"Just Wake Me When the Waiter Brings the Bread Basket"

The end is close. So very close. I can see it. I can smell it. Wait. No, that is the smell of my Asics running shoes all the way downstairs. Dear lord. Did I pack my tuna in them and then leave them outside for three days? Goodness!

Anyways, less than two weeks to go. Homestretch and 4th quarter.

Everyone keeps asking me how I feel. "How are you today, Sweetie?" and "You doing okay, champ?" They ask me in person with a sympathetic little head-tilt and I just KNOW what they are thinking...


She looks like shit.

I know this. I do. I have bags under my eyes. My nails have not had a manicure since my shoes have last had a proper odor which, I admit, was a while ago. My hair does not have that glowing sheen it once had from being stuffed into a sweaty baseball hat up to three times daily. My body is getting leaner and harder while my mind feels slower and my tongue much sharper. I own all of this. I am EXHAUSTED and HUNGRY and GRUMPY. I .........



Oh. Sorry. Fell asleep there. It happens.



So, people keep asking me where I find the time to run a company and work a full-time job and lift six days a week while doing 90 minutes to two hours of cardio a day. It is so very simple:

I don't sleep.

Technically, this is untrue. I sleep. Last night, I went to bed at 11pm after doing 30 minutes of recumbent bike only to wake at 6:30am to gulp back a carafe of coffee and hop back on the elliptical for 60 minutes of what my coach calls fasted cardio and "I want this shit done hard". No big deal. Then, as I made my oatmeal around 7:45am, I think I took a quick little nap in my kitchen while standing up. See? I am so darn resourceful! I also steal cat-naps while sitting in traffic on Mopac between 4pm and 6pm so if you see a little black number in the left hand lane and the driver has her head on the steering wheel, a friendly little honk oughta do the trick. Thanks so much for waking me and I will return the favor by shooting you the finger and slinging a limp asparagus spear on your car's windshield. Jerk.



So that about covers it. I was a complete bitch. Now I am too tired to be very cantankerous at all. I mostly have lost all will to care. Auto-pilot, baby. I am cooking, cardio-ing (Yes. It is a verb, dammit) and I am counting. Counting the days. Twelve more days and then point me to a waiter holding a bread basket and take me out of this low-carb hell. I want one day of doing NOTHING.

Well, maybe I will wash those god-awful shoes. 



"It is not about the finish line. It is about the race." ~ Me