Or at least it feels that way. But let's not make this an entry of irritating excuses for neglect and laziness. Let's just get down to it. It's been two months since my last post.
Which means it's been eight weeks that I've been back on the triathlon training circuit. It's much better than the last time, though I feel like I say that every time I start training again. Really though: I haven't gotten sick; I haven't been ending my days by picking a fight with my boyfriend then passing out on the couch; I haven't been crippled by back pain; I haven't blown off every friend I have with the excuse, "I'm training." I think these are good signs.
I have regained my appetite for ice cream, preferably vanilla with chunks of Oreo-like cookies, cookies and any food smothered in a rich, melted cheese. My legs fatigue up flights of stairs. My jeans are tighter in the thighs and looser in the waist. This could also be a consequence of infrequent washing. I have a foot condition called Plantar Fasciitis, which sounds much more embarrassing than it actually is.
In other news, the business is going well. My work schedule is down to 20 hours a week, a blessed 20 hours a week, and with the rest of the time, because I've got so little to do with the rest of my time, and because I own a space where I can write without distraction or household obligations, a space where so many other writers around me are writing all the time, and because I have so little money to shop, I've been writing. What I've basically done is back myself into a corner where I have no choice but to write. This is equivalent to the two years of deadlines I paid to have in graduate school. So far, it's been working.
Mister President? He hasn't lost his taste for sticks or nubby foam objects, but he's the same lovable bastard as ever.
Until the Spring...
