Yesterday I put on my magic pants (aka compression tights) for the first time. Which led to a second 'first' for me; going commando. The only time I don't regularly wear underwear is to bed. I know that the majority of people don't wear them when they run, but I was not sad to be a minority in this matter. Why the sudden change of heart? Because when you stuff sausage into casing, there's often not room for foundation pieces.
After yesterday's run, I could be convinced that it's a better way to go. I'm just glad that I take care of that 'situation' or it may not have been as comfortable.
On the running note, I've officially registered for my first full marathon. It's not the same one I talked about before, but it will be a great fit because Jared will be there to cheer my on, and my best friend is running with me. I think my sister-in-law who ran with the two of us at the Fine Wine half-marathon in July is going to run as well. My friend and I are marathon virgins, while my sister-in-law has birthed this baby before, so it will be interesting to see how our experiences differ. June 4th, 2011 in Newport, Oregon. I'm equally excited and nauseated, but I'm willing to apply the same suspended disbelief that I did while training for the marathon and only focus on the mileage for the week.
Last night J and I went to a fun holiday party. A good time was had by all and the vino was flowing freely. A little too freely, actually. It was my day off in the game, so I relished my
I was feeling nice and toasty, but not bad, as we paid and thanked the sitter, went through the nightly routine and the enjoyed the rest of all that date night entails. (see C.D. I do talk about sex sometimes!) Okay Dad, you may want to stop reading now.
Anywho, the fear of all parents became a reality for us as I heard the pitter patter of little feet, about a fraction of a second later than I normally do and voila; coitus interruptus. Awesome. As I lay mortified in the bed, J ushered a sleepy and seemingly unaware H back to bed. Within about 30 seconds both kids were awake and crying for their Mama.
Rocking them both in the La-Z-Boy, I was starting to drift off when I felt that unforgettable hot and flushed feeling. I called out for J trying not to wake the sixty plus pounds of dead weight that was pressing on my guts and exaccerbating the urge to purge. J to the rescue and kiddos were extracted from my grasp just in time for me to rush to the bathroom and tango with the gods of drinking. I'm so glad I left the lights off because I can only imagine I would forget what I'd drunk and think I had stomach cancer.
Teeth brushed, clean shirt slogged over my head (does anyone successfully avoid splash-back?), water swish-swish-swished and then a glass downed and I welcomed the surrender to my bed. Thanks to a caring spouse who's been there, done that a cold cloth was pressed to my forehead and I was out like a light, but only after I murmured 'Seriously, how old am I? Nineteen?!'
This morning brought two pre-schoolers who don't really care to know about what you did while they were sleeping, and raring to go with zero sensitivity to noise, action or speed of movement. The show must go on so rally I did with a bowl of oatmeal fortified with greek yogurt, peanut butter and some ibuprofen. Opening the Advent Cubicle for the day's activity and found the rest of my cure, watching my kids decorate gingerbread cookies (well, mainly eat candy and frosting.)