Who have you been squeezing?

I talk in my sleep. Oftentimes, with my eyes opened. Paul is a bit sadistic, and he will prompt me to talk to him sometimes, just to see what I'll say.

The other night, he came to bed after me, and I initiated a conversation with him, a conversation I do not remember:

"Who have you been squeezing?" I demanded.

He laughed, and I asked him again:

"Who have you been squeezing?"


He said he'd been squeezing me, and, satisfied, I went to sleep.

Getting time on my feet again

I did a slow 35 minutes today. It was just enough to help me to fall in love with running again. More accurately, I think, I like the way I feel on days I've run.

I've also been thinking more about how I have to completely ignore any measuring of my time as related to my distance. I start feeling negative when I think about my speed. It's nicer -- while not being deluded about my pace -- to not have my slowness too much in my face, either.

Getting the run finished and out of the way also seems to make a huge difference. Sometimes, I'll wear my running clothes hoping to sneak some time in at some point during the day. Sometimes, I actually do it -- but usually I just go about my business looking terrible.

Some women look cute in workout clothes. I do not. 

It also helps me plan my day when I have the morning time alone to go through my mental to-do list. It seems as though I'm more efficient on days I've run.

National Running Day

I celebrated National Running Day yesterday by not running, in what appears to be my contrarian tradition. (Yes, I'm also someone who doesn't smoke but who is always tempted to light up during the Great American Smokeout. Yes, I'm so mature.)

I did run for 30 minutes this morning. If I don't run early, I'm generally not going to do it, it seems lately. It's too easy to get into what my dad would call diddle-fiddle-screw-around around the house.

Geezer rock: After towel-drying his hair this morning, Paul woke me up looking like Johnny Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten). I pointed out he looked like a punk rocker.

He answered that observation by composing age-appropriate punk rock rebellion songs: "I Don't Wanna Take My Cholesterol Medicine" is my favorite. "Burn Your AARP Card" is another.

Feet and my nice neighbors

First, the feet part: My 14-year-old says, "Mom, look at your poor (black) toes!" My not-so-nice 11-year-old says, "Mom, your toes look more messed up than usual." Thanks.

Neighbors: There's a couple that parks near us who are always friendly, but we're always busy, so we don't chat much. Yesterday, we we all waiting for the shuttle bus to take us to the beach so we got to talk.

The woman has lost a bunch of weight. I commented on it, and I told her I'd lost weight, too. Here's the bizarre part: She clearly had no idea I'd been heavy. Of course not. Why should she? I mean, I'm not skinny, but I'm in the high-normal range, and I look like I weigh less than I do because I'm sure loose skin and my chest weigh a lot. Plus, I've been under 175 for the last two years.

She's doing South Beach and has lost 83 pounds, to bring her down to 200.

We were talking about clothes and how it takes a while to drop sizes. I told her that her sizes will start dropping faster soon. She talked about wanting to shop at H&M, but I warned her it would still be depressing for her, since those sizes are European. I can get sized out at H&M if I pick up the wrong item.

I had the remainder of our Girl Scout cookies with us, and she was amazed they could be in the house.

South Beach is similar but a little different from my diet. It's more low-carb, and it allows things like cheese and artificial sweeteners that I don't eat. I don't think South Beach keeps the cravings away as effectively.