act 1

There are times when my life resembles a bad scene in Bridget Jones' Diary. Monday morning, while out on my run in the park, I encountered the perpetrator of my broken heart and his new girlfriend. They didn't see me, as I was jogging behind them, and so I began a panicked dance of skidding right, then left, then right again, in a desperate attempt to find the appropriate direction to flee. The people walking past must have thought I was dancing with a ghost or doing some enthusiastic warm-up exercise involving flailing limbs and an expression of terror. Finally, finally, I chose a direction and sprinted past, hoping that I remained invisible, or at the very least, looked super fast and sporty. (It never did occur to me to just turn around and run the other way). On my ipod, Erin McKeown lilted into my ears, "I'm the kind of lover who won't run for cover. What kind of lover am I?"

It's nice to have a sense of humor about these things. So that if he did happen to see me bolt past at full steam, I would also be smiling-- at least until I got home.

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