I took my time rolling out of bed yesterday and padded around in my jammies for a bit before I headed out for my Sunday Runday. Besides, it was pouring out and now that I’m in Marathon Recovery Run mode, rushing out to run in a monsoon is no longer a part of my vocabulary. At least not this week. (Oh I’ve been running, but not like my pants are on fire.) So, 5 cups of coffee later, I decided it was time to harness my “energy” and hit the road. (Either that or I was going to have a seizure.)
A beautiful thing happened in these parts the past two weeks- LEAVES! GREEN! FLOWERS! It’s erupted. Spring is all up in here. It’s sprung alright. I love it. I swear I look around all wide-eyed like I’ve never seen trees before. It amazes me time and time again.
Side Note: I solemnly swear that I will not bitch about the heat in the upcoming summer months. Only- and ONLY- if it gets in the triple digits with 98% humidity. Then I’ll grumble. After the bullshit winter we had in the North East, a little heat is WELCOME. I’m rolling out the red carpet for it. Come on Summer! If you hear any New Englander bitch about running in the heat, punch them. Either in the teeth or kidney. Your choice.
With super-duper, green, warm rainy mornings come bugs. Buzzy bugs. That zip around your sweaty head. So there I am, all happy, Lululemon Groovy Run Short, Newton Gravity’s and a nice high pony tail. Ahh. Spring. I’m zipping along fueled by a gallon of dark roast. Nothing better. Until…
It hits me.
In the eye.
I am momentarily blinded. I freak out. BUG IN MY EYE! BUG IN MY EYE! BUG IN MY EYE! It’s wedged. In the corner. I stomp my feet. I take out my contact lens. I do the Harlem Shake. I can’t get it out. It’s laying eggs in my retina.
WHAT THE FUCK.
Nothing like ruining a run and a caffeine buzz because you’re momentarily blinded by a filthy little black fly. (And then proceed to have an anxiety attack because you can’t get it out fast enough.) I hate eyes. They freak me out. I dissected a sheep’s eye in high school biology once and the aqueous humor that oozed out scarred me for life. (Thanks Sr. Veronica.) I managed to get the vector out in one piece. And return my gnarly contact lens without scratching my cornea.
I head off on my way, itchy but not thwarted. I cannot, however, stop blinking. Four more pretty green miles pass without incident. It turned out to be a beautiful day after all. Damn bugs. Trying to ruin my Runday. I run on along around a lake. Life is good. Until…
It dawns on me.
The cicadas are coming.
Brood II. Swarmageddon. Zombie Cicadapocalypse. The 17 Year Emergence. Call it what you want. They are well on their way. Billions of them. Marching right up I-95. Slowly. Brace yourself, East Coast. They’re back. These babies have been hanging out for 17 years under ground waiting patiently. When the temperature of the soil reaches precisely 64 degrees, they’ll crawl out of the earth like zombies in the Thriller video, hang out, dry out, get hard and scrump, leaving their discarded skins like used condoms strewn about your yard on prom night. Nature’s Porn. In the meantime, we’ll be deafened from their 92 decibel mating song and grossed out by their mere presence. (Ugh. I need a Xanax.)
If I’m freaking out about a teeny tiny black fly in my eye, what in the name of all that is holy will I do when I get pelted by a Nerf football sized cicada? (Ok maybe that’s overstating. They’re smaller. But not much.) I’ll tell you what I’ll do.
Lose. My. Shit.
It won’t land in your eye, it will take your eye. Right out of the socket. And fly away with it. I might get all Britney Spears circa 2007 and just shave my head in anticipaton. If one gets caught in my hair (or god forbid HELMET while cycling) I’m doing it. Right to the scalp. Bald. Recipes are popping up online. I hear the nymph’s taste like shrimp. Or asparagus, depending on who you read. This summer is going to be insane. I’m nauseous. But I won’t complain. Promise…