It was 22 degrees outside this morning when Curly and I stepped out the front door for our morning run. Cold, but not too cold. I found myself having this conversation in my head:
I’m from Montana, dammit- I routinely walked to school in -40 degree weather, snow up to my eyelashes and I was a child. I can do this.
“You only lived a block from school, this is almost three miles. Fat chance.”
There was windchill and I was carrying a clarinet case for crying out loud. I am tough, I can do this. I’ve been out hunting in the mountains with guns and frikkin freezing feet and I didn’t cave in.
“You cried like a baby that time you were up in the mountains when you found out you were still an hour from the truck, remember?”
Oh. Well, yeah, but I was just a kid and I didn’t have enough socks to keep me warm. I’ve always had bad circulation, my feet were always cold, but I never complained. Boy, is my nose getting cold…
“Right, tough guy. You were sixteen, you embarrassed your father and scared the elk.”
Did I? I don’t remember that.
“Trust me, you were a mess.”
Ain’t that the truth, in more ways than one. But let me tell you something, Mr Killjoy: I’m gonna do this. Why do you always have to step in and try to convince me that I’m such a schmuck?
“‘Cause you let me.”
I couldn’t argue with that.