Let us have a foot race to the swing sets!

Realizations at 25 years of age, #208:

I am not fast, nor will I ever be. And that's OK.
I have never harbored delusions that I am fleet of foot (though my father told me that I didn't "run like a girl quite as much as [redacted]" during my softball-playing days, lo those many years ago, so I have that going for me. Still throw like a girl, though...).

Last night, we indulged in a little mid-week beering at the usual. When Claire and I took leave of the gents at the corner of our street, we turned into 10 year-olds.

"I call bathroom," she announced.

"Oh no," I said, "I've had one and a half more beers than you have. Me first."

Claire: Giggling, breaks into run.

Me: also beginning to run (note: I dislike running. A lot). "Aw c'mon," I yell.

She pulls ahead by a few strides. This is where my longer legs could come in handy, right? Wrong. My keys sail out of my pocket and clatter to the ground (it should be noted here that after a few beers, running at any speed feels really really fast).

Claire: "Ha ha! You have made a fatal mistake."

Me: Keys collected. Running again. "You bitch!"

Claire reaches the stoop a quarter block ahead of me, at which point she unlocks the door and closes it on me. Luckily, my keys are at the ready and I manage to get through the vestibule and up the stairs where she is unlocking the apartment. She slams the door behind her and I hear her pound down the home stretch and shut the bathroom door. I enter the apartment and dance ridiculously around the living room, surrounded by blinking cats.

Once again, my lack of speed foils me. Whether it's trying to chase down a striker for the Grey Skull FC, or win the bathroom footrace, I'm coming up the loser.

But I have other talents. For instance, reaching things in our upper cabinets and shelves.

Yeah, that's right Claire. In revenge, I'm going to put the hummus up really high so you can't reach it. Then who's going to laugh? Me, that's who.