The Hills have I.

Today I ran up a big fat, steep grassy hill. I haven't done that since I was a kid. I was pretty exhilarated that I was so nimble vaguely capable. So once at the top, I enjoyed the view of Moonie's Bay while trying to will away my butt cramp and decided to run back down juuuust like my kids. Bad idea, Self. I forgot about that suspended moment in time that occurs when running down a steep hill. It's that mental purgatory made up of sheer panic when you realize that your legs are running faster under your body than time allows and they begin to take on a mind of their own, picking up speed faster and faster until you are a teeth chattering, jiggling, wailing mass just praying for God to make your feet heavier and screaming at small children to hit the deck because Heaven knows- there is NOTHING you can do about it.

"Wowee Mom. You can run REALLY fast! Was what you said a swear??"

"No, I said 'Rolling Ducks', didn't you see them? They were all kinds of tricky. Geez. You should pay more attention to nature, ungrateful kids." (there is a lesson in everything)

Well I was afraid that if I actually tried to stop, I might have launched myself into the picnic of the large, non-english speaking family who were happily chattering away over lunch at the bottom of the hill, or into an unsuspecting cyclist. Try explaining THAT while attempting to look like you meant it so that you might keep some small semblance of your dignity.

Yeah, who am I kidding? My dignity left the moment I made the critical decision to hurl myself off of a large, public hill.