Occasionally a run starts and, within 20 yards or so, I can tell it's going to be horrific. By the time I hit the corner today I knew this one might not be worth my time and I was definitely not going to go as far as I had hoped. The intent was 4+-5 miles, and I forced myself to stagger an even 4. I ended up having loads of time to think and then park at the conclusion that I can no longer live in denial.
My name is Kitty/Mom/Mommy/Mama/Honey and I am middle-aged. The raw numbers can be ignored, but the signs can not. They are, in order of stream of consciousness:
1. I had my first "Wow, I hope when I'm your age..." a month ago.
2. I'm not quite sure where to shop for clothes or what to buy when I get somewhere. WAY WAY too young for Coldwater Creek (no offense), REI makes me look tired, too old for J Crew and starting to phase out of Gap.
3. John and I are watching SNL (right now) and are laughing while we're watching Akroyd and Martin guest the Festrunk Brothers.
4. Ibuprofen is critically necessary for me to run around with my kids.
5. All the new neighbors are REALLY REALLY young and cute and not-haggard looking.
6. We realized today we won't have a "fun" car for another 20 years and even then there's no guarantee after 5 college tuitions and 4 weddings. Thank you, Trey. Thank you very much.
7. I don't know why, but I lived in our 20+ year old college sweatshirts this winter. You know, the grey Champion ones we only bought in size "L".
8. I snart and don't care. Or notice. Look it up.
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