It sure isn't spittle. Which brings us to,
The Question of the Week
You are at work, when you notice a person having difficulty working the new, "technically sophisticated" storage lockers. Being the fab, phenom employee that you are, you go to the assist; because life is more then wiping sweat and dust off of treadmills.
"Yes, mam, you have to close the locker before you lock it. That's it." Conversation ensues. But conversation doesn't matter as the only salient point is that spittle is flying. Everywhere. Um hm, I trained you. Yes, you should follow up with me.......eeeeee."
Spittle on the cheek? Ok. Spittle on the chin? Well a little precarious, but we are still ok. But then that flagrant, foul drop hits a perfect trajectory...and lands on your lip.
A) Run screaming to the eye wash fountain in the janitor closet, only to be retarded mid stride by the recollection that the eyewash is merely that- water to wash the eyes. And this isn't your eye, this is your lip, which guards the orafice by which all things travel to and from your body. You opt for chugging bleach instead.
B) Grow up Trimama, you exchange bodily fluids with Tac Boy all the time.
C) But this isn't Tac Boy, where's the bleach?
D) Did you know that, like, 70% of dust we inhale and exhale every day is really skin cells that have sloughed off of other people?
E) I'm going permanent SARS mask from this point forward
F) How can this be coming from a woman who has wiped butts and noses for more then a decade?
G) Go ahead, fill in the blank
I saw in a documentary that worm poo is really great for growing marijuana....and other things. I'm not sure what "other" things are, but the guy from Princeton who invented worm poo is making a lot of money turning other folks garbage into fertilizer. Not a bad gig if you can get it.
Enough about poo, for I have sinned. Perhaps not mortal, but certainly grievous. What? Did I miss the latest download of The Tac Boy and Bigun show? No, worse. Leaving the feverish Tac (who happens to be an Ironman) at home, I bundled up (bundling because it is still so cold here that I switched my iphone weather gauge to celcius; somehow 1 degree here isn't quite so awful when it is only 28 in Tempe- so long as we are all freezing I'm good) The Tribe and departed for the local burger joint. For no odd reason, I donned my Ironman Finisher fleece. Now, in the Tac Boy/Trimama life of yin and yang, I am the IM recluse to Tac Boy's Schwag Whore. My tattoo remains hidden, and my schwag wear is limited, apparently to blustery days out with The Tribe. I sit my "single mom" arse down at the burger joint and proceed to dine with The Tribe. At some point in the evening, I catch a glimpse of the bright red "M" across the room. Just a simple white shirt, on a handsome, athlete, age grouper of a guy. Now we are easily within each other's eye shot. He could no more miss my "M" as I could miss his. And I knew, at some point it would happen. Our eyes would meet, a slight nod, and in typical Minnesota fashion, the subtle wave. We just acknowledge people in our clans up here. And we were in each other's 140.6 miles clan. You know it's coming. It's a sixth sense understanding. I glanced up, our eyes brushed in contact.....and I balked! I looked away! I denied this fellow athlete his due. At that one moment, feeling much more conscious of mama then Trimama, I felt sub iron. I felt that to put myself in this guys league was to defame the name and spirit of the athlete. I really need to get out more. Perhaps I really need to get out on my bike more. So, white shirt Ironman Guy at local burger joint, I'm sorry, really, truly sorry. Wave, wave. (was that second wave overkill?)
Ok, so I stopped by my local bike shop to pick up new cleats and shades. It's 65 wonderful degrees tomorrow and other then the fact that it is bloody tax day, I have no excuse for not getting my skittish, ridiculous self out on a bike tomorrow. Wish me luck, and if you encounter me on the trail, well, don't worry if I don't wave, I'll be white knuckling this maiden voyage of the new knee until it's done. I'm such a wuss.