I wrote for half an hour and then wolfed down some snacks that I decided to call lunch and hurried off to campus to put in some time in the weight room. Our star player was lifting at the same time again, he and I are both nursing injuries. The difference is that I don’t have to carry the hopes and dreams of my team. It’s just me out here.

Considered the lessons from this afternoon’s run while making do with remnants: I will go out too fast. Drop my shoulders, drop my arms, drop my hands, shorten my stride. It’s all about pace at this point. Stay on top of my breath. Slow down long enough to get it back. I can’t live by my watch alone. At some point these external markers will have to give way. End every run excited to see my shoes in the morning. Consistent effort in a single direction makes steady and incremental change, turns out it’s my favorite kind. Like me running outside for half an hour and liking it.

I’m super-shy about the telephone, always afraid to talk to people on it. I mean, if I can’t see your face, how do I know you’re not rolling your eyes? So even though my afternoon call is with a friend of a friend to talk about something potentially mutually beneficial, I was still sort of bouncy and jagged knowing that when lunch was over I’d have to get cracking on increasing my business use of cell phone. I responded like my productivity guru would want me too, converting my nervous spastic energy into a search for a document I know I need for my homework assignment. (This search mostly consisted of asking other librarians to search for me.) The third of four jams from the trip to Canada, I like the blackberry the best so far. I’m saving blueberry for last.

You know what’s not going to work between now and the end of April? I’ll do it later. The notes from last week’s meeting were threatening to move from daily list to daily list to that final list, the one of things I just never did. So I said no sandwich until you’re done and that did the trick. I struck through meeting notes on my list and leaned way way back in my cloffice chair and ate my granola bar and listened to my Ryan Adams station on Pandora and closed my eyes and daydreamed about holding hands in front of an extraordinary view, today it was somewhere in Arizona.

I ate my kiddie lunch perched on a chair down in the Quizno’s lounge next to B. and her chicken salad, watching the historic events unfold on the television screens with a surprisingly quiet crowd of students. I hated that Rick Warren gave the opening prayer, surprised at how much he called forth my grief and my anger; I’m not usually like that about identity-politics things. And my eyes got wet and I broke up into little giggles when Obama needed the oath repeated. Unlike the rest of the crowd, I stayed through the reading of the poem, finding it unexpectedly lovely. I hear she’s a dyke whispered B., but I think that’s just wishful thinking.

I wrapped my sandwich in a paper towel and took it along with me as I rushed around the corner to pick up S. so we could make it to the meetup spot in time for the game. The sky was rinsed with blue, the last of the bright yellow leaves falling on the parkway as the sun dropped already down below the tree tops. I started in on my granola bar and we remarked on the weather, This is just the perfect day for football. It was chilly in the shade but I didn’t bring a jacket–I figured once we made it to the gridiron and I put on the rush I’d get too hot. I was right.

I’m working the late shift tonight for the first time since the days when I ran the film projector so could not figure out when would be best to eat lunch. I figured the later the better and held out until there was just no holding out anymore and gobbled down my sandwich and granola bar in my cloffice, chilly but not damp like the outside world, and perused the books section, where I learned that Elizabeth Bishop fell in love during a stopover on a long freighter cruise, while being nursed through an allergic reaction to a cashew fruit. Still, I wouldn’t trade my sobriety and sturdy reliability for such wonders. I don’t think.

It was two when B. arrived, I. in tow, and graciously relieved me from reference-desk-Meebo-combo duty, and I was so glad to see him. Two o’clock is too late for lunch! I scurried back to my cloffice and downed my cheese sandwich followed quick quick by my granola bar while poring over page 24 on C.’s recommendation. Then I condensed myself into fifty words for a deadline and ran it past M. and emailed it on so it would be someone else’s bailiwick now and steadied for the next task at hand.

I took a break from making my Thrill-a-Slide Generating a Research Plan! FunTime PowerPoint Panorama (TASGARP!FTPPP) for class next week to eat my salad while clicking around and reading various tales of one of my current obsessions online. The salad was all sorts of echoes of my buffet-and-bar-style origin story–trips to the Wendy’s salad bar out on State Street across from the park. I loved that Wendy’s salad bar, how I could have anything I wanted in portions I chose, a whole cupful of bacon bits if it struck me, slightly gray baby corn, blue cheese dressing, mushrooms and that evenly shredded cheese, all in brown ceramic tubs shoved down into the ice. Today’s salad was less ambitious, but did feature canned beets in a nod to my history.

Two things happened. First, I forgot my gym stuff at home. Second, no matter how kicky these flats make me feel, the hole in the bottom of the right sole is undeniable. Then I realized I could go home for lunch! A trip that used to take me three hours now takes me twenty minutes, if that. (They lifted the door on my cage a few months ago now, but it still surprises me, all this freedom.) So I popped on the express train and hit my apartment, startling the cats out of sleepy repose, downed my sandwich, washed my sandwich dish, changed my shoes, grabbed my gym stuff, pet everybody goodbye, and took the local back to campus. A guy on the train across from me on the ride back rocked out to his portable CD player while arguing with his friend sitting next to me about whether or not such a non-iPod music player is played out. No way! he insisted. They wouldn’t have sold it to me if it was played out!