Okay, after this I'll stop talking about my convalescence because everyone knows it's boorish to talk about one's health ad nauseum. And at the Tollipop Finishing School for Moderately Well-Behaved Young Ladies, we aim for prettier manners than that. But in case you were wondering, I'm on the mend. Not quite fit as a fiddle, mind you. But at least able to talk without having everyone think there's a 90 year old chain smoking man in the room.
Still, I'm tired. And when I went for a run yesterday, it didn't help matters that a wind was blowing which made me feel like an indentured servant pushing blocks of limestone up a pyramid. Seriously, it was so arduous. It was like having one foot in the grave, which wouldn't have been so bad had I felt more chipper and could have charged Death down like Mel Gibson did in that movie where he had blue paint on his face. But the thought of putting blue paint on my face was, like, exhausting.
And I was counting on my snappy red running skirt to come through in the clutch, but for the most part it failed to rally my spirits because I was too busy thinking there was an aging English bulldog on my tail and then realizing, oh.