Triple Cs

Concussed, cracked and crushed
Only this time, they don't refer to chocolate chip cookies baked after the dough has been left alone for 24 hours for the ingredients to come together properly. No, it stands for cool calm and collected, a statement on the sweatshirt of some idiot who sauntered out onto the road despite the traffic, and more importantly the impending approach of my bike. She looked around and gave dirty looks at the drivers and at me as we swerved, stopped or otherwise tried to avoid her.

I'm not averse to stopping for pedestrians who cross the street, but when they don't look before crossing, well, I become cross.

So back to the triple Cs. She may have been cool, calm and collected, but I would have liked to know how cool, calm and collected she'd have been had I grabbed my U-lock which, like a ninja sword crossed with the blades forged by the Dwarves in LOTR, is sheathed in the rack of my bike and have at her with it. A few blows to the temple, and she wouldn't have been cool, calm nor collected. Concussed, cracked and crushed would have been the operative C words.

Not a Georgia O'Keefe painting, but imbued with her spirit.
There was another image that came to mind - that of a strawberry sliced in half to expose the inside and the pattern of vestigial (lovely word this) seeds. I bring this up because there was a picture of such a strawberry at the vernissage I attended on Friday, and BK looked at the picture and immediately attributed it to Georgia O'Keefe.

An no this is not a random thought. Nor a non-sequitor. I choose my images  and words very carefully on this point.

And yes, I would have been quite agile with my ninja sword crossed with the blades forged by the Dwarves in LOTR U-lock and would have easily got several death blows in while on my bike. I've been practising. The damage you see on trees around the city? Not wood peckers, but me riding by and doing some Michelle Yeoh as directed by Ang Lee in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon moves with my U-lock.

Between a duck and cow
My weight was the cause of consternation recently. I've found running to be a bit slower than usual, and that's because I was past my ideal running weight. Unfortunately I now have no excuse for slow running because I've hit my ideal weight. The question of weights came up when I was talking to the SOCK and to CA recently - and neither one was particularly sympathetic and in fact on even showed me the finger.

I mentioned to the SOCK about a month ago that I needed to lose a few pounds if I were to achieve my ideal weight; he did a double take, his eyes bulged with what I took as concern at first but which I realise very soon was disgust. "How can you need to lose weight?! How tall are you?!", he spluttered.

Then when I'd dropped the requisite 3lbs (over 4 weeks so there was nothing rushed or dangerous about this), I told CA who himself is interested in health issues, weight issues and eating the right sentient beings ("not too fatty, nor too lean is best"), he looked at me first with anguish then disgust as he started stroking his nose with his third finger.

He also asked how tall I was. What does height have to do with weight I wonder. Both the SOCK and CA seem to think this plays a role in how much one weighs. I'm not sure what the relationship between height and weight is except they differ only by one letter, but both CA and SOCK seem to think that I'm shorter than I really am based on my weight, and they seem to think that I should be heavier (like them - that perhaps is the true point of all this) than I am.

The loveliest of shoulders I've seen!
What can I say? I put it down to the lightness of my thoughts, my being, my sense of wonder and general lightness of heart. Of course, this theory was shouted down before I could even finish my thought. Well, if this is not the case, then the only other thing I can think of is that I have light bones. Light, fragile, lovely bones (but not like the bones described by Alice Sebold) fashioned after the mode of rare, precious and delicate Ming dynasty China.  This is corroborated by something that a professional what works only with shoulder said about me: "You have lovely shoulders!", he said, "simply lovely". Well he should know shouldn't he for he sees about 17 shoulders a day, and so when he calls mine lovely, then I have no option but to believe him. It all fits. Lovely bones make for lovely shoulders.

Touch not with impunity
Why, I suppose this means that in centuries to come when I'm dug up in an archaeological dig, my skeleton (and yes it'll be preserved since fine Ming dynasty China lasts, and lasts, and lasts) will be placed on display in some prestigious museum and be the subject of many studies and thesis dissertations. Goodness, who knew that it was so easy to achieve immortality.

But for now, there are other bones of contention I have to deal with. And I'd best deal with them rather than lounge about reading stories by Agatha Christie to shutter my mind down.