I’ve caught my profile reflected in store windows when I walk down 17th Ave lately. I don’t like it. I’m not fat yet, but I have a little gut that makes me hard to take seriously as a throbbing, rock-hard hunk of male virility.
So last night I went for a jog. It wasn’t too bad; around 10:30pm, it was cool out, and I toured the Mount Royal neighbourhood (read: “Paradise”) up the hill from my apartment. I got a good sweat going, but on the way home, my keychain self-destructed.
My keychain consists of a small LED flashlight, with a ring, on which my apartment building and unit keys hang. The flashlight had come apart during my jog (I had tied the whole ring to my shorts drawstring, so it must have jiggled loose), and the battery and barrel shot down the leg of my shorts and skittered away down the sloping pavement.
It was dark, but I managed to find the barrel of the flashlight, and I screwed it back onto my crotch keychain. The battery was nowhere to be seen, and in a moment of crystalized stupidity I thought, “If only I had a flashlight, I’d be able to find the battery to my… uh… flashlight.”
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