Good Fortune

Those who know me well know that episodically my skeletal-muscular system asserts itself.

I am then left to coax it into submission first with drugs and then with movement.

And it was there—in the movement phase that I found myself out and about-ish—taking a walk to limber the formerly squawking body parts.

I reveled in the brilliance of the sun---and the wind temperature and humidity of yesterday’s September-like weather.

I was free—mobile-- drug free yet intoxicated.

I smiled—thinking of my good fortune.

That was until I intersected with Mr. Buzzkill on the corner of Poplar and Tremont: a very very old man with a walker moving at a speed that absolutely positively exceeded my own.

He was smug with accomplishment.

I was resting on the edge of humiliation.

The old bastard was beating me.

My mind (and ego) was frantic.

And then I remembered: the hare never wins the race, the tortoise always does. The very very old man and his walker would only overpower me for a little while—the differential in our ages would eventually determine this race.

I might be losing the sprint, but the marathon was mine.

And so I kept walking—once again intoxicated---into the sun.