What do you mean this week isn’t over yet?

Seriously….I’m pretty sure we’ve gone beyond a 5-day workweek now. Where is my trust fund? Anyone?

I am not meant for this kind of life. I need someone to come clean my house for me, and possibly drive me to Nordstroms.

But – enough with the whining.

Work is busy, as it is. I have been relatively productive today, but still cannot catch up with everything I want to get done.

I went back to the weights class this morning, and this time did not select my weights based on the person in front of me (who was really ripped…I should’ve known better), so I don’t hurt quite as much today. My core muscles ached like crazy earlier, but the drugs seemed to have kicked in now. We’ll see how tomorrow goes. It’s a great class, though, and I wish it was offered more than once a week (noon on Thursday doesn’t count as more than once a week – see above re: lack of life of leisure) at my gym.

Next Friday my workout group is doing time trials again – to see if we’ve improved upon our mile times from January. I ran a 9:46 mile in January, and I’m really, really hoping to get under 9:30 next week. I mean, if I can run 3 miles at 9:46 now, I should be able to run one mile faster, right?


Although most of my stories revolve around me working out, or wishing I could work out, or suffering from over-working out, there are some amusing – or disgusting depending on your point of view – anecdotes that come from the gym.

I was showering after my morning swim a few weeks ago and a couple of young women (i.e. younger than me, but both married – probably mid to late 20s) were having a rather…frank…discussion. Many of the things they shared were things I might share with close friends, but probably not in the locker room – where there are people who aren’t close friends. People like me. I mean, I’m glad that you had a wild youth, and that you’ve done more drugs than I can shake a stick at (amusing mental picture) and that you had lots of random anonymous sex at music festivals. That’s great for you.

However, if I ever hear anyone, EVER AGAIN, talk about their nearly incurable foot fungus they picked up from walking around barefoot at aforementioned music festival, while showering in a locker room (a place well known for spreading athlete’s foot), I think I may vomit. (Diagram that, bitches.) On their feet, of course.  I mean, really.

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