You guys, Grey's Anatomy comes back this week. What else matters? Other than Glee and Parenthood and Dexter and Homeland and oh my god, I need to get a life. There is literally not enough time in life to keep up with all the shows I love to watch. I've also picked up this reading habit. I CAN'T STOP READING. I'm knee-deep in the Millennium trilogy (think The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), and all I want to do with every spare moment of my life is be horizontal on the couch with a blanket, a cat and my Kindle. Like, actual chores do not get done on a weekly basis anymore BECAUSE READING. I can't get my nose out of my Kindle long enough to do things like wash the dishes and feed the cats. My bedroom looked like an episode of Hoarders last week because I had a tower of clean laundry balancing on my night table. An actual tower. I could have lived on the fourth floor with my bras and t-shirts. Jeff looked at me this weekend, like, "Dude WTF, put your clothes away." And I'm all "I CAN'T, I HAVE TO READ. AND WATCH TV. THERE'S NO TIME! THERE IS JUST NO TIME." That's when I realized the toughest decision I make every day is whether to read my book or catch up on my favorite shows. I need to get out more.
I paced another half marathon over the weekend and felt like total shit. The dreary, chilly and windy weather didn't help, but I struggled holding a pace that SHOULD come naturally to me. Of course, ever since, I've been panicking over how I'm supposed to hold a pace significantly faster than that in two weeks during my marathon, and my entire body is beginning to shut down in protest. OH HELL NO, it says. I feel like this happens to me right before ANY big race. Everything feels off. Wrong. Painful. I have grand plans for a stress-free, ultramarathon-filled 2013, with a beautiful 50-miler as the icing on the cake next fall. But then I think, ew running, and eat Doritos. Good plan, self.
Oh. Remember last year how I began writing that yet-to-be-named-or-finished novel? I've been thinking SO much about it lately, getting the itch to get back to it. Maybe it's the season. Last year, I was freshly unemployed and single, snuggled on the couch with a blanket and tea, wondering what to do with my time. I absolutely loved the late nights with my laptop, making up a story, watching the words pour onto the screen. It felt exciting! I was writing! And then... I stopped. The process got overwhelming. The plot intimidated me. I didn't know where to take it or how to get there. But the story -- and Charlotte! CHARLOTTE! My first ever character! -- remains on my mind. I've abandoned her and it. National Novel Writing Month is just around the corner once again, and I really see no better time to hop back on the train and see what happens.
In closing, I have to give a presentation on Friday at a luncheon. A luncheon full of people. Grownup people. An advertising group. Strangers. I want to throw up just thinking about it. Public speaking is horrifying. I'm already worried about how much I'm going to sweat and stutter and forget my train of thought. And blush! God, I turn so goddamn red when I'm stressed or embarrassed or put on the spot or breathing. So, if you don't hear from me again, it's been real, but I have died. You can likely find my body on the floor of a coffee shop under a heaping pile of PowerPoint slides.
Godspeed, friends. Here's a photo I took of a giraffe yesterday. Enjoy.