Here I sit. And sit. And sit. And read one more blog. And click to one more page on the Interweb. And sit. And read. And look out my window and think, "Wow, what a lovely morning. I should go for a run. Or ride my bike down Catalpa, it seriously can't be that scary. Or ride my bike to the gym, where I should swim laps. Or lift weights. Or do something that will help me not die when I try to complete a triathlon in about one month."
But then I sit. And sit some more. And think things like, "Well, if I swim, it will ruin my lovely manicure, and my lovely manicure is only 48 hours old, and darn it, I don't want it ruined quite yet." And things like, "If I ride my bike down Catalpa, some crazy driver will definitely smash into me from behind, or they'll run me into a parked car. And it's Dream Cruise week. How will I ever cross Woodward on a Trek? I won't." Or thoughts like, "My calves hurt. How can I possibly run? How can I ever make it a few laps around that track when yesterday I couldn't even go three miles without walking?" And thoughts like, "Hmmm, maybe I should be eat more of that deliciously evil peach crisp I made last night against my better judgment. That was a scrumptious breakfast. Now it could be a scrumptious snack." And thoughts like, "Hmm, I only have four more days with The Queen, which I rented last night. I need to watch it before it's too late!" And thoughts like, "I only have a hundred or so pages left of the book I started yesterday, Elizabeth Berg's Say When. Why don't I just go finish that? Lay around a little? Don't I deserve it?"
Help!
I need a brain transfusion.
I am in so much trouble on Sept. 8.