Warning: this post includes a weird morphed animal that may be upsetting for some readers.

Standard

 

Sometimes Duncan just has to let himself go.

Sometimes Duncan just has to let himself go.

I’ll have to find a picture of Duncan doing this, but he really does.  And when he does, I think he looks like he has duck feet.  It’s pretty cute.

Speaking of feet, this reminds me of a funny story from middle school.

I started my cross-country career in 8th grade and did pretty well.  I wasn’t the best on the team but generally was about third or so.  Before each race we’d do a walk through of the course since we would be traipsing across parking lots, fields, woods, and whathaveyou where the path is not always obvious.  Anyway, the top two girls on our team were pretty confident in their talents; so much so that before a race one day they decided that it was imperative that they put on their running tights before a race instead of walking the course.  They must have been pretty sensitive to cold…because the rest of us were fine in just our gym uniforms (maybe we wore singlets, I’m not sure but gym uniforms sounds better).

So anyway, as we were running, I was hanging in up there in the top 10 or so runners just doing my thing.  At one point in the course, there was a fork with one side following the high school course, which was much longer, and the other side pretty much as the final stretch for the middle school course.  Guess who was in first place and didn’t pay attention to the right path because she was too busy with her leggins? That’s right.  My teammate.  And in the spirit of middle school, all the other girls right behind her followed here literally into the woods onto the high school path.

That is, of course, until it got to me.  The combination of my uncanny ability to not want to break rules, awkward defiance of peer pressure, and general talent at remembering things caused me to be the first runner to feed into the turn that lead to the chute and got me into first place.  Yes, folks, I became a champion that day.  It was pretty spectacular.

One of the major things I remember was the evil, evil glares I got from those girls who took the wrong path.  They were literally shooting daggers at me with their eyes.  Unsettled slightly but mostly unaffected by their attempts to shame and guilt me into thinking my victory was unworthy, I awkwardly carried my trophy/ribbon/medal/whatever chintzy thing they handed out over to my sweet fanny pack.

Ok, that last part is a lie.  I stopped wearing my pink neon fanny pack when I was like 10.  But that’s another story for another day.

3 responses »

  1. Yea for you! Love how people blame others when they aren’t paying attention. I’m in the process of trying to explain that to my 7 year old. It’s everybody else’s fault…”Why haven’t you finished dinner yet?…”because Samantha keeps singing and it’s annoying.”…”What does that have to do with eating your dinner?”
    Sandi
    http://www.ahhsome.wordpress.com

  2. I ran x-country in middle school but I hated it. I liked it enough when I was also coming in 3rd ish to 7th ish… I usually made the top 10 at least. But in 8th grade I decided I liked staying up late watching Friends better than running and stopped trying in practice and was not at all good any more which made it less fun.
    I was also awkwardly defiant to peer pressure. Made me really popular and made college really fun… haha!

  3. I’m glad to see that somebody else’s cat does this… mine does it and I think it’s the cutest thing in the world. Even cuter; when he only has one foot pointed out and he looks sassy, which is a very cool thing to call a male cat.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s