And so, I've been really busy rewarding myself from yesterday's x mile run. You know how the ultimate advantage goes: sit, slumber, get up to stretch once in awhile, consider walking to the driveway to fetch the mail, and then determine there'due south no need to overexert yourself, sleep some more, accept a few strawberry water ice cream confined, bend over to touch on your toes and count it equally a workout for the twenty-four hours, watch reality television, file your nails, spotter the pet goldfish swim, and sleep some more. Oh yeah, fit in going to piece of work in that schedule somewhere.
Information technology's go readily credible that along with intense physical rest, I also demand to do some mental recovery. Seems I left a few 1000000 brain cells out on the hot pavement of Arlington. Instance in point: While grocery shopping yesterday, ostensibly to buy fresh produce to make a fruit salad, I just
to push button my cart down the candy alley. Okay, fine... so it wasn't by happenstance; it was utterly deliberate. But I'm rewarding myself, people! Don't gauge me until you've run x miles or more in my
At that place, toward the terminate of the aisle, saturday a brightly-colored, middle-catching display of Snickers king-sized processed bars. I could take sworn the clouds parted and highlighted this display with a single ray of vivid sunlight just for my do good. I even think at that place were angels singing in the background. Now, I don't know most you, merely I'yard of the firm belief that all processed was created on the seventh mean solar day by God himself equally a reward for His labors. And in the Section of No-Brainers, the just thing ameliorate than a regular-sized candy bar is a
king-sized candy bar.
And so, I'm continuing at that place completely motionless in front of the display, my rima oris gaping open up, my eyes glazed over with visions of milk chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and creamy nougat dancing in my head. The voice in my head (doesn't everybody accept i?) whispers, "Reward yourself, reward yourself" over and over again. I'grand in such a daze that I merely take a moment to glance at the sign advertising the sale price, "10 for $1.00."
Screeeeeeeeeeech! Hold on now, back up that truck. X for a dollar??? Every bit my running buddy at work (and Eddie Irish potato from the
Nutty Professor) would say, clapping his hands, "Hercules! Hercules!"
At present, math's never been my strong suit (that's why I went into law, of grade) but thanks to a meticulous mental computation in my head, I figured out ten for a dollar was similar 10 cents a candy bar! A male monarch-sized processed bar at that! The generous folks at the grocery store must have known I'd had a really tough run and they wanted to do their part in rewarding me. How thoughtful of them.
So, I get-go counting out my processed bars. One... ii... three... Yippee, 10 for a dollar! I'm doing the Snoopy happy dance. Four... five... six. I had iii extra bucks burning a pigsty in my pocket and in my head I'm fantasizing about all of the ways I'll apply my
wealth for good. Just similar
in the movie,
I'm imagining the possibilities. Snickers cake, Snickers salad, Snickers casserole, Snickers casserole, Snickers pie, Snickers
flambée, Snickers creole, Snickers souffle, Snickers fricassee... I nearly moisture my pants with glee.
Before a trip down aisle 12 for some Depends undergarments was required, I stopped in mid-celebration. I don't exactly know what caused me to pause at that signal. It might have been the fact I was stuffing those processed confined into my hand handbasket every bit quickly as a crackhead will snatch a stone of cocaine. Information technology might have been the act of wiping the drool off my chin with the back of my hand so I didn't look like a poster kid supporting rabies vaccinations for pets. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fleeting thought that at that place haven't been ten cent candy bars since the 1950s. Howdy, it'south 2008. Nah, I'm sure it was the drool. All I know is that somewhere in the middle of grabbing Snickers candy bar number xiii, I stopped, looked at the sign again, and raised an eyebrow in perplexed confusion. I squinted. I slapped the side of my head a couple times, then rubbed my eyes, and leaned in for a closer view. The sign read, "10 for $x.00."
Like I told you earlier, math was never my strong suit, simply that is Non ten cents a candy bar. I felt my euphoria dissipate like helium out of a balloon as I placed each candy bar, i by one, dorsum onto the display rack.
Stupid decimals. Playing cruel tricks on runners like that.