Orange peels.

I passed a few on my run this past weekend.

I thought to myself,

“Orange peel. Watch out! Oh, wait. It’s not a banana peel . . . you should be safe Etley.”

That conversation with myself may or may not have happened.

What did happen was this.

“Dang, orange peel. Hey, it’s better that that broken beer bottle I just dodged. I’ll have to check for glass in my shoe when I get home. I wonder who was eating an orange? I bet it was that other crazy runner-lady I passed at mile 4. She is probably training for a marathon. Good for her. I’ve heard of people eating fruit during training. Where do they stick the orange? Actually, I don’t want to know. I hope that glass doesn’t keep getting pushed further and further into my shoe. These are new. I also hope that truck sees me. Please don’t hit me, please don’t hit me, please sir, spare me!”

Fourth grade was a fun year. I was in girl scouts and I got to ride a different bus to my friend’s neighborhood where girls scouts was held every week. This was a big deal.

My “girl scout” friends were all soccer players.{{i was in fourth grade . . . i had at least seven different categories of friends}}


my friend actually had a soccer field in her backyard. as we got older, her yard turned from soccer field, to our make-shift football field on snow days, to the slip-n-slide-mania during hot, summer days. it was a great yard.

while i had bobby pins falling from my over-hair-sprayed-bun and struggled to put my pink tights on not backwards, my soccer friends were bragging about goals scored, black&white cleats and oranges.

They were always raving about oranges. in particular, orange slices.

one of their team names was even orange crush.

i never understood the obsession. it didn’t matter the score or if they broke their ankle during the game, the important thing was, were there orange slices?!

as i ran passed the orange peels this weekend, i thought, wow, fourth grade was forever ago, and wow, i still don’t understand why those girls loved those orange slices so stinkin much . . .