This weekend's weather could not have been more perfect.
The skies were sunny and the humidity was low.
Fall is definitely here.
The signs are everywhere.
The soybean fields have turned from lush green to yellowish brown.
Sunday around noon I parked the car at Aaron's Beach and jogged four and a half miles along the road and fields pictured above. The weather was crisp, clear and beautiful; the local nuisances of horseflies, mayflies, fiddler crabs and gnats were nowhere to be found.
Unbeknownst to me, however, the praying mantises and winged
Because, as it was, if even one over-sized, blending-in-to-the-road grasshopper decided at just the right time and at just the right trajectory to fly forth as I was passing by gasping for breath on my otherwise blissful run, chances were pretty good I'd choke to death on that gigantic, winged grasshopper.
I thought long and hard about the obituary and the stories that might be told to anyone inquiring about my death. "She was running. It wasn't her heart. No, it wasn't that cardiac event she often worried about while practicing for that half marathon. No, it was a grasshopper. She choked to death on a winged-grasshopper that flew into her mouth while she was running. They found her in the middle of Aaron's Beach Road."
Then I thought, well, as long as I'm going to die--and odds are pretty good I'm going to at some point--it might as well be a grasshopper, because at least that would be a humorous way to go. No?
These thoughts on changing seasons and mortality are brought to you by the number 50, which looms over my head and is about as welcome as a winged grasshopper ready to jump down my throat.