Si Jeunesse Savait, Si Vieillesse Pouvait

Eight years ago, I climbed all 1,710 stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower.  I’m not really sure how I did it.  More appallingly, I remember running up quite a few of those flights (until I realized, halfway to the apex, that the metal stairs were backless, and I was just a quick trip away from freefall in le plein air).

I am reminded of this climb as I sit here, legs elevated, after my latest post-dinner run/walk.  Overly ambitious in my new Nike training outfit, plugged into my most motivational mp3s, I attempted a three-mile run to Woodside and back, and even though it ended up being at least 50% walking, my knees and ankles hurt like whoa.

Too bad, though, because I plan to keep running.  If I can’t run a marathon in my 20s, it’s not going to be any easier to do it in my 30s or 40s. 

I’m hoping this whole running thing will be like learning French.  I’ll suck at it for about three weeks and then suddenly bam! I’ll be quasi-fluent.

Wanna Put My Tender Moss In A Blender / Watch It Spin Around To A Beautiful Oblivion

During his “I want rock gardens” phase, Dad asked me and Emma to wander around the backyard and peel the choicest hunks of moss off the trees.  We collected a bucket’s worth, which Dad promptly poured into Mom’s Cuisinart, along with half a gallon of buttermilk.  Mom watched in horror as one of her more valuable kitchen appliances pureed dirt and moss and milk into a foamy brownish sludge.  Later, we watched Dad slather the runny elixir on the northern side of his favorite rocks, worrying as he painted it on that the recipe had called for too much buttermilk.

It rained not long afterward, washing the cream-soaked spores through the mulch, into the soil.  Still, we waited for weeks, checking daily to see if the moss would sprout.

Emma Said It First

“Gonna” ain’t a word.