The Long Run - The Eagles

I officially have a blistering case of FOMO. The Fear of Missing Out. I have to say no to everything. No going to see your band play. No going to the Wednesday night dance party. No movies later than a seven o'clock, which is actually pushing it. On week days I get up at five every morning, either to get to work by six or to get a run in before work by eight or nine. Saturdays are the long days, reaching past three hours and therefor requiring Friday nights to be limited as well, sleeping takings its slot as the high priority for the night. Saturday nights I could go out, but if I ran for over three hours that day like a good soldier, the chances of my feeling inspired toward that are limited. I have two more months of this "athletic" schedule, during which I also need to pack up my house to move, try and finish the rough draft of the book, and also make sure I actually keep some of my pals. 

God, who woke up on the whiny side of the bed? 

Somebody better call the whambulance. 

Tonight, however, I will be heading out for the RADAR Spectacle. It's the event of the literary season! Michelle is throwing a fantastic show to raise money for the writer's lab. Same thing the run is raising money for. The outfits are incredible. But I think I might wear the sausage outfit, stopping only to ponder which color bandana will work best. 

Meanwhile, today's run will feature, hopefully, the Embarcadero, the Wharf, the Bridge, the Park, the Haight,  and finally, the collapse. I'm going to attempt to push past the halfway mark into the 14 mile category, obliterating any notions I had of sanity previously. Part of the reason I see this as a distinct possibility is the amazing blessing in my life of health care. I don't think I told y'all that a couple weeks ago I returned to Dr. Sanders' office and have since been wearing my new running shoes. Well, despite their appearance, the pain in my feet has been reduced to almost nothing. It's amazing. She told me the piece of shit Nikes I had bought on sale were almost solely responsible for my pedal misery. I am not supposed to Just Do It with the swoosh. 

In other news: Happy Birthday Harvey Milk! I imagine you often, out there somewhere, a supremely gay, brave, generous spirit continually holding the flame of dissent, the spark of uprising, and most of all, the love of each other. Thank You so much.

Love,

Sara Elise