Tonight, at the end of a long work week, I got some great news.
What an impact good news can have! The moment before, I was physically and mentally dragging; after the news I was charged with energy and felt as if I had been jolted with adrenalin. Before, I had been gritting my teeth at the antics of the inconsiderate jerks on the road, but after I was filled with charity toward my fellow Friday evening motorists. The music on the radio sounded so much sweeter, and the cold wet weather seemed much less miserable.
When I got home, I happily fed the dogs and was untroubled by Kasey’s incessant barking. I kept a smile on my face even as I picked up, bagged, and tied off a stinky dump that Penny deposited as we went for a delightful evening stroll.
I wish I could bottle how it feels to get some really good news and share it with everyone. I know that I can’t — so I guess I’ll just enjoy it for so long as it lasts.
There are morning walkers, and then there are morning joggers. Walkers uniformly greet each other with a hearty “good morning!” Some joggers, on the other hand, just . . . wave.
Actually, calling it a wave isn’t all that accurate, because there’s no side-to-side motion. It’s just a flip of the wrist and showing of the open palm, as if the jogger wanted to demonstrate that he isn’t carrying a knife or revolver. It’s like the hand that appeared above the head of Paul McCartney on the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band cover, which was supposed to be another of the clues demonstrating that McCartney was killed in a car crash. No wonder the joggers’ wave doesn’t exactly warm the cockles of my heart.
I’m not quite sure why the joggers’ wave bugs me. It’s a bit embarrassing to say hello and get the joggers’ wave in return, but that’s not the only issue. It’s like the joggers who do the flip wave think they are better than the walkers, because they’re moving faster and they wear spiffy jogging outfits and have bottles of water hooked at their beltlines, whereas the walkers look like they’ve just rolled out of bed. The joggers are willing to condescend to acknowledge the existence of the ant-like walkers — so far below the Olympian joggers — but they don’t want to be too familiar and encourage too much unwanted interaction.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe the joggers just don’t want to let the walkers know that they are so gassed they can’t say hello without gasping for air. Maybe they can barely summon the energy to do their lame excuse for a wave without stumbling to the side of the road and sprawling on the grass.
I’ll think of that happy thought the next time I’m walking the dogs, say hello, and have to endure another desultory joggers’ wave.