Stupid parole board. Always calling at suppertime.
WEATHER: Coooolder than it ever gets in DC. Which doesn’t really matter, because…
MILES THIS WEEK: 0.
WHERE TO: Buttoned in at the family homestead in Iowa.
MOOD: Snug and well-fed and well-slept and rested and so on.
OK, team. After my last post, one of the interns here at The Running Blog took a look at the dashboard and saw that we had our MOST HITS EVER! Ka-freaking-POW! And now I’m thinking that maybe, if there are new visitors and new traffic, I should tidy up the place…pick up my smelly sports bras, throw out the old Hustler issues, clean the mayo off the wall, and so on. And also do a new paint job…a.k.a. change the blog theme.
OR maybe I’m crazy. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it…just let sleeping dogs lie…don’t beat a dead horse…necessity is the mother of invention…loneliness is the cousin of LOLcat websites…erm…
Anyway, I love you and value your opinions. And also, I’m doing my annual week-of-resting-my-weary-ass legs, so I have nothing running-related to talk to you about. So do allow me to ask:
Vote early, vote often! Leave suggestions in the comments! Hug your monitor!
Readying my DC-running-themed New Year’s Resolutions,
There are ruts, dear readers, and then there are Ruts. Ruts with a capital R and 10-foot concrete walls on each side with no footholds to allow you to scramble out and scurry away. Ruts created by having run the greatest race of your life and then having written happy fun blog posts about it and having fallen increasingly in love with hundreds of people, especially the residents of Hagerstown, Maryland, in the process. And then realizing that your life no longer has purpose. No goals. No future plans. <choking bourgeois sob> Ruts that can only be broken out of when you are at the Red Derby on your birthday a little over a week ago with your college friend Mr. Cool thrusting two tequila shots into your hands and also saying, “ARE YOU SO PUMPED FOR THE JINGLE ALL THE WAY 10K?”