Congrats, Bob. I'm sure you will look lovely with scarf draped artfully around that fine, thin neck of yours. Just kidding. I would imagine your wife will LOVE it!
"If you don't find something you can fix, I will be greatly disappointed," I stated matter-of-factly to my cardiologist. And I was serious. Dead serious. I was laying in my hospital bed waiting to be wheeled into the cath lab to get a clear picture of what was happening--or not happening--inside those skinny little coronary arteries. If he did not find something to stent, like he did five years ago, my symptoms would have no chance of being validated. I will spare you all the details, but my running has really taken a dive over the last few months. The group of women I run with can be chatting it up having a great time, only to unintentionally pull away and leave me eating their dust. I try to keep up but it's like my engine is throttled back by a governor, heart rate zooming upwards to no avail. I simply can't go. I feel my chest tighten and throat close. I have to walk. I hate being the anchor. Lately, I make excuses to why I can not join them on those long Satu...
My feet hurt but there have been at least three times in the past when they hurt worse. My legs were okay, still obedient when I asked them to run. I never really bonked bad. On good ground, I made decent progress. Problem was, there wasn't much decent ground. The thought of being out there on the trail at snail's pace for sixteen or seventeen hours was revolting, especially knowing the others would likely be in their tents by the time I got through. And, to do this again and again for the next nine days? Well, It's hard to say "I'm done." But I did. I suppose I could start from the beginning, telling you all about every last detail of my short-lived adventure. (And I will. Only later.) But I am compelled to speak first of the decision day. Day five. The day I said those three (two if you count the contraction) fatal, final words. The fifth day of the Tour de Virginia, the 568-mile brainchild of phenom ultrarunner Eric Grossman, started early, but not as ...
Over the years, I have enjoyed home parties. You know the kind: a bunch of women gather, a representative lays out her wares (everything from kitchen tools to jewelery, to makeup and skin care products that promise a glowing, beautiful face), and the attendees pick, choose, and fill out order forms. I've been both a rep and a hostess. Back in the late 70's I made sewed crafty items and held my own little in-home selling parties. Years later, I sold for The Pampered Chef (TM) since I loved the products. But alas, I gave up because I didn't feel right about asking already financially-strapped folks to buy what they could probably live without. Yeah. I'm not much of a saleswoman. Borrowed from www.mytradesofhope.com/tamarawalston But every one in a while, a business idea comes along that grabs my attention. I found that in 'Trades of Hope.' Until about a month or two ago, I had never heard of this group. But then I came across a friend's post, Tamara Wal...
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