That's exactly the scenario I fantasized about all day. I woke up early to get a frigid 5-mile run in, before I had to rush into the office to close a story, update the blog multiple times (not this one, obviously...the one I write at work), and report another article for the daily report. By 3 p.m., when I finally had time to get some lunch in between all the editing, the white, fluffy flakes had morphed into an icy, torrential downpour. Brrr.
By 4 p.m. I started audibly whining about going to swim practice. The mere thought of jumping into the water had me shivering in my cubicle. I made three phone calls to the YMCA to make sure they weren't closing early -- it was the one time in the past four years that there was remotely bad weather and it actually stayed open. I felt like a kid who went to bed expecting a snow day and awoke to no white stuff at all.
Thanks to the tough love of my good friend, coworker, and fellow triathlete Kelly, we made it to practice. And, as usual, once I got myself in the pool, it wasn't so bad. My thoughts had turned pretty quickly to the leftover chicken enchilada waiting for me at home. Getting through the last half...a somewhat tedious set of 300s that included a lot of backstroke...I began visualizing myself eating the enchilada, in my flannel pajamas and my favorite old sweatshirt.
And now here I am. Home at last. Flannel pajamas? Check. Favorite old sweatshirt? Check. Chicken enchilada? It's in my belly.
Well-fed, cozy, sleepy. Finally.
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