Whenever I go to use the word “countless”, I’m transported back in time to 1994 and I’m peering over Andy McPhee’s shoulder. I’m the cub writer; he’s Da Boss. Andy was Weekly Reader’s very own Jerry Seinfeld, but I have riled the grump within; I used the word “countless” in a story. Hungry kids in the world? Countable. Pieces of junk we nasty humans have jettisoned into space? Countable. Deaths in Somalia? Countable. I may not know those numbers, he lectures, but they exist.
The word was struck from my story and my vocabulary. Yet I’m deploying it now and I’m pretty sure even Andy would stet this usage:
I’ve been unlucky in love countless times.
You want proof? OK. Here’s an update for those who have been following my latest so-called “love story” on this blog: that plot line has dead-ended. Yep, I’ve been dumped. Again. Long story. Actually, I take that back–it’s a fairly short story, an itsy-bitsy single-season/two-race affair that ended abruptly by phone (by phone, I say!) just 72 hours before, oh, a slightly-important-to-me event. Oddly enough, The Great Phone Dump of 2011 happened a mere 14 hours after the soon-to-be-dump-er excitedly asked for the honor of driving the soon-to-be-dump-ee to the start line of a certain 26.2 jaunt and waxed poetic about how proud he would be to watch at the finish…not to mention a mere five days after he presented this chick with a dozen red roses.
Where are those roses now? Say it with me, people: in the trash!
Sadly enough, this qualifies as an improvement over my December experience with a different gentleman friend 40 hours shy of my (kid you not) 40th birthday: he cancelled both my highly anticipated birthday dinner-date and our entire relationship via email. (You read that right–via email, I say!) Here’s another head-scratcher: The Great Email Dump of 2010 happened the very same week that this soon-to-be-dump-er took his soon-to-be-dump-ee out on not one, not two but THREE dates, asked her to do the Pan-Mass Challenge with him (that’s a really big bike race in these parts) and whispered he thought she was “The One.”
Really, boys, just fyi & btw: on the track you may hit your coach-prescribed paces with stunning precision, but your performance in other arenas sorely lacks consistency. Get a life coach, gentlemen! Silver lining: ya’ll make me look sane.
I don’t dare venture back further than December, for therein lie a few truly mangled, rusting train wrecks. Good thing the good Lord equipped me with this admittedly warped sense of humor; it sure has come in handy over the years as I’ve asked time and again, “what are the chances of THAT happening?” and it’s never been asked because I just won several million in the lottery, if you get my gist.
That’s why I’m thrilled beyond belief and can’t stop yammering on about the lucky string of sevens I get to wear on my chest tomorrow (TOMORROW!). Now, thanks to my high school tormentor-I-mean-teacher Mr. Taillon, I’m terrified to attempt math all by my little ol’ self, but I apparently haven’t passed that fear on to the next generation. So last night I asked Daughter #1 to do some calculating vis-a-vis my bib number’s string of sevens. “What are the chances of THAT happening?” I asked her; here is what she said:
“Of the 25,000 numbers, there are only 41 possible bib numbers with a string of three (consecutive) 7s. That means only 0.164% of the runners have a number with a string of three 7s (consecutively) anywhere in the number. You are also the last number with a string of three 7s.”
That’s me: 0.164 percent of runners. In a sea of 25,000, I am the very last one in a super-select group. For once when I ask “what are the chances of THAT happening?” I ask it with giddy excitement 🙂 Oh and get this: I am even in Corral #7 at the start line. Corral #7! (That’s what the little seven sitting stage left on my bib, directly above the BAA’s “mythical unicorn”, means.) Hah! HAH, I say! Take that, nasty ol’ Hellbent-on-CJ-Destruction-Fate! Bet you can’t catch me–and if you do, I will slay you with sevens!
As always, this perpetually single chick thanks you for stopping by. (In case you’re wondering: I’ve had several offers of rides to Hopkinton, but I’m sticking with the one extended by dear ol’ Dad, thankyouveddymuch. I’m pretty sure he’s not firing me from daughter-dom anytime soon–via phone, email or any other method of communication. At least not in the next 24 hours).
I leave you, dear reader, with a promise I will not break: I have nothing approaching “countless” blog posts left in me before I quit my yammering and climb into Dad’s car. In fact, I’ve only one post left to send your way, later tonight or early tomorrow morning. I promise you—the typing will soon cease and the running will commence. Ya’ll are the real endurance athletes, subjecting yourselves to hour after hour of my crazy ramblings 😉
Do enjoy the day, WHATEVER it may fling your way!