Size 9s

May 14, 2010

Nearly every morning, I get up before anyone else in my house and slip out for a run.  I don’t track distance (really) and only roughly do I track time.  The important thing is that I’m out by myself for a while — moving, thinking, praying, mind-singing, mulling — and that I get home by 7:00 so I can wake the troops, prepare meals (3 breakfasts, 3 lunches), and get all children out the door at the appointed times (7:25, 7:38, 8:00).

I’d be remiss if I didn’t note that my run always ends at the neighborhood Starbuck’s, where I get a medium bold for sipping on the 1/4 mile cool-down walk home.

Occasionally the lovely routine is disrupted. Sleeping through the alarm is the most common culprit. But this morning I could not find my running shoes. Anywhere. I always (well, almost) leave them by the back door.  Gone.  Checked all the obvious spots — by front door, bedroom, bathroom.  Nothing.

Ah, yes, then it hit me. The still-sleeping teenage daughter whose feet are the same size and who has started to take an occasional run herself and who is forever misplacing her own items of clothing, despite the fact that most of it is strewn across the floor of her room.

running shoes under dirty laundry











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