I'm not good with the small talk. Whereas some people can talk shit recreationally, my shit takes needs a bit of nurturing. My mind is active, but more often than not, no words. And even then, I'm never really sure I have anything of value to add when it comes to chit chat. Running with Sharon on Sunday morning, she asks what plan I have for the day. Well, I didn't really have any. No headline winning responses coming from here. A bath and cutting my toenails, was really all I could offer.
But in fact very real and genuine things on my radar for the day ahead. I was fielding more questions earlier in the week when I bumped into Dr Peter in a pre 6 am run where I thought I'd see no one. Dr Peter is one of the big boys. Fast, that means. Group 1. Serious. A proper runner. But it's cool, because he's running towards me, so I take a few deep breaths, puff my chest out and engage a cheery 'I'm not in pain' smile and prepare for wave and at the very most a brief 'hi'. He stops, oh, smiles and turns, uh-oh, and then runs with me.
I'm afraid all that breath was used very quickly in ascertaining that Peter was in fact happy to join me to the conclusion of my run. Crap. My pace, his pace...another language. It's hard for me to breath, never mind respond to his questions with articulate and meaningful answers. Just breathy single word responses huffed out as I try to maintain his gentle jogging pace and carry the burden of humiliating myself and ruining his own run. Better to keep my mouth shut. Good company though.
