Yesterday, I went for a jog.
The sun was starting to go down, and it was chilly. Twenties, maybe.
I haven’t been feeling well, but it’s been forever since I jogged. My sleep suffers more when I haven’t exercised.
So off I went. With Talulah.
I don’t have a lot of winter gear, so I bundled up in miscellaneous layers and hoped for the best. While I ran, Tina decided to go Christmas shopping at Target.
As I ran, my phone dinged several times with Target panic questions about whether Tina should buy slippers for her cousin’s husband.
I don’t know about you. But unless it’s an emergency, when I’m running, don’t text me.
After receiving a text with a photo of the slippers, I sent a gentle text reminder back to Tina that said, “Stop fucking texting me. I’m running.”
About fifteen minutes later, I was on mile three. I stopped to take this image of the city from Diversey Harbor.
I wiped my nose with my sleeve, and there was blood all over.
“Damn, I have a nosebleed.”
As I stood there, wiping blood flowing out my right nostril, the sweat from the first three miles started seeping into my clothing, which wasn’t thick enough given the day.
I started to panic, because I was too far from home. Traffic at that hour and this time of year is voluminously awful. Since I was freezing, I couldn’t stop and wait someplace. Since I was bleeding, I didn’t have the guts to go into a store, which would have been at least a mile run from my location.
So I started home, texting Tina. My mind was so warped that calling her seemed too difficult.
My texts were, “Please help!!!!! Blood everywhere.”
And, “I’m scared.”
I almost wrote, “I’m going to die out here.”
I hoped and dreamed that she would fully comprehend my situation, go rent a helicopter and swoop in and pick me up.
Or a bat jet.
By the time I got home, my sleeves were covered in blood stains. Talulah didn’t understand what was up. She just wanted water and a warm blanket.
After a brief heated exchange with Tina over the phone for not renting a helicopter to save me, all was well again in the Wittifini household.
The moral of the story is: picking your nose gives you nosebleeds.
No, wait, that’s not it.
It’s make sure you have a helicopter ready during the Christmas season to swoop in and pickup loved ones when they’re down and out and need help.