I just finished reading the wonderful book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. In it, the author and her family decide to become locavores for a year and eat only locally grown foods. They grow quite a bit of the food themselves--including chickens and turkeys for slaughter--and rely on local farmer's markets for the rest.
It sounds like a lovely idea, romantic in its pioneer "can-do" attitude, until you really delve into what's involved.
My legs ache.
I don't mind. It's the kind of ache that comes from using them.
I had some long, fast runs this week. On Thursday, Barefoot Josh was kind enough to agree to drive to Greensboro with me for a 10-mile tempo. (Side note: What kind of training plan takes you from a 4-mile tempo run one week to a 10-mile tempo the next? Those Furman people are sadists.) Our run turned out a little different than planned when, less than one mile in, I realized I'd locked my keys in my car. Luckily, Josh had his cell phone. Josh called his wife, who looked up the # for AAA, relayed the number to us, and we got a rep on the phone.
"I'll send someone out right away," said the rep.
I overheard a great conversation yesterday in the coffeehouse where I was working. A spry 70-year-old man was eating breakfast and he the the shop owner and a woman at an adjoining table were talking about being packrats. The man said every so often his wife would get sick of all his stuff lying about and organize a garage sale.
Before the last yard sale, she asked her husband about the 5-gallon bucket of golf balls he was hoarding in the garage.
"Can I sell those?" she asked.
"I guess," he replied.
"How much should I charge?"
"Fifty cents."
When the man returned home that evening, he saw every last golf ball had been sold. Expecting a nice chunk of change, he asked his wife what the final total for the golf balls were.
"Fifty cents," she said, looking surprised.
That's right. She sold the entire bucket for fifty cents.
I love coffeehouse conversations.
So I'm in the hair salon today and the very young, very cute 23-year-old girl is blow-drying my hair. Tik Tok by Kesha came on and we both started singing the words.
"Oh my gosh, you know this song?" asked blow-dry girl.
"I love this song," I said.
"Oh my gosh! I like never would have guessed that."
What's up with that? Do I have "Kenny G" stamped on my forehead or something? And this after I took the plunge with some serious rocker chick hair. My former blonde highlights on brown hair have been replaced with almost but not quite black hair and red copper highlights. I turn 40 in a few months so maybe it's an early mid-life crisis, but I think it's more I was just bored. I like the new look. It's not something I'd want to keep for life but for a few months until summer gets here, why not? Life is short.
And I'm not going to spend it listening to Kenny G. =)
Olivia rejects the new 'do.
Author. Humorist. Fitness fanatic. Control freak (working on it). Mentor. Klutz. All-around decent human being.
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