Winter Drivers

Dear Winter Drivers,

Eleven years ago when I entered the running community, I never dreamed that it would lead me to a place in my life where I am dedicated enough to run in sub-zero temperatures, feeling like the snow is 1,000 tiny ninja stars being thrown onto my face.

But here I am.

It is January 27th, and we are in the depths of that deep, dark pit that we call winter in Ohio. Nonetheless, there is no rest for the weary and we, as collegiate runners, must press on. There are races to be run and fitness to be gained.

And you people are not making it any easier.

Allow me to paint a picture for you here, in the hopes that you can begin to understand my frustration. It's cold. Already I have walked across campus to class and started making deals with Mother Nature that include promising to stop using Styrofoam cups if only she'll turn that damn wind off for three minutes. And that's only to make it the 500 meters to the student center from my apartment. So you can imagine, I'm sure, that by 3:30 PM when it's time for practice, I am already dreading the idea of piling on running tights and three jackets to spend an hour in that same weather, running on the roads that you, apparently, think you own.

You, who maintain your speed of 45 mph in a 30 mph zone and test my reflexes by waiting to steer clear of me until the very. last. second. You, who honk at me mercilessly as I tromp though the slushy gutters like a downtrodden alley cat trying not to get caught under your tires. You, who look disgusted - nay, offended - by the fact that I would even dream of stepping foot into this public road. You, who probably think that an hour spent on a treadmill is as simple and enjoyable as a long bath in a jacuzzi tub.

You, who should know that  your sneaky maneuvers and subtle hints to get the hell off your road are making an impact on my winter running habits. But not the type you're probably hoping to.

By nearly plowing through me like February snow, you only tempt me to run further toward the yellow line and force you to follow behind me like the police car at the end of the parade. Every time you play the car horn version of jingle bells when you pass by, I memorize your license plate number and make mental plans to find your house, sit outside it during family dinners, and adapt the entire score of Oklahoma with my own horn. Your searing dirty looks and unrealistic treadmill expectations only make me believe that you are one of the 109.2 million people who are obsese in America.

You do not make me want to get off the road. You, vicious and impatient winter drivers, make me determined to conquer the roads in a crazed, Dr. Evil sort of way. And I cannot be deterred.

So go. Run your errands and enjoy the warmth of your heated seats and remote started car. But be warned that the groceries you're getting for dinner won't be enjoyed if you dare honk at an innocent runner.

And remember, all this could be solved if you'd just shovel your sidewalk.

Inappropriate 'We' Users

Dear Inappropriate 'We' Users,

I get it. You're human. You yearn to belong. You used the $50 Abercrombie gift card you got for Christmas on a single cotton T-shirt so that just in case someone happened to be staring at that space between your nipple and your armpit they would notice the moose there that is smaller than the head of a dime.

And yet, despite the fact that you certainly may, at times, actually have belonged, you've spent years living under the false pretense that it is acceptable to toss around the word "we" like a cheap mayoral campaign frisbee.

It is not acceptable.

The word we is a first-person pronoun that is meant to be used when you are referring to yourself along with others who share something with you.

So imagine the confusion you create at your Sunday Night Football get-together when you lean back in your La-Z-Boy and with the conviction of a Southern baptist preacher explain to your neighbor that "as long as Pouncey can get that ankle under him, we'll be in good shape against the Packers."

We? I'm sorry, I must have missed that round of the NFL draft when you signed a contract with the Steelers?

We would imply that you do, in fact, have a small silver plaque with your name engraved on it hanging above a heavily-adorned locker in the basement of Heinz Field. That you can be found on the team roster listed at http://www.steelers.com/. That you share the quality of being on the team with Roethlisberger and Cromartie.

But you don't. You just wave a Terrible Towel that you got for free and scream things like STEEL CURTAIN REIGNS SUPREME at your coveted 55" television set.

So don't use we. You, Ben, and Da'Mon are not a we.

Not guilty, you say? Try this...

Your wife's pee has produced those infamous two pink lines and suddenly you find yourselves at a family barbque screaming "we're pregnant!"

"Son, that's great," your mother responds, trying to make sense of this scientific phenomenon, "you have a child or other offspring developing in your body?!"

I know what you're thinking. No, mom, I do not have a child or other offspring developing in my body. She does.

Inappropriate 'we' user, party of one. It's all about the pronouns, people.

No pregnant wife? Not a sports fan? You're not off the hook yet...

I'm sure you've been there.
You're making dip to take to the work pot-luck and suddenly realize you're halfway through and are missing a small but critical ingredient. You and your friend  are getting ready to leave to go to a movie neither of you really care about and your car refuses to start. You want to play Justin Bieber's Baby at a party and don't want to admit that you actually own his CD so you head to YouTube and the song is still buffering 13 minutes later.

And then you do the unthinkable. You announce boldly "we have a problem."

But you are mistaken. The people around you do not have a problem.

No one at work knows that you're bringing dip. Unless you naively revealed what you were planning on contributing, which eliminates the possiblity of putting Chips A'Hoy neatly onto a serving tray as a back-up plan, your co-workers are no worse off than they were pre-missing-ingredient.

Your friend's car still works. Their engine is turning over and they have the freedom to climb out of your passenger seat and go see that movie they don't care about. In fact, now they don't have to listen to you talk well past the start of the previews that they paid $3 of the $10 to see.

No one at your party wants to hear Justin Bieber.

You and your colleagues, friends, and guests are not together in this. And I think they would appreciate your pronoun usage reflecting that.

So next time you're feeling like you want to belong, turn on Jersey Shore and pretend like you're not disgusted.

We appreciate you leaving us out of it.