  After the requisite 24-hour cooling-off period, I called The Guy in the Red Shirt yesterday afternoon. Not home. Left a message about having dinner some night this week. Then silence. All day. I got home that night, fueled up with fresh fruit and a tasty urlLink Clif Bar , and headed out to pound out six miles on the hottest, most humid training day of the summer so far. And I hit my first wall of the season in mile four and actually had to stop and walk for a few minutes. The shame! The humanity! (The humidity! ) But I got in a good half-mile sprint at the end and headed home with a feeling of accomplishment.
I was still in that weird sweating-profusely-but-covered-with-goosebumps recovery period when the phone rang. And there on the Caller ID were the words that didn't do anything to help bring my heart rate down: The Guy in the Red Shirt. Our conversation immediately took on the tone of a well-established friendship. We talked about working out. We talked about our jobs. We talked about his condo association's tree-planting project. We talked about what we're reading. We talked about the death of Not My President Reagan. Red Shirt had thoughtful, well-articulated opinions on what his shameful urlLink legacy will comprise.
On social revenge fantasies against Not My President Bush. On the moral hypocrisy driving the opponents of gay marriage. We made a date for tonight. TONIGHT. The promise of dinner. More conversation. If I'm lucky, more physical contact. Hand-holding. Making out. Snuggling on his couch. It's all good. It's also making the day seem painfully slow. In the mean time we can all amuse ourselves with some urlLink chalupa news from my home state. 
