Comfortably Numb-Pink Floyd

I don't think my being a middle aged lesbian is the sole reason I like to retire around 9pm. This is America, and in America, we can go to bed whenever we damn well please. Plus maybe if you are lucky enough to have a j.o.b. in America, you might have to get up wicked early to make it there on time. Let's say 5am. Thereby putting you cradlebound by 9pm if you want to get the 8 hours of suggested slumber we hear so much about. 


Sleeping 9-5, 
what a way to be unconscious


What if Dolly Parton came over and sat there at the foot of my bed just tellin' stories and humming a tune so I would fall asleep? That would be nice. 


Well, as you can see by my razor sharp wit here this morning, I did not get the required amount of sleep because I was not free to go for a run until 9pm. This is the latest I've ever gone out for a run. The first mile was kind of crap, and after that I really liked it. Even with heel barking. 


There are ten days until the marathon. TEN DAYS!!! I feel nervous. I feel upset about the heel. I feel afraid I will not make it. It's been difficult for me to get back into my mindset of Hey, I'll just do my best and that's all I got. I showed up, I did the training, and the race is just some endpoint. The journey has already been the point. This state of mind, this calm, pink-auraed, open-hearted, accepting and peaceful state of mind has been an elusive little bastard running up on the end. The hormonal pandemonium isn't helping matters, and the five hours of sleep I got feels sorely lacking. 


And speaking of sorely lacking... where are my Deep Thoughts? Where is the part where I remember beautiful things from my run to write about besides some painfully misguided man slurping kisses out the window of an old Malibu? When do I get back to the part, or forward, where I move through Golden Gate Park and relay all the things that I saw, following them up with historical oddities and lush anecdotal delights? Or what about regaling the keyboard with a play by play on the preparation for seeing the new gynecologist today, the public transportation trip clocking in at about one hour, making the departure time about 7am, hauling my uterus up to California Street for a palpation fiesta first thing this morning? Do I write about how my monthly bill has been a haphazard cornucopia of arrival times? How there have been high thread count disasters after all these years (although they have been met with my discovery later in life that a direct application of liquid non-chlorine bleach, composed primarily of hydrogen peroxide eats right through the red plague, setting the sheets free as if there had been no sanguine assault)? That the schedule of my red clotted friend has been an irritating fluctuation from 16-42 days since I took up this training, and my attitude has responded in kind? Do I write about how the bloating has arrived in full glory here at the ten day mark, the anxiety, the short tempered banshee like responses to anything at all, and the compulsive purchasing impulse as salve is squarely in place, with yesterday's purchases including an assortment of mismatched blue hued pulls for the cabinets in my office where presently boring white ceramic ones live, boring me to tears, and a set of delightful measuring spoons featuring accented in gold?


Please stick with me. We're almost done here.
Hello?
Hello?


Love,
Sara Elise