I FINALLY finished reading The Help. It took me almost three months. True story. And then all of a sudden I read the last 150 pages in a night. Now that it's over I miss all the characters terribly. I want Skeeter to be my real life friend. I plan to see the movie version one of these days. It'll be glorious, I'm sure of it. Emma Stone? Seriously. How could it not be glorious? I ran 41 miles last weekend. Twenty-one on Saturday, 20 on Sunday. It appears I'm still alive, although after this coming weekend's 32-miler on the trails, my future is pending. I'm not terribly nervous about running 32 miles, particularly because the oppressive heat and humidity are gone, but I'm not looking forward to the eleventy hours it'll take to accomplish 32 miles on the trails. It'll be my longest mileage run of this training cycle, but I've still got a few giant back-to-back long run weekends coming up. BUT THEN IT'S HERE. 50 MILES.
There is some serious shit going on within my interpersonal relationships. As in, I officially have my own shampoo, conditioner, body soap and pink bath pouf at his apartment. I know, right? Slow down. Next thing you know we'll be holding hands.
Speaking of serious shit, my family has grown very dependent on my Twitter feed to keep themselves abreast of my whereabouts and daily happenings. It's pretty handy, I suppose, seeing as though I tweet approximately every 3.7 minutes.
"Where's Krista? I bet if we check the Internet we'll find her," says everyone on earth ever.
If I go an extended period of time, unannounced, without tweeting, there tends to be legitimate concern for my well-being from my family. Texts asking "Are you dead?" are not uncommon. But a couple weeks ago it got serious.
One Monday morning, after a weekend of very long runs in the very hot weather, I woke up feeling like absolute shit. My head ached. I wanted to sleep. I proclaimed to the Twitter, "I think the heat this weekend killed me dead." And then I called in sick to work and spent the entire day asleep.
My mom emailed me at work. Then at home. She called, a few times. Called work. Called dad. Called my sister. Dad texted, "You need to call your mother. She thinks your dead." My sister sent a text. Both my work cell and my own cell were next to me in bed, along with two cats, but I was out. Around 2:30 that afternoon I awoke and rolled over. As is habit, I checked both my phones and WHOA.
What the hell? Who died? Why is everyone calling me? Wait. I'M dead? People think I'm dead?
I called my mom. And holy shit did I get an earful.
"WHERE WERE YOU OMG I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD YOU CAN'T JUST TWEET SOMETHING LIKE THAT AND THEN STOP TWEETING AND NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE AND NOT TELL ANYONE AND WHAT THE HELL I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'D WORRY ME LIKE THAT OMG JESUS CHRIST WHY?"
Once she exhausted herself she realized what just happened. She was that dependent on my Twitter feed. And I realized, "Holy shit people take Twitter seriously." Two things were vowed that afternoon: She vowed to not go Crazy if I go absent for several hours, and I vowed to never go absent for several hours without telling her first.
Mamas. They're feisty.