I met D. for brunch, I am vibrating with travel anxiety, I ate and ranted and that was all I could eat for the day. We each got a plate of eggs and then an order of French toast to share. It is a good life. I would like to be able to enjoy it. 


S. met me at the end of my race, I’d run 4 miles, he’d run 8, I had nutz sports bra chafing, S. had bled through his shoe, we are hardcore, this is hardcore. I ate every single thing on my plate, only four miles, but still: it felt earned.

Among other things, B. and I agree about the new Framework for Information Literacy in Higher Education, also about going to lunch at the same place we went last time. Routine. Is anything better?

I rolled out of the house to the brunch spot on my way to get a pedicure and go grocery shopping because life is absurdly wonderful, very nearly perfect.

I met B. at Nero Doro and had the breakfast special, just like B. had except my eggs were scrambled with swiss cheese. It was really more brunch. A delayed G train meant I was fifteen minutes late, but ladies who lunch give each other dispensations, I guess.

I live in a house full of ingredients. This is good if you like cooking, which I don’t. So I fell back on the ol’ breakfast for lunch standby, ate the last of the bagels.

I was straight-up dopey after running my first half marathon, the arm-pumping adrenaline of those last hundred yards replaced by exhaustion and a thousand yard stare around, I tried to be good conversation for my pals who came with me, but all I could see in my minds eye was the couch, and a few free hours for data analysis.