The simple act of me running has been striking fear in the hearts of my family for years now.
I suppose it all stems back to the time I was running with abandon in the backyard and crashed into the side of the house. It left me dazed and bloody, but as my longtime readers will recall (and for those who don’t remember,
here’s a link to the story), blame for that entire unfortunate and scar-inducing event fell squarely on Ma’s shoulders. I was in total control when I bolted for the front gate; it was she who took that fateful step toward the house drastically reducing the size of my intended throughway.
The years have passed, but the memory of that day continues to haunt my family. Anything faster than a trot brings forth cries of “whoa!” and “slow down!” and “no running!”, but of course that doesn’t stop me. Why should it? Sometimes you’ve just got to run (even when you’re over fourteen years old).
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"Don't you dare!"
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"Whoa!"
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"Slow down!"
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"No running!"
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