Apples

Running is dependable. Like my favorite constellation, the Big Dipper (yeah I’m original on that one), running is always there for me when I look for it. When life is going my way, it doubles my pleasure. When I’m facing demons, it has my back; it’s my AK-47 and my cloak of invisibility (the handiest weapon of the future). Running doesn’t erase painful feelings; it props me up so I can better handle the frustration of a slow-moving thesis paper and the hurtfulness of selfish lovers. Hi-speed, lo-fi, intervals, long distance, hills, urban, rural, beach, trails, group, solo: however the run of the day is served, it’s sure to be accompanied by a variety of side dishes, compliments of the chef. I can feel strong, capable, in control, impenetrable, amused and amusing, sexy, rebellious, a shithead, determined, ridiculous, remarkable, retarded, faster than I am, and like I don’t give a fig what’s happening around me because I will be splitting from the scene in 3 seconds max. It’s like backpacking that way. Damn, I miss being an irresponsible traveller.

In terms of sassiness, however, backpacking clothes don’t hold a candle to my running skirt. The skirt says, I can wear shorts and a skirt simultaneously; I can wear a tight, short skirt and not let you see anything I don’t want you to when I fall over, that’s how cool, together and overall awesome I am. If the glacial weather wasn’t already descending like a plague upon this godforsaken city I’d be raising that hemline. (For the record, backpacking clothes say – albeit in a gorgeous foreign accent – wash me before I disintegrate: you don’t know the number of filthy floors I’ve lain upon!)

Another dependable: apples. Award-winning characteristics: Portable. Delicious. Healthy. Crunchy. Fresh. Smurf measurement ("3 apples tall"). Sweet. Juicy. Colorful. Ubiquitous. Compostable. Canadian. Cosmopolitan. And sassy, for sure: red as a monkey’s flaming butt.