MANDY FLYNN: A part of me always remembers

“Run Forrest, Run!” I repeated over and over in my head. Only it wasn’t Forrest running; it was me. And I wasn’t running down a Magnolia-lined driveway in the Alabama sunshine in the 1950s. I was running across a wet Target parking lot in Albany as big fat drops of sideways rain pelted my face Sunday afternoon.

“Whew!” I said after I’d jumped in the car and settled into my seat. I was, albeit drippy, quite relieved to have made it there unscathed. It was no doubt risky considering my history of trying to make a run for it in the rain.

You’ve heard the quote, “Even if your mind forgets … your heart never will.”

Well, even if my mind forgets … my buttocks never will.

Clouds loomed heavy over the Winn-Dixie more than 10 years ago as I made my way into the store. The second I turned the corner at the produce, it started – that dull drumming sound on the flat roof. First softly… then louder … finally rising to an almost deafening roar. The bottom had dropped out just as I picked up a bunch of bananas.

Twenty minutes and two small bags later, I found myself standing under the covered sidewalk by the front doors staring at my car through a thick veil of rain, making chit chat between thunder booms with a woman standing with her young daughter and a buggy full of groceries, a man with a bag of charcoal over his shoulder, and a woman on one of those little battery powered scooters. Nary an umbrella between us.

A good five minutes passed, and the man with the charcoal made a bold decision. Before we knew it, he had taken off across the parking lot, jumping and dodging puddles until he reached his truck. We all applauded when he made it, and he gave us a little wave as he drove by. Lucky dog.

I could do that, I thought. It didn’t look that hard. I didn’t care about my hair. Though no Marion Jones, I could run. By God, I was going to make a run for it.

“Don’t do it,” the woman on the scooter whispered, although I hadn’t said a word. She must have sensed it in my eyes. But I couldn’t wait. I had psyched myself up. I … was … unstoppable …

Surprisingly, a bunch of bananas don’t hurt so much when they boink you on the head. Which is what mine did at the exact moment my butt hit the pavement. That’s apparently what happens, you see, when you try to run in flip flops in the rain, hit a puddle, and your foot goes one way and your flip flop goes the other. But only after you skate across wet asphalt for, oh, a second or two, before you go down. And land on your bottom. And a can of tomato sauce lands on your shin. In the pouring rain. Right there in front of God. And witnesses standing on the sidewalk.

Someone laughed. Between claps of thunder I heard it. As I picked myself, my bags, and my rogue bunch of bananas off the ground, I heard it. As I fumbled with my key fob to open my car door, I heard it. I don’t know if it was the little girl or the woman on the scooter who, in my opinion, really should have scooted on back inside the store with all that lightening popping. But who was I to judge someone’s decision?

I’d just busted my butt in the middle of the Winn Dixie parking lot. It still stings.

No, really. It still stings when I sit wrong. I think I may have popped something and it never quite healed right. So, quite literally, even if my mind forgets … my buttocks never will.

The moral to this story: Don’t try to make a run for it in the rain. At least, not when you’re wearing flip-flops. And there are witnesses. Or you’ve bought canned goods. A can of tomato sauce to the shin leaves a bruise. And hurts.

Bananas? Surprisingly … not so much.

Email features columnist Mandy Flynn at [email protected].