Just want you in my Caddy

Last weekend, there was a shooting at “The Icehouse” (the B-team version of “The Mill”, the establishment at which I work). An estranged boyfriend of an Icehouse waitress entered the bar area and opened fire, killing an IU student home for fall break, and critically injuring his friend. This is the same place where, 3 weeks ago to the day, my best friend Kirsten, visiting on her fall break, sat with me. We cheerily enjoyed our huge mugs of beer and watched the man with the mullet set up his karaokee machine for “Icehouse Trivia Nite”.

Today my run was perfect. The weather was cool, and I was making good, efficient strides - - until I wasn’t. Hoping to find a better rhythm, I skipped a few steps, shuffled sideways a bit and then realized that what would really break my icky stride would be to bust out dancing to “HEY YA!”, which was playing on my ipod.

Embarrased to perform near the hospital (fairly populated at 9 am), I wished for a running partner who would do this with me. In my dillusional state of aerobic activity, I crossed my fingers for a combination running buddy / soulmate. My dream man would make “dance breaks” a regular happening in all joint-jogging expeditions. The pragmatics of this were slow to come – we can’t both dance to “HEY YA!” at the same time, unless we had a splitter. And all of those cords would be limiting and obnoxious while running. Maybe we could sing “HEY YA!” outloud while he rocked the Andre 3000 keyboard-playing dance. How about programming the ipods to the same playlist and then pushing play at the exact same time?

Then I realized that more than having a “Mandatory Dance Break Enforcer” I wanted someone to give me a hug and kiss my forehead and tell me that tragedies happen, kids mistakenly die at bars as they merely reunite with a friend. In that moment this morning, I deeply, sorely, didn’t want to be in this place anymore, lonely and scared. I wanted someone to pull my hair, make fun of my dorky mom-gifted frog socks that I haven’t changed for days (eww, gross, I know…), someone to punch in jest (Papa doesn’t respond well to that), a reason to shave my legs, someone to tell me that I shouldn’t be afraid to put ipod earphones in – that it’s broad daylight, and I’m running responsibly in populated areas. Someone who would reassure me that certainly, I would hear an insane man with a riffle approaching and could out run him, and dammit, if I couldn’t, then my running buddy would be there to take the bullet. Unless, of course, we were too busy jamming to “HEY YA!”.

There’d be worse ways to go than during a dance break with someone who loved you and your neon green frog socks.