Goals are funny things. If you are like me and you track your running goals down to the fractional klick, you can look at the progress as a set of numbers. If you are really like me and you make a multi-coloured spreadsheet with timelines and ledgers relating to compounded and accumulated distances, you can see with glorious pride when you are rocking your goals and are, say, nearly a hundred klicks ahead of where you need to be on the year. You can all see when, after dealing with a sidelining injury, you fall behind and are in distance debt: meaning you need to get in some klicks to catch up on the annual tally. I’ve been seeing the latter for about a week now. Must. Recover. Soon!
Our breakfast cereal is narrated by the morning news while the Girl is dripping honey down the front of her pajamas. But then such a mess is nothing compared to usual coverage of overseas protests, international economics, and local traffic reports that have been following a late-night snow on the already icy streets.
It’s only a bit of honey after all, but: “Daddy.” She bleats. “Oh! *gasp* No!” And an exasperated and futile attempt to wipe the spill with fingers even stickier than the mess itself ensues.
“It’s just your pajamas. Wait.” I sigh, pulling a damp cloth from the nearby sink and — smudging-more-than-cleaning — dab the honey from the cartoon visage of some Disney princess emblazoned in fleece fabric. “Wait. Stop touching it.”