Saturday was one of those perfect-for-running days: it was cool, breezy and relatively devoid of snipers shooting at us from the bushes. And we pounded out 10 miles pretty easily Saturday morning … aside from the fact that marathon training has apparently caught on like the macarena (or whatever the kids are dancing to these days) and the running trail was PACKED. It has gotten so bad that as our pace groups have been dispatched each morning, we've been instructed to run in a strict two-abreast formation (unless one of us has more than one breast) and even flatten ourselves to single-file when we encounter another running group. But nothing was said about the convergence of three pace groups heading south and two pace groups heading north with a few clueless walkers thrown in. There were moments on Saturday morning where the trail was no different from a crowded dance floor (except we were all dancing to the rhythm of life and I have yet to encounter an angry biker on a dance floor, but then I don’t get out much so what the hell do I know?).
In any case, here we all are before the race, looking bleary-eyed and hung over at 6:30 on a Saturday morning. Which isn’t such an irony-laced joke anymore—I’d been out drinking the night before with a bunch of people from my old office, and I’d had an entire fruity martini. And now that I’m such a seasoned drinker, I can authoritatively complain about the moron who designed the martini glass to promote maximum spillage of the stickiest drink known to (gay) man.
And here we are squinting into the sun for our post-run, pre-brunch victory photo. Don’t I look like I deserve a big plate of French (unless it's still supposed to be called Freedom) toast?
In other weekend adventures, I’ve been installing tile on our kitchen backsplash, which is taking waaaaaay longer than I’d anticipated. The process has elevated “pain in the ass” to whole new levels—especially since our kitchen walls are as straight as a televangelist and the science of grouting is apparently still in its infancy because everything I’ve read on the topic gives conflicting advice. I’ll post photos and strings of expletives when the project is done. In 2012.
I also saw the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie on Saturday night with the boyfriend, Matthew from my pace group, blogger David visiting from New York (who is even cuter and more charming in person) and his Chicago friend Franklin. While the movie is longer and more bloated than it needs to be, it’s dripping with magical Disney ambience and sumptuous (for a pirate movie) set decoration and scenic design—especially the mountain of wrecked ships in the cleverly named Shipwreck Cove. Jack Sparrow’s expressionistic dream sequences are a bit of an endurance test, but I loved the movie otherwise. I can’t in good conscience report that the boys felt the same way. And we were all more than a little peeved that the bowling alley in the movie theater—where we were going to grab a quick bite before the movie—wouldn’t let us in because I was wearing a tank top and it had a dress code. Seriously. Because nothing ruins a good bowling game like a guy who shows up to have a burger in an outfit that doesn’t show respect for the sport.
The boyfriend and I capped off the weekend watching the Tony Awards with another couple, a table full of Thai takeout and a pitcher of fruity martinis. And even though I still didn’t win a damn Tony, I’d say the evening was just about perfect.