I went back to brunette. In case you blinked and missed it, I had a momentary lapse of good judgment (sort of like all of 2007) and forced my hair stylist (literally, she was against it) to put blond back into my then vibrant, dark hair. I hated it almost immediately. It looked orange. Strawberry blond. Not the fair, pale blond I used to be able to pull off with highlights. This was straight up Sun In circa 1995. Note to self: ALWAYS trust your stylist. When she prefers to leave your hair dark, leave it.
However, I couldn't afford to hop back in for another pricey appointment, so I waited a month and a half and just did it myself. Straight out of the box. AND THANK GOD. A brunette, even out of a box, is what I'm meant to be. I am a boxed brunette.
Other than bad hair decisions and drinking wine (and also very large beers, as evidenced above), I've been busy, you know, living. There's still a boy involved (you know, the one I won at Ragnar), and he's eleventy kinds of wonderful. Mostly because he agreed to watch all seven, current Harry Potter films and also liked them. So, keeper, duh.
I'm officially (mostly because there are now no other races standing between me and it) training for my 50-mile trail race in September. I'm going to start keeping an eye on my heart rate while running to work that bad boy into submission. That's going to require spending a lot of time at a significantly slower pace while my normally high heart rate takes a rest, but what better time to run slow than during 50 miles? Exactly.
Hearts. Who needs 'em?
Fourth of July is on deck, which is my second favorite time of year, right after Christmas and just before my birthday, because omg fireworks. I want to watch fireworks every day. I want fireworks on my ceiling at night. FIREWORKS. All over the place. They're so bright and sparkly and fiery and neat and pretty and stuff.
So God bless America. And also fireworks.