Beware the Hips of Jake!

I warned these two that though my hip felt 99% better there was still the possibility that running with me wouldn’t get us to the end of the block and I’d have to stop and we’d all have gotten up at 5:30 and picked out our super-cute running outfits for nothing.

Well, shit.

We didn’t even make it half a mile before I had to abort our mission, but they decided to walk with me and we explored the newish paved trail—which is super-awesome—that runs between E Avenue—which is gross and dumpy and needs a tornado and a developer with a vision for a new and brighter utopian, space-needle-like future—and the new Mt. Mercy sports complex—which looks super-awesome but seriously, sports? me?—and we ended up covering 2.8 miles.

And I’ve clearly infected Rob with the selfie virus—which makes him weak and socially pathetic—because he suggested we take a selfie—which again is weak and socially pathetic—before I even thought of suggesting it myself. And that’s alarming. And a first. And say it with me: weak and socially pathetic.

Anyway, here we are—all resisting being in a selfie except Rob, who is making an absolute fool of himself—posing in front of his hyper-macho manly-man testosterrific muscle car, which he has incongruously named Princess Sparklepony. Straight people, amirite?

And I’m left with a re-wrecked hip, which I shall name Rear Admiral I.T. Band McDisappointmemt. Or Getajob Yahippie. Or Bennehip Arnold. Or Nancyhip Toosoon Questionmark McKerrigan. Or Cap’n Hipshit. Or Eleanor. If that name isn’t already taken.

#HowToTurn50 #WhichKindaRhymesWithHippy