Rain over ice. Add dogs on leashes. It's a recipe for coccyx disaster. Although I'm sure the ERs are full of cracked cocci this morning, my personal coccyx is intact, as is Drew's, but only because he turned back half a block into the walk, after his first foot-flinging flirt with the concrete.
I took both the wet dog leashes and slid along the rest of the way to the park. Drew seems completely out of sync with both gravity and the ground and braced for the pain when ice is introduced, either by nature or by skates. I, with my lower center of gravity, lower emotional age, and innate boogie-woogie muscle memory, find it exhilarating. It made me wish I lived closer to an ice rink. Which made me spend much of the rest of the walk planning my dream neighborhood.
There would be an ice rink within walking distance, but not right across the street or anything. A) they're ugly and b) I would like to walk there with my skates over my shoulder.
There would be a Trader Joe's within walking distance.
There would be a coffee shop on the block. A nice one. Not too snooty and not too mermaid-y.
Powell's Books would be within biking distance.
There must be NO CUPCAKE SHOPS within walking distance. I'm not mature enough to handle that sort of temptation.
There would be a back yard for two dogs and a goat to be named later.
Personal Coccyx would be a good name for an indie band.