Had my first male yoga instructor today; he played opera for us and he couldn't touch his toes. I could, though. Now I feel all floppy.

It's pouring out, and there's wonderful TV on. Shakespeare in Love, A Knights Tale on the commercials, peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, I couldn't be more content.

Last night was wine and cheese, shared cabs, rooftop drinking games, fellow Astorians, and a feast of chocolate chip cookies. More TK.

I really am doing an utterly fall-down job on this thing, huh?

Resolution: do better.

Just now I ate my lunch in the park because it's GORGEOUS, and I finished my apple and didn't want to get up to throw it out and lose my prime real estate seat in the shade, so I put it on the ground next to my foot and kept reading. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a squirrel slink under my bench, but didn't think much of it. Then bang-zoom! he scampered across the sidewalk with my apple core in his sharp little mouth! I'll probably get rabies, but he saved me a trip to the trash, so I say good outweighs the bad in this instance.

Everybody's at lunch so I can do this at my desk without minimizing the screen every 45 seconds. Feels luxurious and deviant. I wish more things in my life were luxurious and deviant.

I'm reading my mom's copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which is hers from grad school. It's written all over in her tiny cursive, mostly things about Huck's morals vs. those of 'sivilization.' On the inside front cover it says, 'Colleen McGuire Byrne 10-76.' Then it says, 'Colleen Byrne,' but in my dad's handwriting. There's also two address stamps for Colleen M. Byrne, Bay 22nd St., Brooklyn. She was reading this two months after she got married, when she was 23. It'd be like me reading it this October, as a newlywed, living in Brooklyn.

Things like that make me go lightheaded. 

Gold star weekend: Narnia Friday (not your mother's Narnia; ruther depressing, mostly); Lauren Saturday (cheap Italian eats, utterly decent Guinness worth writing home to Brendan about); free court-side tickets to a Liberty game today (hilariously fun, except for the six year old next to me who kicked over my soda).

I'm so sleepy, I could just fall asleep.

I ran so hard I bled.

I'd feel awesome saying that if it weren't utterly true and completely painful, and if I hadn't had to take two sick days and pay $50 for a prescription ointment. I hate that word. Ointment. Ew.

So, I'm still in NP, lying about in the backyard with Maggie and drinking coffee and eating sesame breadsticks. It's rather delicious living, if it weren't for these pesky wounds.

Once I can walk like a normal person again it'll feel extremely gold star to say, "Yeah, I ran a half marathon once." And when I'm sitting comfortably for an extended period of time and I kind of forget that I have to walk like John Wayne whenever I want to get anywhere, it's completely great to think back on this weekend and our swank hotel in the ghost town of Asbury Park, and how whenever I looked over my shoulder I couldn't see the end of the line of runners, that's how many there were, and Mr. Yang buying us matching jackets, and that bacon-and-egg sandwich in that cafe on the beach, and the pure joy of that chocolate milk in the tent after the race...

But I've just washed my hair for the first time in three days (it's still too painful for me to take a shower), and the thought of wearing heels is laughable, utterly laughable, and I must take it slowly, very slowly, one trip to the kitchen at a time.