Pub Crawl

Gotta love the power of exercise and fresh air. I am nearly human by the time I am half way into the woods. Feeling like a million bucks by the time I emerge from the trails a little later. The spring air being moved and freshened by the fast-moving creek water. I take some beautiful pictures. Post them  to Facebook as soon as I get into my car. Primarily for Craig's benefit. He always mentions that he likes them (after of course "liking" them on Facebook first).

My cousin Jan, who was one of the fine people who came to my rescue when Scott walked out has been in a charity run that morning. She posts that she is headed to a pub near the park with her running mates.

I check my appearance in the rear view mirror. Hair smoothed into a high pony. Not a glamorous look, but reasonably cute considering I am dressed for athletics, not the Debutante Ball. I had made sure my face was presentable when I'd left. God only knows when I am going to bump into Bradley Cooper at a Boy Scout Jamboree in the park. A little swipe of tinted gloss will be all I need. I am wearing a killer running outfit. It might actually defy the fact that I don't run if I don't slurp down 75 beers and inflate to epic proportions. And why am I worried anyway? I am meeting people who have just run a 5K and are bound to look just like I do.

I text Jan and ask if she is still there. No answer. It's a 5 minute drive. I take my chances.

I park the car and scurry to the pub, hoping they have not left. The pub is rowdy, even at 11 am. Irish musicians and lots of Guinness flowing. I order a pint, and in walks my cuz, her man, Ken, and a whole host of running mates, who have all showered and look fabulous. So much for blending in in my gear.

But a pint or two later, it just doesn't matter. And I am engrossed in conversation and laughter with Jan about Craig and about Scott and the youngster from the bar the night before and how I never imagined there would be such sit-com quality craziness in my life.

Jan says something that I must have known but never really put into words. If not for the balls out rotten way in which Scott broke up with me, we'd probably be able to move past all of it. Until he went over the wall without so much as a suicide note, I would have said he was the world's nicest, most dependable, kindest, most decent human being I'd known. But that one act, that one singular thing, told me he was capable of doing the unthinkable to someone he loved. Or claimed to. The dirty dog.

I tell Jan that I have a hard time imagining him completely absent from my life, but can't exactly identify a place for him in it either. We agree that he and I will most likely go off in different directions, like we did when we were young, spend the next 30 years madly in love with someone else, and when we are about 80, and widowed, we'll bump into each other somewhere, and spend our twilight years holding hands and walking on the boardwalk.

But it is St. Patrick's Day and not a day for deep thought. The bartender has placed 12 highball glasses on a tray on the bar and is pouring mini Guinness's for a table of girls behind us. I snap a photo and send it to Craig. He'll understand the joke.

He does, and I am feeling the luck o' the Irish return to my heart.