Societal Satire in Shorts
Hear We Go
S. G. Lacey
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Sitting on the bench in the entryway of my home, I reach down, and pull on my new running shoes. These beauties are bright green, incorporating neon and sparkle highlights, with the pair weighing less than one of my normal work heels.
In fact, everything I’m wearing is shiny and fresh. The sleek, comfortable, black leggings, which conform to my expanding curves. The loose-fitting, gloss-white windbreaker, with reflective elements built in for visibility. If I’m going to commit to this running stuff, I may as well look good.
I take care to tighten up each crossing lace, starting with the bottom eyelet. I pawn this process off as diligence, but in fact it’s simply a stall tactic. This new jogging initiative sounded great when I was ordering gear from the comfort of my plush couch. Now that it’s time to take action, I’m understandably having second thoughts.
Considering how much food and booze I’ve inhaled over the holidays; it’s going to take more than a few miles to get back to fighting weight. Or at least a physique where I comfortable walking around the bedroom naked.
Today, January 3rd, I’m turning over a new leaf. Staring with the plant smoothie I had for breakfast, forgoing my usual egg sandwich, and more importantly, coffee.
Attached to my wrist is the piece of technology which has motivated me to try this running program. I begrudgingly received this item from my husband in my stocking last week. I’m still not sure if this was a genuine gift, to help with time management and family planning around the house, or a subtle nudge that I need to start engaging in, and documenting, my exercise. After 15 years, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
I’m definitely an electronics junkie, which my spouse knows, thus suggesting this was a strategic show of generosity. Fine by me, as I’ve spent the lazy days between Christmas and New Year’s learning the functionality of this device.
This watch’s sensors offer measurement, and analysis, on all manner of physical body metrics. Plus, I can download supplemental apps, from entertainment to planning, all in a package that is much more condensed than my huge cellphone. There’s no way I’m running anywhere with that monstrosity; it barely fits in my purse, let alone my pockets.
My final test, before actually using this tool to monitor any physical exertions, was to drive around the neighborhood, with the watch fastened to my wrist. Sure, the pulse rate and breathing cadence metrics weren’t relevant, except when a toddler in the plastic trike rode out in front of my car.
Fortunately, I was rolling along at a snail’s pace, in the hopes of verifying the GPS tracking function of the device. If this technology can’t track my motion, allowing me to record and share my accomplishments with the world, then there’s no reason to even embark on this foolish jogging endeavor.
Not surprisingly, the powerful electronics perfectly captured every movement of my car, even creeping along at 3 mph. Even better, I didn’t even get called out as a creeper, as I lurked slowly around the cul-de-sac.
Product testing complete, I was out of excuses for initiating a running regiment. Especially, with the cliched, but briefly motivating, New Year’s resolution season now in full force.
The weather this morning is crisp, but not unseasonably so, with the remnants of a light frost last night evident in spots. With the sun having just breached the horizon, it still hasn’t had a chance to warm the air, or ground. Still, this time of year, in this part of the country, even seeing the sun is a morale boost.
We had a white Christmas, a relatively rare occurrence here in the mid-Atlantic. The 3 inches of white, fluffy snow, which fell on December 24th, has definitely deteriorated in quality since then. Warm weather, combined with copious amounts of salt and sand applied to the routes of transit, has turned the formerly beautiful winter covering into a brown, muddy sludge, which coats every roadway and sidewalk.
For my new electronic toy, climate reporting is a menial, implied function. Stepping outside, the display tells me the outdoor temperature is 40°F, exactly 30°F colder than the comfortable indoor environment I just exited. If I was still snuggled warmly in bed under the covers, like most normal people at this early hour, another 10°F would be added.
Whose idea was this absurd adventure anyways?
Touching my wrist, I initiate a song from my custom curated playlist. I spent several hours last night putting this mix together, selecting a variety of lively, upbeat tunes. I’m hoping with some pleasant music on, I won’t even know I’m exercising.
I set off, down the steps of the stoop, and take a left when I hit the sidewalk in front of our plot. Now moving, I adjust various elements of my attire to get them into stable, steady-state position.
Pulling my leggings down, to avoid the instant wedgie. Adjusting the shoulder strap of my bra, an issue that occurs with even menial motion for us ladies. Pushing my i-pods into my ears, allowing the playing music to be heard in full throat.
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“Here we go again, I feel the chemicals kicking in.
It's getting heavy, and I want to run and hide.”
I never really listen to the lyrics of this Neon Trees song before, but as my cold body warms up, and my atrophied muscles start to stretch back out, the words feel incredibly poignant. This jogging stuff is fun.
2 minutes later, short of breath, and thighs burning, I’m changing my tune, both literally, and figuratively.
