Tonight I went for a run. I wasn’t really excited about it (when am I?), but Mike was coming home from work late and it was too early to open a bottle of wine. So. I did my usual 3 miles (serious runners: shutup), and ran into a Wellesleyite along the way. I was chugging along to some Coolio – seriously, revisit mid-90s poppy rap if you haven’t yet done so – when she flagged me down. It was good to see her, but I was feeling a bit sad when we parted that I had missed all of “1, 2, 3, 4” except for my favorite line: “I got something new for that ass.” Yes you do, Coolio.
But anyway. I was mourning the social obligations that make us miss out on our favorite pop songs (“What? I can’t hear you that well…Oh yeah, Black Eyed Peas are totally lame. I would never listen to them on my own. But when they’re on in a bar…No, yeah, I hate them then too, obviously.”) when the perfect tune came on. A big hill loomed above me; George Michael sang through my earbuds. You got to have…Faith! Faith! Faith!
It was kismet. George Michael got me up that hill. Not only that, but I ended the run with a sprint home to my favorite song [fair warning: Youtube video], which never stops being amusing to me. Because, he’s kidding, right? But what if he’s not? But what if he is? Is it post-feminist of me to love this song? Post-post-feminist? When does irony just become an embarrassment to the person indulging in it?
Point of story: it was a good day to be outside on a run. And being outside is kind of the only reason I run, so it was validating. And that is pretty much all that I ask from life. Unequivocal validation.