you take the good, you take the bad

03-22-00

I did my best to do something interesting today. Really.

What ended up happening was that I went to work and came home after making a special trip to WalMart for a shower caddy. Big glamorous day in Warner Robins. I did try a new smoothie flavor, though: Cranberry Supreme. Yummy.

John was on his way to work when I came home, so I showered and began my busy afternoon schedule of computer, couch, computer, couch, computer, music stand, computer, couch. John was home again in about an hour, strangely, having decided to take the afternoon off. I only got through the first couch stage. We decided to play tennis, and he somehow got me to warm up for tennis by running.

I don't run. I haven't run since ninth grade, I think, unless I did it as punishment in marching band. I work out, I play tennis, I play racquetball, I swim, but I hate running. It's hot, sweaty, painful, and boring as hell. Hate it. Today just reminded me why. When it comes to running, I'm brutally out of shape. There's no goal, other than making yourself hurt, increasing your time, or whatever. Not like smacking a tennis ball on the wall—in that case, you're after something. Not like working out, where you can set goals and be done when you've reached them. Or riding a bike or a cross trainer, when you can read a book and pretend you're not becoming one of those healthy people you used to make fun of. Running just sucks.

Anyway, we ran for a while, played tennis, and went to dinner with Becky. Then John cleared out for a marathon air force ritual of some kind. I'm sure he won't be home until after I've gone to bed. So I practiced for a while--

***Well, hey...just as I typed that last sentence, John walked in the door. Apparently he got out a little early. So now I think we're going out drinking with the Band of the Welsh Corgies, or something like that. Let me sum up:

I practiced, I ate ice cream, I watched E! True Hollywood Stories on the show Facts of Life. I confess, I dug the show. I'm a true child of the eighties.