It's all about the benjamins, baby

I'm sitting her in a huddle listening to my mind and body squawk about this weekend,
coming up with a game plan on how to get through these 30 miles- the short race.
I like to watch them and listen.



They take turns wanting to
1) crawl under the covers or
2) throw air punches.
Most days, I am blessed with a full squad.
We'll see if they're able to get it together in time.
I know who's in charge, and it ain't me.

There are 6 pairs of running shoes in my car, and I consider them all good friends.
I may have just killed them with a waste bag of pipette tips soaked in chloroform from my "business trip" to Amherst,
and I feel really bad about it.
Now my assistant is worried that I might fall asleep on the road.

I think I'm in love with several of my girlfriends
Crew for a day on a road trip, drinks on a Monday night.
Healthy doses of reality.
"Honey, I'm proud of you for a thousand reasons. eating shit only once is maybe 1001. or 1002."
"Your lungs must be grizzly bear strong, carrying you way out of your territory"
To name a few

I've finally settled on a soundtrack for the month:
Tool, Big Boi, Hot Chip.
It's all about the benjamins baby, which is sad, but true.

I can't seem to get enough ketchup, cereal, cinnamon, Fantasy Football, Facebook, coffee, or pumpkins.
My camera is tired, my thumb is tired, my toe is annoyed
My new scent is Egyptian Musk because it smells like soap and someone I know but I can't figure out who,
but they smell so good when I hug them.
(kind of like the guy at the Morrissey concert when I was 18, but that was Lever 2000).

I want to have the self discipline
to get my ass back into a pool and give my legs a break,
I want to hear coach's voice say "Get up dat hill, Saaaaraaaah" at mile 46,
and to have 4 more still left in me.
I want to see a familiar face out there in the woods 'cause sometimes it gets lonely,
and then to feel like 6 miles is plenty good for the day
sometime in December.

Landing at Logan makes me feel at peace.
I want a home, a fat pay check, an enormous bed to burrow into.
A family.
I think I'm a snail.

A bank teller says: "Well, 'home' is where your people are, right?"
My people are everywhere.
How can I possibly feel so at home in someone's guest room? But I do.
With my family and friends over there,
and my family and friends over here? Yep, I do.
In NH or in MA.
A million miles away with the love of my life- uh huh, and with a big smile on my face at that!
In a tent, on a couch, in my car.
Home is where the Honda is (?)
Or maybe it's me.

I've been spoiled my whole life.
I want the winter to put me inside and keep me there.
I can't wait to watch my next football game and not understand a single minute of it,
or for my bread to rise,
or to slide-slide-slippety-slide in the "low salt areas", whatever those are (I'll figure it out),
or run at night in the snow with a headlamp on.

Last week I had a bad day and felt completely alone
because voice mailboxes are sometimes a relief
but sometimes they feel like a brick wall or a foot stuck out to trip you.
But I figured you were all still there
because yesterday I had a bad day and my world checked in,
and I didn't even have to ask.

I want to see your faces here- show you the happiest places on my earth.
Where I broke down crying because I missed you so much,
Where I hide my aid stations and churches.
We can drink coffee all day together and check out the bogs.
Keep your eye on the mail- maybe I'll send you a piggy-bank.

I'm a poet, and I didn't know it-Ha!
If you're reading this, thanks for laughing with me and not rolling your eyes.
Don't worry, I know... blogging is narcissistic.
But it's also kind of fun.

Keeping my eye on the prize makes me dizzy
and makes my eyelid twitch
(which I've been told is from fatigue).
So I've stopped looking.