I know these roads of my suburban neighborhood well. While running hasn’t been in my repertoire for a while, I try to make this walk to the local dog park once per day with family pet, Roofus. A young golden retriever, still under a year old, this beast is a bundle of energy.
I contemplated bringing Roofus with me on this inaugural run, but figured it was better to work out the kinks on my own first. I can only imagine being tugged left and right randomly, while traveling forward at a rate of speed faster than my usual leisurely stroll. Better to master one skill at a time.
Plus, the wood chips which comprise the doggy play area are no match for the current soggy ground. 5 minutes of jumping, rolling, and digging in these conditions equates to 45 minutes of toweling and washing to get the dirt out of the dog’s long, golden locks. Definitely not worth the effort. The small grassy yard behind our house will have to suffice until the park dries out.
I track along a gravel path which rings the perimeter fence of pressure-treated, 4” x 4” posts, with 4’ tall, wire mesh fence attached. An impermeable barrier for human, dogs, and even the small deer, which are prevalent in the area.
I recognize several of the pooches in the pen, as well as many of the owners, most of whom are my neighbors.
A Jack Russell, a bundle of energy, and smart as a tack. Too bad her owner is dumber than a box of rocks. This slow lad lives in his parent’s basement 2 houses down from me, and works at the local grocery store occasionally, when he decides to get out of bed.
Bo, a British Bulldog, who’s potbelly stomach seems to grow each sighting. He must be eating his mother’s leftovers, as the owner is a rail-thin woman of indeterminant age, a personal detail which I’ve never built up enough confidence to ask.
An elegant Dobermann Pinscher, of show dog pedigree. His black and brown markings almost perfectly match his elder owner’s attire, who seems perpetually clad in brown slacks and a black leather coat.
About halfway around the cage loop, a burst of static comes over my ear buds, surprising me to the point where I miss a step on the loose ground, knocking my body off balance, and causing my inside shoulder to bump against the fence cage, before I’m able to right myself.
My startled state is further exacerbated by the words with replace the white noise in my ears. A conversation, muddled but discernable, 3 interacting voices which I don’t recognize.
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“Who wants to play a game with this tennis ball?”
“What is for dinner tonight?”
“I’m going to need a spa session later today.”
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I swivel my head around, scanning the area for the source of this disjointed conversation. There’s no people anywhere near me, but the 3 dogs are now tracking my slow movement, on the inner side of the mesh fence.
I wave to the gathered trio of humans, an eclectic mix, just like their canine companions. These owners are deep in conversation, though I’m very skeptical their discussion is what I just heard, and I’m too far way to hear their voices anyways, especially with headphones in.
Befuddled, I keep trudging on. I’m not aware of exercise causing delirium, at least not in this small dosage. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on itself, protesting such unusual physical exertion at this early hour, or any time of day, for that manner.
Auspiciously, as I transition from the dog park zone to the children’s playground, the voices in my head transition from defined words, to spirited barking, the sound I’m used to hearing from these energetic 4-legged animals. By the time I reach the deserted ball fields, my music playlist has magically restarted.
This running stuff is a real mind fuck.
7 minutes into my run, I realize my plan of treading lightly, to avoid getting mud on my new kit, is a lost cause. Stopping at one of the numerous crosswalks, as I wait for the light to change, I look down at my previously-virgin high socks. These started out bright white, with a pair of pink stripes at the top.
Now, my entire calf is speckled with brown blobs, the larger of which have liquid streaking down the knit fabric. There’s no way these stains are coming out in the wash. Hopefully I’ll at least be able to scrub the grime off my darker leggings.
The relentless flow of traffic in my path finally comes to a stop, as the signal changes, then the flashing-white pedestrian image informs me its safe to cross. Leaping over a puddle of indiscernible depth, due to the murky color of the liquid, I’m back on the move. The curbside drain must be clogged.
A few blocks later, I find myself in the heart of downtown, if there is such a thing is this metropolis suburb of DC. Fortunately, my early rising has helped avoid most of the rush hour traffic. Unfortunately, the lack of classy types in suits has allowed the plentiful homeless contingent to linger.
Right on cue, as I turn a random corner, I’m greeted by a narrow street lined with red brick rowhomes. These beautiful structures personify the historic construction practices in this portion of the country. One of the key design elements of these slender buildings is a concrete staircase approach, usual comprised of 6 – 10 risers, which covers the half story distance from the true ground, to the ground floor.
There’s a variety of reasons for this format, primarily protection, with dangers ranging from water, to rats, to looters, back in the 1800’s, when many of these homes were constructed. Surprisingly, most of these invasive elements are still here relevant today.
