Dear Diary

Wednesday night, 9:37 pm.
July 18th (or thereabouts), 2007

Dear Diary,

Are you there? It's me, Margaret.

Actually, I'm not Margaret. That was a joke. For some reason the first thing that came to my mind when I started writing to you tonight is a Judy Blume book title. I'm not sure why that came to mind. I never even read a Judy Blume book, though she sure can write a title. Truth be told, I was always more of a Hardy Boys type of guy. Never even bothered with Nancy Drew, the little hussy. Though sometimes I wish I had given Nancy some time of day since she always seems to be referenced in the New York Times crossword puzzle. I never know the answers to those questions.

But I digress. Which makes me digress from the digression. Is it possible to digress when you've never actually 'gressed in the first place? If I haven't ever gotten to my main point, how can I move away from it? These are the things that keep me up at night. That and writing to you, Diary. I should really be asleep, I've got a race in a couple of days.

You're probably already fed up with me, dear Diary, aren't you? It's ok, you can admit it. It's probably why we don't communicate so much. You just don't seem to understand me. Mostly because I'm a human and your a book. We speak different languages. Actually, I speak English and you just kind of sit there in silence. Come to think of it, you're not really a good friend after all. Dear Diary, you selfish git.

I don't know why I bother with you anymore, but I'll give it the ole college try. Maybe we should start again. OK, let's do that.

Wednesday night, 9:48 pm (give or take).
July 18th-ish (still)

Dear Diary,

I'm back. I mean, I didn't really go anywhere but.... nevermind. You're not going to answer me anyway.

I don't know if I told you this, Diary, but I've got a race on Sunday. It's the Vineman Half-Ironman up in Sonoma Valley, California.

What's that? You say I told you already? That I should get on with my story already? Well aren't you just the rude obnoxious twit. You sure have an attitude problem. I really don't know why I hang out with you.

Say again? You don't know why you hang out with me either? Well hell, at least we finally found something we have in common. So maybe you can do me a favor right now and shut your trap so I can get on with my story.

So anyway, Vineman. I'm feeling pretty good about the race. And when I say I'm feeling pretty good about the race, I really mean that I haven't thought about it enough to make myself nervous. I try not to think about it until it gets closer. A lot closer. Like when I'm in the water right before the gun goes off - that's a good time to start thinking. Cause when you're standing in the water you can pee in your pants and nobody will know.

Just in case you've been locked in a dresser drawer for the past few months and haven't been paying attention, I've been plagued with calf and hamstring issues since April. I finally ran on the road two weeks ago, which was the first time since that St. Anthony's race. It hurt and I stopped a lot and I piddled along at 11-12 minute miles, but I suppose I should rejoice in the fact that I was able to run in the first place. Look at this... this is me rejoicing.

If I had to think about it, I'd say the rest of the race could be pretty good. I'm feeling like I could PR in the swim. I'd be shocked if I don't. My swimming really has taken off this year. There's a remote chance I could even PR in the bike. That'd be a treat. At the very least I will probably still finish the bike in a respectable time, barring any unforeseen unforeseeables. The run though... that's the wildcard. I'm not looking forward to walking 13 miles through Sonoma. I'm a really bad walker. I trip over my feet. It's embarrassing.

So I guess that's my point Diary. The run. I suppose if I were to ever ask you for anything, it would be to send me good thoughts for my Vineman run.

Why should you send me good thoughts? Is that what you said? How about maybe because I actually speak to you. Maybe because I pretend to be your damn friend day after day. Maybe you should send me some goddam good thoughts because I don't light a match to your feeble little pages and throw you in the trash like the sorry excuse for a therapist that you pretend to be. Did you ever think of that? Maybe that's why you should send me good thoughts, you thankless schmuck.

What was that? You want me to be nice? Positive thoughts breed positive actions? What the heck does that mean?

Oh... OK. I get it.

Good night, diary.
I love you.

J.