The necessity of teaching seals basketball

Thus begins marathon week. In the hubbub that was the past few weeks with its myriad wedding, parties and anything, the current supposed stated purpose for this blog kind of got pushed to the side. Which is not to say I didn't keep up my end of the bargain on the running side, I just neglected to inform any interested of how things were progressing. If one feels one was shortchanged in my lack of useful information in this particular field, apologies. I would quickly add, one probably should lower their expectations and consider getting out more.

An abbreviated version of those times, fill in as appropriate.

Today I ran (x) miles.

It was (good/bad/neither).

Boy, I am an amazingly (good/bad/stupid) runner.

The weather was rather (hot/cold); I wished I had (burned/not burned) those tires to (combat/accelerate) global warming.

Golly, I hate aggressive dogs and believe they should all be (shot/run over).

The chafing on my nipples, inner thighs and buttocks is (excruciating/bearable/a silent shame that thankfully no one will ever know about).

I (can't wait to get out there again/am contemplating feet amputation to ensure I never do it again).

Etc.

The long and the short of it: it's all over but the real deal itself. I finished up my Saturday runs with 8 miles on Saturday, coming in at 1:10. Not my fastest but according to my running journal, about 90 seconds faster than the same one last year. Some would call that progress and I suppose I might as well too.

The big Disney vacation that this was sort of the centerpiece for has fallen through somewhat. Instead of Marisol, Buster, Bonnie, Anna and anybody else that wanted to cheer me on, it's down to just me and my Dad. A week of (some would say) overpriced joy and fun has been reduced to a weekend surgical strike, much of which will be spent in the cozy confines of my posh room at the Grand Floridian. Whee. Andy would say that as much as I'm paying for the room, I'd better damn well stay in it and enjoy it as much as I can, maybe even flush the toilet a few extra times just to stick to the mouse. But then, he's allergic to fun.

All this is not to denigrate the old man. I've yet to run a race, big or small, that he hasn't been with me all the way from the start of training until the finish line. Since the finish line tape has long since been broken by the time I get there, he's pretty much my reward. Again, whee. Plus, he's a decent enough travel companion and, aside from the snoring, all right to be around. Nevertheless, I don't care how banging my pompadour, shiny my leather jacket or how many packs of smokes I have rolled up my sleeves, it's pretty damn impossible to look cool riding "It's a Small World" at 35 with just my Dad.

I had just about given up all hope for an overdose of fun and excitement this go round. Then, there comes late word that the one and only Poppie (88 and still going strong, thank you) is toying with the idea of going because "a change of scenery would be nice." His logic (not mine) is that he can sit in a room at WDW just as easy as he can here. So fingers are crossed that we'll be able to get an audience with the Mouse. That picture would no doubt be a keeper. Poppie perched on his Rascal and my Dad looking on indifferent/bored. And then me. Weeping.

Huzzah for the happiest place on Earth.