More importantly, a new parasite has emerged, one able to climb the defensive elevation, and at times, even exploit it. The ever more prevalent homeless contingent.
Fortuitously, on this portion of my run, my headphones are actually functioning correctly, blasting out the powerful noted of an 80’s power ballad. Still, as I pass these vagrants, at what feels like my quickest pace thus far, my ears catch the intermittent, incoherent, cat calls from these decrepit, delusional, stoop squatters.
Go back to your shanties.
Sprinting off as quickly as my inexperienced feet, and barely broken-in shoes, allow, I head towards an area which will be hopefully be more populated. The financial sector. These investment banking crazies live to work.
Apparently, private equity is a lucrative industry, as evidenced by the well-known banking institutions which adorn many of the towers. Granted, buildings here in downtown Alexandria top out at 30 stories, as opposed to adjacent, much larger, Washington DC metro.
As least these sidewalks are level, and swept clear of debris. This is the most immaculate terrain I’ve navigated thus far. Not needing to worry about my next delicate step, I’m able to take in the elegant architecture which comprises this city center courtyard.
The space is personified by polished bronze statues, manicured green shrubs, and shimmering translucent glass. I follow the perimeter of the open square, focusing my gaze on the lofty buildings which frame the space.
Maybe someday, I’ll work at one of these corporations, with an assigned desk, good health insurance, and a reliable salary. I’ll settle for employment on the bottom floor, no need to reach for the stars.
As I pass my one particular structure, my mental musings seem to transition into a convoluted reality. All of the sudden, I’m listening to a phone consultation on my headphones.
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“Please tell us a little more about why you feel qualified for this position, ma’am.”
I start to answer the query out loud, but then realize the absurdity of the situation. I’m sweating and disheveled, my tussled hair a mess, with no make-up on. This is not an interview setting, it’s an exercise endeavor. The inquiring voice must just be some cellular interference with my new watch.
Maybe this is an omen that a promotion is in my future. That thought puts a little spring into my slowing steps.
The individual ingredients in my smoothie didn’t look appetizing going into the blender half an hour ago, and tasted even worse in combination. The lack of nutrients in my system is apparently now coming home to roost.
Considering that my body feels like it’s shutting down, I’ve clearly burned through the menial sustenance of that liquid concoction. My usual combination of protein, in the form of eggs, bacon, and cheese, typically sustains me until lunch. Granted, my typical morning doesn’t entail this level of physical exertion.
Now on the back half of my planned 2-mile loop, albeit with some audibles, due to physical incumbrances, and auditory anomalies, I need a positivity boost. Conveniently this materializes, in the form of some pleasant scenery, headed my way on the 2-way paved path along the river, which I’m currently sluggishly navigating.
This must be one of the perks for us athletic types, getting to peruse each other as we pass. I could get used to this. As we approach, I suddenly become conscious of my running form. I have no idea what I’m supposed to look like, or act like, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to impress. I need to put on a show for this muscular hunk.
When we’re 10 feet apart, I prepare to engage, planning to offer up a witty comment about physique, which I assume these jocks often bandy about. However, all of the sudden, a new song invades my consciousness. It’s a song which is definitely not on my playlist.
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“Here we go, here we go.
Let’s take a ride on love street tonight.
Let the groove take your body tonight.”
Who would play Maxi Priest when they’re trying to work out? This music is fine for making love, another valuable form of exercise, but definitely not running. Could this engaging lad really be playing this absurd tune out loud as he gets his daily fix?
The closer I get to my mark, the louder the song becomes. I know every word, but have no intention of singing it. My original alluring line completely escapes me; as we cross paths the only communication is the exaggerated movement of red lip by my former friend. He’s singing this embarrassing song, uninhibited, without care in the world. My self confidence is definitely not to that point yet.
Coming to my senses, I see the shared path is rising, gradual but steady, is a wide, arcing loop. I’m breathing even more heavily than I was before, as I crest the spiraling route.
I didn’t notice this elevation change when plotting out my route. Hopefully my new electronic monitor will be able to document this monumental feat of climbing.
Taking the innermost paved portion of last bend, the shortest possible trajectory, I finally realize the purpose of this steep ramp. A bridge, which spans across 3 parallel lines of railroad tracks. I know they use trains in this area, but am completely oblivious to their routing, or purpose, except for the crossing in our neighborhood, at which I get incredibly frustrated when stuck behind the closes gate.
Below, on the far pair of parallel rails, there’s a stagnant train, which I take to be a cargo operation, based on the multitude of rectangular box cars.
The middle lane is empty, as most tracks seem to be these days.
