The Michelin Man

There’s nothing I hate more than jogging in a crowded room, so the visits happen late when it’s just the clock and me and the racing wants to go on forever. See, I have to set a goal, so set a goal is what I do: an unhealthy and slightly unrealistic ten in one month. Need to look my best. Need to be in tip-top shape, see, all because of a boy. Three years down the drain wanting waiting wishing for him to look and I finally get the nerve, the balls, and I’m sweating bullets worse than when I run when no one’s looking and all I get is the slap sting of “The Michelin Man is not my type”.

Oh. That was all I could muster up.

There’s nothing I hate more than jogging in a crowded room, so I walk real slow out the studio where he’s telling all the tale no doubt and wait for the door to close behind till I let my hand touch the place where it stings the most – my face or my heart I’m not quite sure – before I inhale deep and long real hard (the kind that stabs – you know – with the Norman Bates screech) to somewhere I don’t even think I have ever been so that I can run. And run I do. Down the stairs from 2 to 1 and down the hall past the guard wishing they’d get rid of these obnoxious revolving doors that always make me late or stop or give me the extra five seconds it takes to wish I hadn’t woken up but then I’m outside and gone.

Okay. So. …I lied. There’s nothing I hate more than needing in a crowded world. And this is a very crowded world. And at the rate things are going in this very, very crowded world, I’ll be selling tires at a discount rate til the day I die.