Running to stand still... Actually, that might be an improvement.

I woke up at some unholy time this morning. I've always had a rather strange internal clock anyway: one that's very precise except for when it comes to keeping time with music, where I always seem to end up off-beat. That's 'cause I'm white and Irish. We're sooooo known for our rhythmic and athletic abilities.

Seriously. When was the last time you saw a rhythmic gymnast in the Olympics from The Emerald Isle? Better yet, when was the last time you watched rhythmic gymnastics in the Olympics? Better still, did you even know that rhythmic gymnastics was a sport? If you didn't then I feel bad for you. Why? 'Cause chicks do crazy shit like what's pictured to the right. They give out gold medals for these kinds of things, people. All the women competitors of rhythmic gymnastics are champions in my book. Also, it's one of two sports (women's volleyball being the other) where I don't feel the least bit guilty for watching in the nude.

At any rate, after I set off my car alarm this morning [writer's note: Sorry, entire neighborhood!], I set out on my morning run. It's not as daily as I'd like it to be. My well-documented love for all films related to Sylvester Stalone have caused me to miss many morning runs... all suggled up on my bed, watching Sly do a karate kick on some guy and then shooting another one in the face with a gun that weighs 245 pounds. There's nothing he can't do on screen. But this morning... Oh, how motivated I was!

I stepped out into the not-so-cool morning air looking and feeling like a complete idiot. Not only was the horn on The Family Truckster making noise to wake the dead, I was wearing the following:

White sweatband

Brown hooded sweatshirt (with a zipper that does not stay up. <-- That's gonna be important in a second)

Gray athletic shorts

Boxer shorts

Knee braces (right and left)

Ankle socks

Black New Balance shoes

Ipod on arm holster

In short, I looked like a retarded relative of the Six Million Dollar Man. Eat your heart out, Lee Majors.

If you're an astute observer, you'd notice that I didn't mention anything about wearing a t-shirt. Why would I soil a perfectly good one if I'm wearing my comfortable brown hooded sweatshirt? I couldn't think of a reason either.

I set off down McMahan Ave, with my music blaring. As fate would have it, the first song that came on was "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. It's the kind of song that I can't help but try to dance do: arms flailing about like crazy. So, imagine if you will (and you will), me, running down the road and trying to dance at the same time while listening to this song... and wearing a hooded sweatshirt that likes to do anything but stay closed.

It was long about the first "Some-some-some-I-some-I-murda..." when my brown hooded sweatshirt got the best of me; it's zipper easing its way down my already sweaty chest. That's 'cause I'm perpetually out of shape and Tennessee is perpetually at 751% humidity. I took a leap of faith to continue running, continue dancing, and adjusting the zipper on my hooded sweatshirt... Right about then is when I ended up face first and covered in dirt on the corner of McMahan Ave and Gallatin Pike watching traffic roll right on by me.

I was very humbly reminded that we(e) Irish are designed to stick to Riverdancin'. As soon as our upper bodies are engaged in an athletic endeavor, we fall flat.