Just wear black, no one will know.
A few years ago I was sitting outside at a park. I think it was my mother's birthday, but she never makes a big deal of it so I don't remember. It was fall; I remember this because I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt, a bright oversized green crew-neck with a circumferential orange stripe around the breast. It has a hole in it now, so I never wear it anymore. I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of it. Because on that day at the park, three different people complimented me on my sweatshirt. More accurately, my style. Because I was wearing the sweatshirt with a new pair of yellow pants, the kind that are tight at the knees and loose at the hips. Whether the compliments were sincere or not, I will never know.
As I was walking home, the dog's leash got wrapped up around my lower ankles. That's when I new my running career was over. Head over heals, I went flying through the air, dog in tow. I rolled probably 15 feet down a steep embankment, and nearly got hit by an old Dodge driving way under the speed limit. It was thanks to this old Dodge that I developed my passion for American motor vehicles.
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