This morning, as soon as the yard boys finish hauling away the first round of our storm-damaged trees, I am heading out to be fitted for a pair of running shoes. I have been putting this off for weeks, because who the heck am I to be fitted for running shoes? I'm not a runner. Except that lately, I sort of am. A very slow, very sweaty, very funny-looking, runner. I ran five miles on Tuesday. All in a row, and I didn't die. And I have some birthday money that has been hanging out in my wallet since November, and if I don't find something to spend it on soon I will end up doing what I always do with it, which is hanging onto it until the week before my next birthday and then spending it on diapers or clothes for the kids. So I'm going to do it. I'm going to walk into the running store and ask to be fitted for shoes. I'm not quite sure why I am so nervous about this, but I somehow feel it would be less embarrassing to walk into a different store entirely and ask to be fitted for a dildo.
Wish me luck.
Also, I am considering buying a vinyl tablecloth. A faux-lace vinyl tablecloth. For my dining room. Won't you please go here and talk me out of it?