A typical day in the life (alternate title: Why some days require copious amounts of alcohol)

1. Drop glasses, scratch both lenses.
2. Wear glasses with large scratch directly in front of left pupil for a few days until can carve out time to drive to ophthalmologist.
3. Drive to ophthalmologist and marvel at good fortune that replacement lenses are actually covered by insurance (WHAT?!?)!!
4. Wear glasses with large scratch directly in front of left pupil until ophthalmologist calls to say new lenses have arrived.
5. Wear glasses with large scratch directly in front of left pupil until can carve out time to pick up new lenses.
6. Drop glasses at beginning of workout on treadmill.
7. After workout put on glasses and puzzle at the fact that vision is all of a sudden extremely blurry.
8. Clean lenses and discover that right lens has fallen out and is missing.
9. Wear glasses with large scratch directly in front of left pupil and right lens missing until can carve out time to pick up new lenses.
10. Drive at the speed of light to get to ophthalmologist before they close for lunch.
11. Stare blankly at ophthalmologist receptionist when she tells you they need the scratched missing lens for insurance to cover the replacement.
12. Curse at the top of your lungs for several minutes in your car in the school parking lot across from the ophthalmologist's office.
13. Drive home and locate missing lens UNDER the treadmill.
14. Drive back to ophthalmologist and get new, beautiful, scratch free lenses (angels sing hallelujah).
15. Once home and wearing brand new scratch free lenses, discover that although you can now see your computer screen, the internet connection is dropping every 5 minutes.
16. Go to store and buy 12 pack.
17. Decide FSA be damned and research LASIK. Ponder what could possibly go wrong with that and decide to glue glasses to face (see #16).

The end.

Runner's high, the pink cheetah skirt, and an inside out sweatshirt

First of all, I'll be honest and admit that I use the term "runner" very loosely.  However, I like that word better than "jogger" or "slow walker."  And one day in the not too distant future "runner" will be the correct word again!  So, call it running or walking like a grandma, regardless I have been experiencing the runner's high.  I know this because every run/walk I go on involves me daydreaming about where I should do my 10th marathon.

After a while my mind drifts to what I will look like running in this marathon and an image of Bo Derek in 10 comes to mind... except I am shorter, my hair is not in cornrows, I'm wearing a pink cheetah running skirt instead of a tan bathing suit, and I'm not on the beach.  I am however running and feeling great, so they're kind of related.  In a very ADD kind of way.

At some point when I get home - it can be as soon as when I get in the shower or the next day when I'm walking stiffly from the TEENY little bit of running I did the day before - I remind myself that there is nothing wrong with baby steps.  I need to conquer the 5k, and then I'll get back to planning that 10th marathon.  That's how I feel right now, post run/walk, post shower.  Catch me tomorrow when I'm finishing my run/walk, and I'll probably be trying to decide between New York and somewhere crazy like London.  Yay for the runner's high!

Completely unrelated but makes me laugh.  I wore my sweatshirt inside out in public today.  The way I discovered it was inside out?  I couldn't figure out why the small stain that should have been on the bottom wasn't there.  Then it dawned on me that it was because I had the frigging thing on inside out and had worn it INTO SCHOOL that way.  When I become that runner girl with the pink cheetah skirt, I'll make sure that I never wear it inside out (see how I tied that all together?).  Awesome.

Nightmare on Lizzie Lane

Last night I had a nightmare. So I screamed (LOUDLY) to wake myself (and Preston and the cat and half the eastern seaboard) up and out of the dream.

Preston:  what happened?
me:  I had a nightmare.
Preston:  holy crap.

Meowsie, who likes to sleep under my chin, sat on the floor looking at me and refused to get back in the bed. She may never sleep with us again (so I'll be able to move in my sleep again instead of waking up stiff afraid to move in case I wake the cat up).

I'm not sure what caused the nightmare.  It was either watching 48 Hours: Hard Evidence or the numerous commercials throughout with Joel Osteen and Oprah. Preston was appalled at the commercial and declared it completely stupid each time it came on, so it truly could have been either that or the grisly murder described in detail on 48 Hours that gave me the nightmare.  Just to be sure, I'm going to stay away from the Oprah network before bed.  The eastern seaboard will sleep better.