locked in a closet somewhere. Obviously the guy was superstitious; otherwise he wouldn't have made the trip to the Oracle in the first place. Until today, I sort of thought if Julius Caesar was dumb enough to be out and about on the Ides of March he had it coming.

But today I read a little about the Ides. Previously I thought it was just a fancy term for the 15th of the month. And it is--in March, May, July or October. But it is the 13th day in any other month. Oh, and it can also mean the seven days preceding the 15th (or 13th). So Caesar had been acting paranoid for a whole week by the time March 15 rolled around. No wonder people wanted to stab him.

So now I have some questions for the Oracle. That bitch. If I spent my days hopped up on volcanic fumes in some mountain, you'd better believe I'd be a little more forthcoming with important information. Her foresight was remarkably prescient, and if she didn't get her kicks from being withholding I think we could have avoided this whole messy stab-your-buddy-in-the-back incident.

Finding restrooms in restaurants

Why is it so damn hard to find a restroom in a restaurant?

Why is it that I have to walk into kitchens and service areas before I find that elusive alcove with the little man on the door? Why do I have to wander aimlessly among bemused diners looking for a place to relieve myself? I can't be the only one.

It seems that restrooms are well advertised, or at least discoverable, in every public place with the exception of restaurants. This is strange to me, as restaurants directly feed the need for restrooms. Even McDonalds are hiding them, for Pete's sake.

I understand the desire to mask certain bodily functions in dining areas. I understand that traditional restroom signs may clash with the decor. But can you meet me halfway? How about a little man sconce on the wall near a restroom? Or a lady-with-incredibly-starched-skirt lamp? Give me something to point me in the right direction.

A Crisis of Snow

Well, it is official. Louisiana, Texas, Georgia, Arkansas, Mississippi and Alabama have all gotten more snow this winter than we in Tidewater Virginia have seen in the past three years.

As a Mid-Atlantic state, Virginia suffers somewhat of an identity crisis. The northern reaches of our state, well under the influence of Washington and within sight of the Appalachian Mountains, feel a strong connection to the Northeast. They also see snow on a regular basis, which bolsters their affinity to all things North. In Tidewater Virginia, however, we border North Carolina. Although there are also Camden counties in New Jersey and Georgia, I believe the Camden county just south of the Virginia border in North Carolina is the setting of My Name Is Earl. In Tidewater Virginia, we have Pungo, a small region that loves big trucks, mudding, and the Confederate flag. We are a beach economy, and one of the most passionate issues is whether our big trucks should be allowed on the beach.

This doesn't sit well with many locals, who yearn to be North. They reenact Revolutionary War battles and overlook Civil War conflicts. They construct shopping centers with faux New England architectural facades. They cling to our wintry climate to connect with their New England brethren. They need snow. They have to have their fix of that cool white powder to feel Northern.

So we have Snow Hope indexes on the local news. We close schools in anticipation of snow. Our weather guy pins a snowflake to his lapel if there is a hint of snow in the five-day forecast. It kills us to know that there is snow on the ground right now in Jackson, MS. We cried when we saw a New Orleans streetcar rumbling through the snowy streets in December.

Please let it snow. We've sat through the sub-freezing temperatures patiently. We've put up with the 35-degree rain showers. Please, just an inch. Let us see white.