I’ve spent the last few days running around doing errands so that I keep my head on straight throughout this week, unlike last week when I could be found crying into a massive sink full of dishes at 8 p.m. on Friday night.
This week I vow to stay on top of everything in order to not succumb to end-of-week fatigue. It is not a serious affliction, of course, it’s just that I don’t do well when sleep-deprived. All logic goes out the door. Single moms everywhere, I bow to you. I only do it Monday to Friday due to our schedule, and even then MFP has to wipe me off the floor first thing on Saturday morning and assure me that I have two days to collect myself. (I exaggerate, of course. Well, kind of.)
So in addition to not allowing the cupboard to be emptied completely by Thursday afternoon, and to avoid a fashion meltdown on Saturday when I have multiple events to attend, I got myself out in the world today to peruse Target for deals.
Someone please remind next time that I don’t do well with Target wear. None of it fits right. Everything seems to be a little off.
And the only shoes that are not five feet off of the ground and put me at risk for an ankle injury are ill-fitting as well.
Oh well. I left empty-handed.
And now let us move on to running, which I am able to conquer each week, no problemo.
I don’t have a very super-scientific training plan. I was hanging with the Hanson’s but then I got spooked about the long run being too short.
Mainly, I try to do some sort of speed on Tuesdays, which entails watching Peter Krause for a few miles, like from 5:30 a.m. until 6 a.m., and then quickly making up a workout up on the back of, say, a Costco receipt.
It’s called being a self-coached runner. It’s fun, yes. Is it productive? I doubt it.
Yesterday I ran twice, and I have no idea why, but it was quite fulfilling. Not in an egotistical way, but in a way that I realized that I have a bit more in my legs than I have had in the past.
And I attribute that to taking things slowly this time. To allow the training to unfold without forcing myself into a strict plan.
Now if I could force myself to find a cute dress that doesn’t remind me of bad ‘80s fashion, I would be all set.
In other words, I need a coach and a stylist.