The only movement is on the near line, which I’m currently passing over. A sleek, speedy, passenger vessel, crossing perpendicular to a chunky, slow, individual, who would rather be riding on, as opposed to running above, this efficient mode of transport.
From the downtown Alexandria Metro hub, I can get to Union Station, DC in 30 minutes, Penn Station Baltimore, MD in 1.5 hours, Penn Station Newark, NJ in 4 hours, and Union Station New Haven, CT in 6.5 hours. That’s the benefit of the heavily populated mid-Atlantic region, provided you remember what city you are headed to, since pretty much every terminal along the Northeast Corridor has one of two namesakes.
Engrossed by memories of my train trips to visit friends and family to the north, I’m disturbed from these pleasant thoughts by a piercing, shrill whistle. I’ve heard a similar, but much more muted, sound, from inside the insulated passenger cabin, inevitably moving away from the sound. Now, the shriek is bone-chilling, spewing out directly upwards, to my raise position.
Just as this invasion ends, a new, but equally harsh, sound, takes over. A deep, metallic boom, which resembles me dropping every pot in my kitchen onto the floor at the same time. Confused, I look down to see the previously stationary freight cars are now inching forward, after aggressively bashing into each other as motion was initiated.
Considering the incredible amplitude of the banking, this bridge structure must create some sort of a sound chamber. It’s short, and sturdy, so hopefully not prone to any resonance frequency issues. Regardless, I’m resolved to scoot across this noisy passage as quickly as possible.
Based on a series of near misses which play over the next 5 minutes, covering a quarter mile, I should probably stick to dedicated pedestrian lanes like the train bridge.
As soon as I get back down to ground level, I look both ways before crossing the empty street on a diagonal, only to be startled by a taxi cab which appears out of nowhere. These operators are known for their aggressive horn usage, which I somehow missed, along with the bright yellow color of the vehicle itself.
While the actual car fortunately swerves to miss me, I’m not able to dodge the sloppy, salty spray, which splashes up as the bald tires and weak shocks of the cab conspire to unleash the full fury of slushy pothole onto the front of my outfit, indiscriminately soaking me from head to toe.
Next, on another of the many shared path, while shaking the freezing beads of liquid from my repellant windbreaker, I’m so distracted I fail to acknowledge a ringing bell of speedy biker coming up from behind. A handlebar clips my billowing coat as the female rider, out of the saddle, and pedaling hard, whirs past me. This visage of toned tendons, moving mechanisms, and stretched spandex, is a blur, disappearing as quickly as it approached. That will hopefully be me some day.
The last straw is at the light rail station, the only time I need to navigate across busy line. At one intersection, my brain anticipates hearing the melodic chime of departure, when in fact this was just a warming tone for boarding riders. Still looking down, I run smack into the side of the cabin, which I anticipate has already moved on.
Apparently, my legs aren’t the only physical features which are having trouble performing at the end of this run. I never through exercise would so drastically hinder my acoustic perception.
This has been one of the most surreal, physically grueling, mentally overstimulating, half hours of my life. I think I can keep my legs churning long enough to get back home, provided I focus solely on one singular, bodily function.
The constant, distracting auditory stimulation needs to go away. Reaching up, I tear the tiny wireless speakers from my ears, and contemplate tossing these pods on the ground in front of me, then trampling them with my new sneakers, as part of my relentless march forward.
Fortunately, I come to my senses regarding these expensive electronics, and simply shove the small devices into the pouch build into the back of my coat.
Suddenly freed from the invasive plugs, my cochlear bones are now able to pick up natural sounds. It takes them a little while to realize their freedom, but within seconds, I notice subtle elements of my surroundings which were previously masked.
The chirp of a robin in a maple tree. The crunch of salt crystals under the rubber soles of my shoes. The chatter of children walking to school on the opposite sidewalk. I enjoy the home stretch of my run, reveling in these auditory experiences.
Climbing the shallow steps to my door, I pause before opening the wreath-adorned door. I can hear a faint foreign sound, an experience I was hoping to outrun. Fortunately, before I go completely insane, the invasive noise coalesces to a recognizable chorus.
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“Ayo! Bounce to that Trina Moe.
Niggas about to blow,
Bouncin’ straight out the door.
Here we go, here we go.”
Rap music before 8 AM is aggressive. My lazy husband must finally be up, and watching TV. Likely some tribute to the recent passing of DMX, based on the music content. My spouse must have better things to do.
I’ve taken my first steps towards a healthy lifestyle, now it’s his turn.
Opening the door loudly, I reenter the abode, a confusing mix of muddy legs, sweaty torso, and freed mind. Time to upload my run route, and share it with the digital world. I shouldn’t have any issues coming up with a good sound track for this post.