Running Home

Ever since I subjected myself to being a wierd foreigner by living in France, I have enjoyed a much lower level of embarrassement. I just don't care what people think, only really. This became habit from a) being able to say whatever I wanted really loud without anyone understanding me... b) being disoriented/confused even in the most mundane activities... and c) catching the contagious Parisian passion, wherein one sings without reservation, talks to onesself on the street, cries at petit moments of beauty, and gets just a bit nuts for some unknown reason... maybe the boxed milk or something.

But as I walked home from the station the other day, in my creepy neighborhood on the cusp of urban and suburban, I encountered a comfort- nay, liberation! - through an activity I might have been shamed to do.

I can't stand to walk. It's too slow. Gotta run! So I'm clunking along with my big back-pack (all the Cool Commuters make fun of me... I'll have my briefcase someday!), inhaling the spring air, and I get the impulse to run the rest of the way. How silly will I look, thought I, in my combat boots, black corporate capri pants, and fancy shirt, running home with a big backpack.

But once I began, I transformed into a schoolboy that I've always wanted to be- like the kid in my childhood favorite, the Tin Drum. My boots were now floppy and worn, my capris now knickers, and my button down oversized and lopsided. I was not in Connecticut, but in wartime Germany, running to trade marbles for candy!