Sore and stiff

Well, my co-worker had invited me to run with him as he joined a “running club,” but only one other person showed up. I guess the rest went to the campus Splash’n’Dash (whatever that is). So three of us ran. And I was lagging behind the whole time. At first they waited for me, but I hate to be a burden, so I told them to go ahead and catch up with me on their way back. Once they were out of sight, I turned around and headed back. They passed me again on the way back. Yeah. Kind of embarrassing. So I ran alone about 60% of the time. I don’t think I’ll be running with that group again. There’s no one slow enough. On the up side, my roommate and I might start running together. She’s not training for a marathon, so out-of-shape-Bob-speed might be bearable for her. Thank goodness for good friends.

I’ve decided to tweak my Lent fast a bit. After much ponderance, soul-searching, and deliberation, I’ve decided that it’s all my parents’ fault I’m sarcastic. It’s genetic. On both sides. There’s no way out of it. And I’m sure there’s some Freudian way I was brought up that can also reflect poorly on my folks, too. I’ve got sarcastic fixation or something. But anyway, the point is that I’m tweaking my fast to give up MEAN sarcasm rather than the more neutral kind. That in itself will be a big enough challenge. This way I have a chance of not being a fantastic failure every day for the next 35 days. Again, wish me luck.