Race for the Money

Sometimes I think I'm some kind of cross between Anne of Green Gables and Bridget Jones.

This afternoon my friend, Julie, and I decided to wander down to the new Red Mango that just opened a few blocks from where we work. It was a blustery afternoon, to say the least. We could feel the building swaying in the wind and had to hold on to our skirts when we got outside.

We enjoyed our delicious fro yo by the fireplace and watched the wind pick up even more, bending the new little trees and whipping the grand-opening flags with abandon. I carefully stashed my cash in my bra for the walk back and we set off down the street. As we were crossing the four-lane road, a big gust of wind came up and blew my money right out of my bra. There I was, chasing $15 down the middle of the street in my billowing black skirt and fluttery top with my hands outstretched, reaching for the bills that were always tumbling just out of my reach. They rolled and flew, getting run over by passing cars and skipping through intersections. I galloped along after them, over grassy medians and through turning lanes filled with cars, and people wondering just what the hurry was and why I was sprinting crazily like Phoebe from Friends down the middle of the road.

This spectacle, of course, was also in embarrassingly full view of our 5-story building filled with co-workers and window offices.

Luckily, Julie, who is much younger and sprightlier, realized that I wasn't going to give up, so she powered ahead and grabbed the $10 and the $5 just as it was about to blow under a big truck.

We got back to the office with pink cheeks stained with tears from laughing, forever bonded by our impromptu track and field event.