THOUGHTS DURING THOSE 7AM POWER WALKS

There is nothing thrilling about the walk itself. It’s incredibly repetitious, especially in the winter when I’m confined to the indoor track.

It’s a rush to see that the sun has risen and before I leave for home, it will be daylight..

I’m getting used to the only radio station the Walkman can pick up there. A couple of people jabbering at one another, but they play enough music with a beat that I can keep up my pace.
I’m getting the hang of Shania Twayne and I like Tina Turner’s new CD and I also like to think of them enjoying their opulent lifestyles in Switzerland or wherever they hang out.

I wonder why twosomes, always older women, come to the track so early when they just want to chat? They wander from lane to lane, talking intently. I thought that only the grimly serious would drag themselves out of bed at this ungodly time.

Avian flu. My son is roving about Thailand and that is where the worry centers at the moment. From the pictures I see of the online diary of his trip, he seems to be eating noodles and vegetarian fare, although I don’t think you have to eat poultry products to catch it.

It’s time to call my sweet little Elise to ask her if she wants to resume the art lessons. We do watercolors together and I get to hear about life from a nine-year old’s perspective. When she gets restless, we stop off at a fast food place for lunch and I take her home.

Death. I think about it a lot. Whole cultures base their lives on what they think happens to them once they’re dead and I sometimes get the giggles at the notion that many of them are going to be really surprised.
I won’t know if what I believe is right until my due date and then I won’t be able to send word to my survivors. Bummer.

Desert islands. This is why I would prefer not to spend time on one, and that was before I saw how Tom Hanks fared.
There would be no more perfectly dry martinis enhanced by a plump queen size stuffed olive. Or an exquisite toast round covered with smoked salmon, capers and a shaving of egg yolk. And how about a superbly rare roast of beef accompanied by the fluffiest of Yorkshire puddings.
Cheeseburgers. I adore them and don’t even try the artery-clogging message on me. Add to the meal a perfect diet coke served in a cardboard cup filled with shaved ice. Tins and bottles do not make it. It has to be cardboard.
Incidentally, back to Tom Hanks-- do you think the lady rancher sped up the drive in time to haul Tom in for a visit and some R&R?

See, the thing about not having one of clicker things with me as I mentally count off the laps is that I don’t dare think of anything more serious or I’ll lose count and that will drive me nuts. What if I did an extra lap and didn’t know it? I would check Ebay if I knew what you really call those clicker things.

Once I get that I can both walk and concentrate on finishing my novel.