I was in a wreck last week.  I was in my lane at a stoplight, doing nothing other than pondering my navel lint, when a car.. seemingly out of nowhere.. t-boned me in my passenger side, attempting to cross into the lane to the left of me.  You know, as if I weren’t there.  At all.  I was irritated and annoyed as I dug for my notepad and pen, and the lady driver of the car kept giving me the evil eye as if to say “How DARE you let me hit you like that?!”

I realized, as I circled my car, that she was not. going. to. get. out.  She creaked her door open and I asked, “CAN you get out?  Are you okay?”  She nodded, wide-eyed and frazzled.

“I don’t think your car is damaged,” she said. 

“Well, let’s BOTH get out of our cars and look at this TOGETHER,” I prodded.

She left her car and we both stood there.  Her front bumper was wrinkled from the impact; a deep dent marked my passenger door.  A quick pound of my fist popped the dent out (plastic paneling has its advantages), and I turned to her.  “Okay,” I said, hoping this wasn’t going to bite me in the ass, “my car seems fine.  There doesn’t seem to be any damage that would compromise the structure or integrity of the vehicle..” and her eyes glazed over.  “What I mean to say is that YOUR car is damaged.  Do you want to trade information?”

She shook her head.  “My husband was just laid off,” she said.

I nodded.  “Can we just shake hands and then both go home?” I asked.  She hugged me. 

I hoped this would, in the end, earn me some megakarma points.

***

The next night, after another rehearsal, I got in my car and made my way down the mountain.  It was dark, the roads were fogged over from the recent rain, and I noticed that my hand didn’t feel my purse when it crept over there.

MY NEW PURSE.  THAT I JUST GOT.  WITH MY CHRISTMAS GIFT CARD.

I frantically fumbled over the passenger seat, mentally making notes of what was in there.  Two .. no, three credit cards.. my social security card.. MY SMASHBOX LIPGLOSS.. oh, Jesus, where is my purse?!  Why didn’t I lock my car?  Who comes up to the mountain after dark to ransack people’s car?  And if they took my purse, why did they leave my iPod Shuffle, sitting in plain sight?  Bryan was going to be SO MAD AT ME, for not locking my car after I intentionally had automatic, key-operated locks installed and incessantly ragging him about locking my car EVERY FREAKING TIME, even in the garage, as if one of the boys was going to joyride in it, and Jesus, he was going to just NEVER let this go and..

I called him.  I admitted it.  He was audibly frustrated.  He didn’t say much.

I pulled up to the house and turned to the backseat to grab my script.  My purse had been tucked up, under the passenger seat, WHERE I PUT IT TO AVOID HAVING IT TAKEN.

Karma received.

***

I wandered into Dick’s Sporting Goods the other day just to see what real runners use. 

Um, seriously, who is rich enough to run?!

Not I. I will stick to my Target shorts and Target shirts and other goodies from Target that I wanted to link to but suddenly my link window is not working properly, so there.  I did find one wish item from Dick’s that I want, but it’s nothing I’ll need anytime soon.  Seriously, I was amazed by how everything is so durn expensive in there.

***

So I’m still running pretty regularly, although it’s weird to not have some goal to work toward.  Zoot planned out a great course for us since we’re hoping to run a half-marathon in November, and I stick to that okay, but .. I dunno.  Part of it is scheduling; with rehearsals EVERY NIGHT, it’s hard to find time to run.  I get home around 9:30 or 10 at night, and I’m exhausted by that point.  Exercising in the morning means I have to be in the gym by 5:15 and out by 6:15 to make the rest of the house’s routine still function.  And getting in the gym at lunch?  Is not fair to the rest of my team (mostly because I don’t have time to run AND shower at lunch).

But I will say this: I still feel like a million bucks when I go.  If I don’t go, I get REALLY down on myself, and I feel gross, and I hate everything and everyone.  But if I have time to go, it is a constant battle to make myself go.  JUST GO, I tell myself.  JUST GO FOR 30 MINUTES.  And even if I get there, it takes every ounce of will power just to turn the speed up to “Run”.  JUST RUN, I tell myself.  JUST RUN THROUGH THIS SONG.  And before I know it, it’s been 45 minutes and several miles and life feels amazing and I swear that baby unicorns appear out of treadclimbers and nuzzle me. 

Also, at my gym, they play nonstop “Inside the Brookhaven Obesity Clinic”, which, you know, will DEFINITELY motivate you to spend just five more minutes on the treadmill.  Baby unicorns or not.

***

So, how do you explain your “blog friends” to people in your real life?  I run into this a lot.  While people at work know that I’m part of “that blogging thing”, I never know how to explain the source of information I might’ve come across.  For instance, I could just say “My friend, Pocklock, was talking about this the other day..”, but then they have to wonder, “Who the hell would name their child Pocklock?”

So do you just say “my friend, (insert url title here)”?  Or do you say some justifying nickname, i.e. “my blog friend” or “this blog that I read”?  This isn’t really a point of contention in my life, but I never know what to say.

***

Lastly, I sharted on the treadmill recently.  I just thought I’d share that with you.