My adventure was, however, loosely running-related. So I’m gonna write it here. And you’re gonna read it here. Unless you don’t want to. Which is totally fine too. Because I guess I did start this post under false pretences, and a facade of completely disingenuous spoopiness. So I won’t mind if you stop reading.
Right? Okay.
So I’ve been using this fancy pedometer thingie called a Fitbit. You wear it in a belt clip during the day (which I attach to my bra, because pedometer boobs) and it measures how many steps you’ve taken and how many floors you’ve climbed. You can also wear it in a wristband overnight and it records the quality of your sleep supposedly. Then there’s all these calorie county things and water intake things and stuff on the iPhone app. Altogether awesome if you like micromanaging absolutely everything about your life.
One downside to the Fitbit is that it has this proprietary charger that it needs a blast from every week or so. Being that I wear it every day, I tend to forget about it and thus forget to charge it at night. So one day I took my charger to work. Of course then the charger disappeared and I had to buy another one online.
I’ll just stop here to say that most of the preceding two paragraphs weren’t entirely necessary to my story, I just wanted the opportunity to whinge about how much I had to pay for the stupid thing. $30 bucks! Frigging ridiculous. And yeah, I did find the other charger. About six hours after I ordered a new one. It was in a pile of shoes on my bed, in a shopping bag with a mouldy carrot.
They apparently ‘attempted delivery’ of my new charger yesterday. I put that in inverted commas because I was sick at home yesterday and they didn’t even bother to knock. Didn’t leave a card either, but that’s no big surprise.
I found out about the attempted delivery online today, got permission to leave work early so I could head by the Watson post office after work to grab it. The Watson post office closes at 5pm (5pm SHARP, according to the sign in the post office) so I gave myself a good hour to get there and do my business.
I’m not sure if the bus was late or didn’t show or I just let it breeze on past me as I waited, but I found myself sitting in the bus interchange five minutes after I should have been out on the road, kinda pissed off. On a spur of the moment impulse, I decided to get on one of the Gungahlin buses, as I knew there was a stop out on Northbourne Avenue 1.2km away from the shops. I’d have plenty of time for a leisurely stroll down Phillip Avenue towards the Watson shops, right?
Nope.
So rush hour traffic kinda sucks, and impatience doesn’t help, apparently. I got to the bus stop on Northbourne at 4:53pm. Hell, even if I was wearing proper running gear and shoes it would’ve been a hell of a workout to run all the way to the shops that fast. Now you know I’m an idiot, because I’ve mentioned it before. I could couch this all in super motivational awesome “Never give up!” terms, but I know that’s bullshit. I’m just stubborn. And an idiot. I got off the bus and ran for it.
Today I was wearing a black minidress. And pantyhose. And calf-high boots. I was carting a handbag, and a shopping bag full of plastic containers. I was wearing headphones which were constantly on the verge of falling out. I’m describing this so you can maybe envisage just how freaking ridiculous I must have looked as I sprinted, nay, stumbled in ungainly fashion but seemingly impressive speed across a green grassy field which was probably an overgrown oval. That scene was just crying out for a slow-mo panning shot. Just spectacular.
I made it to the Watson post office at (and I shit you not) precisely 4:59 and 45 seconds. Fifteen seconds left. I repeat. Spectacular. And here’s the kicker.
I got there just in time to pick up this box:
I don’t know how well that picture translates, but simply put it’s a freaking huge box, with a tiny plastic Fitbit charger all the way down the bottom. I mean... Seriously? All this shit I went through, for something they could’ve crammed in a standard size envelope and put in my mailbox?
Moral to this story is blah blah never give up, blah blah Halloween, and I hate this particular courier company. I need some wine.
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