In a miserable mood, I told Dave, “The only answer is to go for a run.” I’d missed the pre-work, 65-degree, shaded morning cool, which meant the midday sun was in full golden glory—86 degrees and unrelenting. I walked most of the second mile and felt a mix of failure and success. I did it—but like a slogging, slug-butt version of myself.
Maybe that should be my life motto: slogging along, making it up—slug butt. Which, if you’ve ever seen a slug’s butt, is actually kind of cute. Isn’t there a little V-tail back there? Or am I making that up?
Post-run, I took my sweaty self to the backyard and sat on the first step of the pool. Dave and Evelyn were there, and as we chatted, I felt the ripple of water against my back. Twice, I noticed the thump-thump-thump felt stronger than what Evelyn’s slow movements could make the water move. The third time, it felt like an actual knock. I jolted forward and whipped my head around to see… a dollop of a toad. Or frog. Not the sleek, cute tree frog kind—but the stout, “I might give you warts” variety.
After I set him on the pool’s edge, he hip-hopped away—then turned right back around and hopped toward me again. Inches from the ledge, staring straight at me. I knew exactly what he was saying: “Lady, you get those pool escape ramps now, or else.”
Not wanting it to rain frogs—or, now that I say it, maybe I kind of do—I ordered two frog logs from Amazon. The reviews are overwhelmingly in favor of them actually saving animals, and for the price of an extra-large combo meal, I couldn’t not.
I already told you—I’m an animal lover, not a fighter.
With that, it’s bedtime. I’ve got a jam-packed workday tomorrow—so packed I’m going to miss Evelyn’s baseball game. Is it too soon to start singing Cats in the Cradle? I really hope so.
Well, hasta la vista, mi babies.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 