As the Polygon Turns: Off Time (Episode 7)

So today I ventured out of the compound for a run. I had heard from #1 that to get to the monument area downtown I could go out the back of the PAC and over a footbridge and blah blah blah blah blah blah I stopped listening... daydreams overtook dayreality.

The other day as Russ and I were driving by, I pointed out the supposed "route," mumbling what is supposed to happen after one crosses the footbridge immediately outside the exit. Russ, obviously the better listener, called me out on the fact that I was seriously short on details.

"So what? I'm sure I can figure it out."

"And get lost."

"So, how lost can I get?" Besides, being so-called lost is merely a gateway to an adventure!

So there I was, freely trotting along, over the footbridge... oooh, a park... cross the street, follow the paths, look at the water... I wonder how far this goes?

Hmmm, a little shade, nice trees, hmmm, now I am in a parking lot... another path over there, a smelly dumpster, a weird looking construction worker (good thing I am going the other way)... crappers, another dead end, the same construction worker, cut some corners to avoid some other ones... another path, a sign telling me that the way I aim to go is closed and that I should use the Ladybird Johnson Footbridge. Gee, thanks. Where is that, ahhh, who cares? Turn around, another path, head towards a memorial, nope a big circle, make a path, head into a shady grove, looks like some people whom I saw 10 minutes ago are now walking in this direction... hmmm, nice path along the road, running along, look up -- hey where I want to be is up there! I am supremely jealous of joggers on an overpass above me. Well, there is only one way that I can see to get up there. I clamber up the side of a highway hump and cross four lanes of traffic. What could have been easier? Umm, going the right way the first time. Aw, whatever!

After my diddling about, I found my way to pay a visit to my favorite President: Lincoln. When I found myself in between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, I paused and took stock of where I was blessed to be: in the sun, running, an American part of something bigger than these goofy thoughts about getting lost and fabricating adventures, trying to make a difference in the sunny day, my running, and America.

Where was I going?

Oh yeah, back to work. Eventually I made my way back there, immersed in the soundtrack of my life pumping via my iPod, did a bunch of extra leg exercises, got cleaned up and headed back up to the office. Somewhere in there, however, I also contemplated the symbolism that was slapping me in the jowels. The metaphor of being out on a run: some piddley attempt to escape the confines of the office, pretending like I know where I am going or just not really caring that I actually don't because it will bring me to something out of the ordinary. Waiting for something to happen, someone to show me the way, only so I can miss his directions in the buzz of my own daydreams.

Some days, in my waiting I hit it too hard. I beat the shit out of my body, yearning for some intensity, go running really hard on a really hot and humid morning, give myself headache… then later try to clear the headache with gallons and gallons of water and, when that fails, switch to beer, believing that the beer did the trick, have another and another, then believe that I need to eat that third piece of pizza (arh! That third piece of pizza – what a litany of life lessons I could write to the metaphor of having that third piece of pizza!)… falling asleep in between games of a double header only to wake up and be barely conscious for the second game and to drink maybe another beer and then nap and slam three bottles of Vitamin Water in an effort to gain my wits and feel the back of my throat again before bed… then believe that I am ready for bed and but realize that I am not tired but rather being victimized by the pizza bloat… and so I am awake, awkward and lonely in my quiet neighborhood as I stay up until the wee hours of the morning, reading a book supposedly about America written by a German who has never been here and once imagined that he awoke one morning to find himself transformed into a very large bug…

But then you rally again like in the Tubthumping song that reminds me of my friend Erik (Mr. puke and rally himself -- I get knocked down...), and come around the corner into the 4th mile just as “Jump Around” opens -- "get up, get in, let me begin" -- and you pass three chicks who look to be in better shape than you are… and you end of finishing better than you thought you would but still only get second… to a woman whose upper thighs seemed a little jellier than yours and whom you saw walking up that last hill. WALKING! Well, walking can be deceptive… remember that half marathon when you were chugging up that hill and in order for Erik to stick back with you he had to walk? Then you ended up dragging him along... And so there you are: you had a decent Sunday although the Mets lost and that sent you spiraling into anger, so much so that you took it out on yourself in the form of a really hard shoulder/bi/tri workout and then could only manage one beer that night. “Excuse me please, one more drink… can you make it strong 'cause I don't need to think?” Ahh, the soundtrack of my life. It's just music, Silly.

On my way back to the office from the PAC, I bypassed the escalators and used the stairs that I discovered someone else using during my trip down. They are very narrow stairs, though. So narrow that only one person can realistically use them at one time. What will I say to someone should I encounter someone coming the opposite direction?

Fight the power!

Yeah, that’s what I will say!

Someone approaches me as I am heading up and round the corner. I don’t say anything to him. So much for that.

Later in the afternoon I decided to fill one of my units of time with a trip down to the MWR office to purchase some baseball tickets for Wednesday’s Nats-Mets game.

MWR was closed! Another attempt at freedom and something different with which to occupy my time was thwarted! Since I was out of my cell, though, I took the opportunity to use the head on my way back to the office.

Urgh! My favorite stall was soiled… and the one after that and the one after that! When technology goes awry -- or just gives up (the toilets have "electric eyes"). When technology goes awry: one more reason to avoid escalators. Fortunately, that was the head situated in between the D & E rings. Here stalls aren't numbered, so it made my selection of an alternate stall a little less disruptive as it was easier to suspend my disbelief that I wasn't following routine. Had I been in the other head on this corridor and not been able to use stall # 3 or # 2 and sink # 4 or # 14… I very well could have had a Rain Man episode. Okay, not really, but emotional adjustments would have had to have been made. I would have been visibly upset for about 2 tenths of a second.