Clad all in black this morning and shielded by the leftover night, I was a ninja: silent, steady, treading the sidewalks with barely a pebble disturbed (also, no moths). I was invisible… except for the streak of neon yellow the shoe salesman insisted was an okay trait for running shoes.
So, a ninja with style, that’s what I was. Better, even: onlookers would be blinded by the flashes of neon yellow, leaving me yet unseen. No one knows where I am; they can’t find me; Google Maps can’t locate a healthy, jogging ninja.
… unless Google can pinpoint sounds, because then it might lead the curious to a suburban ninja whining, moaning, begging a deal with the devil or divine to (and I quote): “Oh, God! Take me, take me now! Jogging’s so painful! I’ve gone ten feet and it hurts–it hurts! I hate jogging–I hate jogging’s stupid face! End me! Tell my wife and child good-bye and just make the misery stop!”
Silent. Deadly. Ninja. Me.
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