Two new things came to the quaint, unassuming town of Wake Forest this weekend. The first was my new roommate, Karen. The second was a new Zaxby’s. Zaxby’s and Karen in the same weekend could very possibly be a dangerous combination in my life. The meeting of the two played out in a scenario a little something like this….
I, being the disciplined, responsible individual that I am, was out attempting to get a 3 mile run in on this hot mid-August day. I have another sprint triathlon coming up on Sunday and am desperately trying to squeeze in any and every workout I can before the day of doom approaches. So, despite the fact that it was a muggy 118 degrees outside, I put on my big girl panties and tennis shoes and went for a run.
I was almost done with said run when I hear people from the car on the road beside me screaming my name. Knowing full well that these people are just being ignorant, I ignored them and proceeded on with my run. Next thing I know they are flagging me down and I realize it is Karen and my other roommate, Stephanie. I immediately wonder to myself why these fools are trying to offer me a ride? Obviously I don’t want a ride – I am out for a run. Sure, I looked like I was dying and they probably felt sorry for me, but still, you don’t offer someone who is out for a run a ride no matter how desperate they may appear. Because I was busy using all of the energy that I possessed to continue oxygenating my lungs, I was unable to hear what they were saying and instead shook my head at them and then give them a finger wag (the African version of “stop that”) indicating that I did not want a ride and continued on with my muggy, painful run.
As I rounded the corner to our apartment complex, I see these fools cruising down the street towards me still yelling something at me. Seriously, could they not wait the extra 5 minutes it would take for me to get home?! And did they not get the memo earlier that I did not want a ride? What part of the African finger wag did these people not understand? As I slowed down enough to actually hear what they were screaming at me, I find out that the new Zaxby’s is doing a soft run and giving away free food and that I must get in the car now so that we can go. Like now. These girls were not playing.
Not knowing that I had any other option, I literally stopped mid-stride and climbed up in the Expedition still full out huffing and puffing and absolutely 100% covered in sweat. My friend Jordan likes to say that there are two kinds of people in this world, sweaters and redders. I am without a doubt the former. Not my fault people. Those over-producing sweat glands are just as much a genetic trait as my blue eyes. I acquired both from my mother. If any of you have ever seen her – and the puddle around her – on the stationary bike at the Y…you know what I’m talking about. (sorry Mom, but we all know its true). So, at the end of a three mile run on a lovely August afternoon, you can only imagine the condition that my t-shirt is in. That condition would be soaked. Disgustingly soaked with sweat. And yet, I walked my fresh off the asphalt, still dripping sweat self into that Zaxby’s and ate enough free fried food to make the next 20 miles that I run completely invalid.
The things you do for Zaxby’s and your new roommate, Karen.