Alright calling on my Woodland-area friends. There's a big Mardi Gras party coming up in town on Saturday, February 10th that's a benefit for local homelessness programs. It's going to be a good party: jazz music, dancing, and a Mardi Gras parade. Red beans, rice, and andouille sausage. Pancake races and games. And yours truly and my very awesome friend Cheryl will be teaching swing dancing lessons at the party.
So if it's been on the tip of your tongue to ask me how my 5k adventure went on Thanksgiving, you can save your breath. I got four weeks into my nine-week training program before I said, "Wow!" I hate this!" and quit.
Here's the thing. It's not just that it's hard (it is) or that it hurts (it does). Those things are true, but I can roll with that. What I wanted from it that I wasn't getting was more mental.
And I’m in the airport again, waiting for a delayed flight home, drinking a San Diego IPA and listening to “Santa Baby” in my earbuds. (Everclear does a good version, by the way.)
This the season, I guess.
As per usual, I blinked and we went from pumpkins to turkeys and now I’m scotch-taping Christmas lights to the edge of my desk. What happened to regular season, eh?
So we're two weeks into my 5k training program, Eddie and I. So far it hasn't killed me. (Can't speak for Eddie.)
I have a friend who is ridiculously excited about this whole thing on my behalf. This woman willingly signs up for marathons and triathlons and I'm limping along trying to jog for two minutes at a stretch so Eddie doesn't suck my brains out of my ears. (He's discussed this potentiality with me.)
"Have you gotten runner's high yet?" she asks me.
So I did something rash and signed up for a 5K. If you're about to remind me that I hate running, save your breath. I remember.
I return from ESRI User Conference, alternately titled "18,000 Introverts in Cargo Shorts". But in a good way.
I get to go to this conference about once every other year. I learn a lot. It's exhausting. It's a pleasant change to not have to explain what I do to people using only little words.
I turned 39 on Sunday. The first present I got that day was a stomach flu. What do you get the girl who has everything, right?
My kid very sweetly wanted to make me scrambled eggs for breakfast, which I had to decline. My parents brought me a picnic lunch, which I promptly threw up, and my husband bought me a cake that I couldn't even look at.
For anyone who doesn't know me in the real world, when I am uninterested in cake, something has gone very wrong indeed.