On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we get up at 6:00, the boyfriend whines about getting up at 6:00, we run five miles, we stink, we eat, we shower, we go to work.
And all the while, our waists remain steadfastly un-ripped and un-rock-hard. Stupid waists.
The boyfriend is traveling this week, though, and yesterday he found himself in Rhode Island. He knew he wouldn’t have time to run today, so he took off in a random direction last night from his hotel and quickly found himself at the gates of a cemetery, which he decided would make a lovely, traffic-free place to pound out five miles. Unfortunately, when he runs he gets spitty. Now it’s no big deal to hawk a few loogies when you run along Chicago’s lakefront trail—I’ve seen dogs peeing there and Sox fans picnicking there, so it’s not like the ground is exactly clean anyway. But spitting on dead people? Especially dead Rhode Islanders? I know Rhode Island is the Ocean State, but I don’t think they mean oceans of corpses drowned in boyfriend spit.
In any case, I chose not to ask whether he desecrated all those graves, instead picturing him running five miles around the Oval Office and spitting on Dubya every time he passed the little table with the butcher-block paper and the big box of crayons.