That is SO TRUE.
WEATHER: Gorgeous and autumnal, once again.
MILES THIS WEEK: 8.5
WHERE TO: Georgetown, around that general area, back.
My dear readers, I don’t ask you for much. I put up my posts and I hope you read them and derive some form of enjoyment. I occasionally nuzzle your neck at night when I’m feeling lonely. But now I ask you to sit there and nod understandingly as I explain to you that THE G.D. BOSTON MARATHON SOLD OUT IN ONE EFFING DAY AND EVEN THOUGH I DUTIFULLY LOGGED ON AT 9 A.M. THE SITE WAS DOWN AND BY THE TIME I GOT BACK ON THAT AFTERNOON IT WAS SOLD OUT, GODDAMMIT SO I WILL STOMP AROUND IN MY STRIPEY KNEE SOCKS AND YELL AND THROW MY BOWL OF FROZEN BROCCOLI AT THE WALL WHILE MY HOUSEMATES ROLL THEIR EYES AND WAIT FOR THE TANTRUM TO PASS HOLY FREAKING KNICKERBOCKERS WHY AM I YELLING.
Behold! The Founding Father of running crazies!
WEATHER: Gorgeous and autumnal
MILES THIS WEEK: 33
WHERE TO: C & O Trail
I received an e-mail last week from a good friend (and fellow Iowan, so you know she’s quality) who has also been known to go on the occasional run. She began her missive kindly enough:
“Damn it, woman! I have done nothing during my prep but read old entries on your blog. I have a whole pile of grading to do but I just can’t FOCUS and I feel soooo sleeeppy, and you’ve provided such an alluring distraction my willpower just can’t hold up.”
…which just shows you the power of the BLOG, kids, because I am SINGLE-HANDEDLY contributing to the distraction of teachers and decline of the education system. You’re welcome.
So yeah. I'm promoting conspicuous consumption now. Deal with it.
WEATHER: A little hot, but really, conditions are perfect.
MILES THIS WEEK: 40
WHERE TO: Allllll over.
MOOD: The thrill of the mighty huntress.*
*…by which I mean I KILLED A MOUSE this morning. So yeah, this has nothing to do with running, but it does have to do with badassery, so I’m just gonna roll with it. See, the Irishwoman informed me last night, when the mouse scurried out from under the oven as I was baking cookies, that OH MY GOD THERE’S A MOUSE BY YOUR FOOT GET IT GET IT.
OK, sure, fine.
I get more hits when I include beautiful-man pics. Go figure.
MILES: Zero. POW!
MILES THIS WEEK: Many. Already.
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
I was at this party a few weekends ago at which a friend asked me if I listened to music while I run.
Now, let me digress for a second. Because I feel like every single runner I meet is either a Luddite purist or incapable of going on even a simple two-mile jog without having Tool drilling into his/her skull at volume level 14. No one is in-between. Which I don’t get. Because sometimes you need Enrique to move you along, and sometimes you just need to silently judge other runners in silence, you know?
“Not all the time,” I responded.
“Well, don’t you go CRAZY? What do you think about?” she asked.
Ironically, her question itself has made me go crazy, because now when I’m running all I can think about is, “Huh. What AM I thinking about?” and now my flow is totally gone. (Thanks a lot, party-friend-lady. Jerkface.) It’s like when you for whatever reason start thinking about breathing and suddenly realize that you can’t do it correctly anymore, and now maybe it won’t be voluntary anymore and you’ll have to think about breathing until the day you die. Holy s**t, that would suck, wouldn’t it?
This guy? He's got WHEELS.
WEATHER: Humid but relatively nice.
MILES THIS WEEK: 81.
WHERE TO: Everywhere.
I keep meaning to go to church more often…really, I do…but my Sunday morning long runs have started spooling out longer and longer than expected, leaving me in a sweaty heap on the living room floor, leaking puddles of sweat that run the length of the house.
“See you after worship, heathen!” chirp my housemates, slipping past and cursing me for being so genetically predisposed to grossness.
Tomorrow I will make it. Really, I will. And I will include in my confession an apology for the below post, which shows you all of the religious texts you NEVER KNEW EXISTED that deal with running. It’s a holy practice, everyone. It will make you closer to God/Goddess/The Flying Spaghetti Monster. I promise.
So here goes:
.......what the WHAT?
WEATHER: Take a guess.
MILES THIS WEEK: 24.
WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home
I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write? Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).
Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers. Sometimes it’s all too much. Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop. Sometimes you need an escape. Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”
Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.
And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.
Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7. Why seven? Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.
So, without further ado, I bring you: