Wednesday, February 18

6 miles later.

I could barely keep my eyes open in UCOR. Discussing philosophy after I had already been awake for 7.5 hours is not condusive to being alert. However, since I was modeling my sweet, spandex pants, I was forced to continue with my plan to run in the gym.

I started . . . and 6 miles later . . . I finished.

It's like clockwork. Everytime I almost don't work out, but actually do in fact end up working out, I run more than I plan to. Other times, when I tell myself I'm gonna run 10 miles; in reality I run 2.

And now I sit, completely exhausted, listening to Ryan Adams, peeking out at the blue sky that I know is reflecting on an almost waveless Lake Union. On days like this, I wish I could walk down to the shellhouse with 4 other buddies, ask coach if we can borrow the Cherry, and head out for a callous-forming-finger-ripping row. When I see days like this, remember how sweet racing season is, and hear the buzz of the ergs as I walk past Royal Brougham . . . . I miss rowing. But then I remember the early mornings, and vomit-inducing erg tests. This I don't miss.

The time has come to shower and turn myself into a professional looking college student who gets the empowering task of hosting prospective PAs as they sit and sweat themselves into a nervous puddle.

Note of the Day: The needle in a hep lock is small. And doesn't really look like a needle. Be careful when you try to pull one out of a patient's arm.

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