I’m never gonna do it without the fez on
— the prophets fagen and becker
I blame the Fez Monkey.
I’m now working at a job that doesn’t require me to leave the apartment. So I don’t.
I work in the spare bedroom, which isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I am accompanied by a deranged troll (is there any other kind?), a birthday panda, a road lizard, and the aforementioned Fez Monkey.
It’s odd, having no contact with the outside world. I’ve got Mo, of course, but much of the day it’s just me.
Except for the daily run.
Sunshine, sweat, Steely Dan. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the daily run more.
I was thinking about that today when the Fez Monkey mentioned the marathon.
It started innocently enough. Mo ran into a woman at work who said she was a runner. Mo, speaking in runner shorthand, asked what her marathon PR was. 2:34, she said.
Mo, not being quite the junkie I am, did not know to fall to her feet and kiss the woman’s shoes. And she didn’t quite remember her name. We’ve been sleuthing for two days nonstop and I think we figured out who she is, and Mo misunderstood slightly. It was actually a 2:44. But lordy god, that’s fast.
Which got me looking at local marathons to see how she did around here. Which led me to look at races. Which led me to think, what if. Which led the Fez Monkey to dare say it out loud: Yeah, do it, you moron. Go train and leave me alone. Fez Monkeys are sort of rude.
It’s been so long. Is there even a chance? Nah. But it’ll be fun pretending for a while.
Where to chronicle where nobody will possibly find it? And then I remember I still have this joint.
So it begins.