So, on Friday, I finished my very first marathon ever. It only took me....three weeks.
Which is not so bad, considering before that I'd probably one the equivalent of one marathon in the entire rest of my life. Three weeks is pretty good.
My buddy Sarah got me started going to the gym, which I didn't want to do because (a) it means driving somewhere, (b) it means leaving V somewhere, and (c) it means going to the gym. Buuuuut she convinced me, and we went, and it has turned out to be a good thing for V. He enjoys going, and I get to know that he's interacting with other children. He does pretty well--he's an evil demon at home (stiff-armed a little girl into the wall last night because she tried to take the toy he had) but out at the gym playroom he gets along well. Plays, imitates, follows. All kinds of good stuff. So that's a success story. The drive still irritates me, but oh well. It's 25 minutes, which equals 50 minutes, which feels like a total waste of an hour of my day. I might get over it. I might not.
As for the third thing, I still hate running. Hate, hate, hate it.