UPDATED Does This Count?

Mid-week I was under the impression I had Halloween night plans. Then, because of this crazy, autumn snow storm from which 2 feet (as in 24 inches) of snow fell upon our heads over the course of 24 hours and the subsequent closure of one particular north-south interstate, I believed I no longer had concrete plans.

At this point, you should all know enough about me to realize what this would mean in the WOJ¹. That's right...pajama pants.

And I had reconciled myself to this fate...was relishing the idea of pajama pants and the lameness that is me on a Saturday night Halloween with a full moon glowing overhead while I sat home alone, drinking wine, and blogging about the lameness that is me sitting home alone, drinking wine, and blogging on Halloween night.

And then Betsy called² with good news. The interstate had opened and had delivered one Selma to accompany one Patty to a Halloween gathering. Woo Hoo!

Pajama pants were then banished to a wad at the foot of my bed. Cute clothes were donned, make up re-applied, and a brush taken to the mass o' mess that had become my hair since the early morning shower I'd taken and then subsequently napped upon.

Catching the 10 bus from across the street, I wound through the streets of our neighborhood for queso and cocktails at the Park Tavern followed by more cocktails and some candy at Gabor's.

4 hours, 1 glass of J. Lohr wine, 5 vodka tonics, and some kind of congealed brain Halloween special shot later...I was stumbling toward my pajama pants once again. Well...OK what I was really aiming for was the bus stop.

I almost made it before the bus did too...but not quite. I was still a good 3 blocks away when I heard the bus approaching and began to run.

Well...OK I drunk stumble ran with big arms.

And just so we're clear? Someone with quadruple D bosoms does not actually run. It's more of an oh-shit-sashay.

Needless to say, between my inebriation, my ginormous boobs, and my comfy but not runner friendly Dansko shoes, I didn't make it to the bus stop in time. At which point I had 2 options...wait for the next bus due to arrive in 30 minutes or walk the mile+ home.

Guess which option I chose? That's right. I walked. It was safe enough...safer than normal anyway. Full moon so plenty of light. Halloween night so lots of parties and people out on the streets. Tiny clubbing purse packed with a punch that is my cigarettes and cell phone. Totally safe. Even through the park...at night...in the dark...alone. Have I mentioned this is the park built upon a graveyard where the planners decided it was more efficient and economical to move only the markers but not the bodies?

Yeah that. Visions of the partially built swimming pool and Jo Beth Williams in a bright orange football jersey and tiny panties swimming around with skeletons scene from Poltergeist totally came to mind during that walk.



But I made it...in a hurry...unscathed.

So now what I really want to know is this...does that mile walk, even though I was completely loaded and stumbling, count as my cardio workout for the day?

UPDATE: Upon reflection in a sober Sunday morning light, it occurred to me that the mom Betsy would read this and be angry with me for making a not-so-sound choice about how to get home last night. And I also got thinking that perhaps I ought not to keep this post up because of it.

And then I remembered two very very important somethings.
1. Betsy (the mom) would not want me to censor my life just because she's reading about it. She's never been that kind of mom.

2. I'm 37. What's she going to do? Ground me?

^{1: World of Jane
2: The friend, Betsy, not the momma, Betsy. Or as friend Betsy would say...the Bombed Betsy not the Blind Betsy.}