Alternately titled- A near death experience with Big Bird. Nothing has made me more certain of my suburban blood than my adventure out running this past weekend. I’ve enjoyed the slower pace of Pennsylvania life, rolling scenery and farm land; but I’m still best suited to Kraft mac & cheese and concrete. On top of that, bugs make me squeal; horses smell gross and since I know a few people with Lyme disease, the idea of frolicking in the tall waving countryside grass a la Julie Andrews in the opening scene of The Sound of Music is less appealing and slightly frightening. My town is faux city bordering on a Shania Twain music video. I feel as though I’m never more than 4 blocks away from someone who churns their own butter. Often this feeling is manifested when I run. I haven’t been covering many miles lately because my pint sized legs have been tense and pissy, but it only takes a Gaga song and half a Celine ballad pumping from my iPod to ears to ...
