Plunge this.

I’d set my alarm for 6:30 with the intent of “sleeping in” by an hour to cure a recent bout of sleep deprivation. My ever-reliable internal clock, however, flipped my eyelids open at 5:12 am, and sleep was not to be mine. Fine then.

After ten minutes of gritting my teeth and lifting weights, boredom set in and I jetted from the door of the apartment building, enjoying the warm air and rising sun. I trotted toward the river, heading out over the Longfellow and taking a right up the Esplenade, soundtracked by the curious noise that is Sigur Ros (I’d highly recommend them for an early morning run. It makes the world you’re observing appear as if it’s just been born, and reminds you that nothing is here depending on you to make sense of it. Refreshing).

Sounds zen-like, no? As the path split, I veered toward the side of the path that’s closer to Storrow Drive, mostly to avoid the land mines planted in the night by flocks of stunningly angry Canadian geese. This path is divided by a man-made tributary of the Charles (still suspiciously brown), and flanked by a high curb on both sides, presumably to keep bikers from taking an inadvertent swim in the event of a crash (or “emergency landing” as the airfolk prefer to call it).

I cruised along the path, oblivious to anything but bizarre Icelandic post-rock chanting and nascent sunlight. Suddenly, my left heel was glued to the ground. Hamstrung, pain shot up my leg, and I lurched forward, losing my balance. A militant mommy with her stroller jogger thinger had clipped me, effectively pinning my foot behind me at a critical moment mid-stride. To my great horror, I grabbed for the curb and missed, going headfirst into…the Charles. (A little history on the cleanliness of the Charles River: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_River)

I was shocked to find my head underwater, and even more surprised, upon resurfacing, to find that I stunk of rot and stagnant water. GI Jane, Stroller Operator Extraordinaire, did not much more than watch me haul my bruised and shocked self from the river, rubbing the egg on my head. To her credit, she mumbled, “I’msosorry, areyoualright?” or some permutation of a polite statement of concern/contrition.

I took perhaps the hottest shower of my life this morning, but if I grow a third nipple or turn into the Incredible Hulk tonight, please understand that I am not to be faulted. Love that dirty water.

(PS – the extraordinary talent of Laura Niemi Young will be on display this evening at Gulu Gulu Café in Salem, MA – please be sure especially to admire the giant horse portrait of a creature I love so dearly!)