We have had the hermit crab twins, Charlie and Sebastian, since the little angel turned two. Never in a million years did I think they would live so long. Guess what? If you take care of your hermit crabs properly, they can live up to 40 years in captivity, with an average lifespan of 15 years. Charlie and Sebastian are at least eight and a half. Lord help me, these crabs may live to see the little angel graduate from high school.
Unless the mites get them first.
I have noticed the mites before, but I didn't realize they are such a big deal. Apparently, left unchecked, they can kill the crabs. This week the little angel and I have noticed Charlie coming out and attempting to scale his way out of the tank when we are in her playroom doing homework. Charlie is not shy, but this is new behavior. I felt kind of bad for a while, like maybe he wanted to run free. I even had an entire inner monologue with him about how he was too far from a temperate zone and even if I released him into the lake he would be toast in a month.
I know, I know.
I just went over to Beloved and made a plea for a vigourous scrubbing and hermit crab bathing session this evening. He rolled his eyes and said we need new substrate and I bought the wrong kind last time. This does not surprise me, because no matter what I buy on my own, from ripe avocados to hermit substrate to gym socks, I buy the wrong kind in his opinion. It is a running joke. It used to really stress me out, this buying of the wrong kind, then I realized, well, if he is really concerned, he will do his own damn shopping. It is not like his legs are broken.
This is the key to a lasting marriage.
Anyway, I kept poking at him and whining about our duties as hermit crab guardians (something I take more seriously every year these crazy huge bastards hang on) and so he has promised to buy new hermit crab whatever so we can SAVE THE CRABS FROM THE MITE ARMY this very evening.
After I get above eight miles, my mind starts to wander.
I've discovered while training for half marathons how much your mind can disconnect from what your body is doing. There are times when it's too hot and my legs are too heavy and my lungs are bursting and I feel my mind slamming on the brakes, ready to override my desires with heat exhaustion, if necessary, to make this crazy 40-year-old woman stop running in the heat.
There are times when my legs are fine and the euphoria sets in and the air is so awesome to breathe I want to stop and tell other people do you taste this air? Isn't this air unbelievable?
Lately the temperature's been dropping. My vision no longer gets swimmy on big hills. I don't have to press pause on Runkeeper and pant like a dog in the shade after a big uphill. And above eight miles, I have all sorts of crazy thoughts.
I just read THE INFINITE SEA by Richard Yancy. It's the second in a dystopian end-of-the-world series that does a particularly nice job of being a dystopian end-of-the-world series, in a similar way to Dexter doing a particularly nice job of being a good serial killer. Really entertaining and well paced plot but also gets the job done showing the uglier side of humanity: how we make choices, how we weigh one life against another.
As I run, all the latest books swim together in my head along with the plotlines of my own writing and my own life. I think (in my running-induced euphoria that can sometimes beget delusions of grandeur) that if only I could somehow write and run at the same time I could solve some proof of humanity simply by analyzing various forms of pop culture and running them against current events divided by the number of times the Gaza Strip has been bombed and squared by the population of China.
That would be it: The answer to why we are the way we are.
It was probably around mile nine when I noticed a large bug ambling across the sidewalk in front of me. I wasn't sure exactly what kind of bug it was, probably a beetle of some sort, but it smacked of warm-weather bug. Not-gonna-survive-the-frost kind of bug.
And it was really cold that day.
I started stirring all the end-of-the-world dystopian plotlines and honestly wondered if the bug was contemplating whether or not this would be his last day on earth. Could the bug know about dewpoints? Frost?
I skirted around the bug, because if he was going to die, I didn't want to be the cause of it.
I wondered how high the oceans would have to rise to flood Kansas City.