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.
I came in the door tonight with a freshly arrived shipping box under my arm from which I triumphantly pulled my new Buffy the Vampire Slayer Board Game.
"Would anybody like to play a game with me tonight?" I ask hopefully.
"Sure," my husband says. Then he squints at the box cradled in my arms. "Wait... Is that a Buffy trivia game?"
"Then, yes, I'll play with you."
Meanwhile my ten-year-old son is flipping the box over.
Did you march? That's how most my friends and acquaintances are greeting each other this week. Did you march?
Loosely related to yesterday's post, I was in the car this afternoon, between the bus stop and piano lessons, humming along to my new local Irish playlist.
Suddenly a footstep on the stair
Who could it be but Reilly after slaughter
With two pistols in his hand
Looking for the man who shagged his daughter