I’m pretty sure I had the most awesome weekend ever, but I can’t even really remember what happened. Not that I was passed out or anything, it just feels like the longest weekend I’ve had in awhile, and I’m trying to put together all the pieces. It’s kind of a blur. I’m literally flipping through my Twitter account trying to remember what I did on Friday, but clearly I was having too much fun to keep close records. On Saturday Leo and I ran Green Lake. It’s the first time I’ve run Green Lake in awhile, and Leo was delighted about it. He chased down every last duck who dared approach the shore, and he gave a few squirrels a run for their money, too. Green Lake is just such a gorgeous run in all seasons, but I especially love doing it while the weather is cool and crisp like this. It reminded me of last fall, the first time I ever attempted to run Green Lake, and then the first time I ran all the way around without stopping. I have come so tremendously far since then. Everything is different. I am so different. A year changes everything. Can you guys believe I ran a half-marathon almost a year ago? I’m like one of those people on The Biggest Loser, I swear.
Today I went to my happy place, Target, because I wanted a down comforter. I have an adorable Target shabby chic blanket that I’ve been using forever, but it’s just too cold in the mornings these days. I need something heavier. I also wanted a down mattress topper to replace my foam mattress topper, but it feels like no one carries thick down bedding anymore. I have this image from my childhood of these giant down comforters and mattress toppers, and all anyone carries these days are these crappy little one-inch “down alternative” pieces of crap. What the fuck? I WANT DEAD GEESE IN MY BED.
Also, Target has a better bedding selection than Bed Bath and Beyond. What is the point of having a specialty store if Target beats you on selection and price? Do you know what else they have at Target right now? PAJAMAS WITH FEET. FOR ADULTS. I got a pair in pink with bunnies on it and it is all I am going to wear for the rest of my life. The other thing I did while at Target was browse through the list of best-selling books, particularly of the chick-lit variety. What I realized is that they are, for the most part, not brilliantly written. I’m still plugging away at my novel, but I get sooo discouraged, because I feel like it’s crappy writing and no one will ever want to read it. But it’s not like the best-selling chick novels right now are fucking poetry — they’re all about connecting and entertaining readers. I just put such a great deal of pressure on myself that it becomes crippling and self-defeating. I have this image in my head of what a novel I write should be like, and I hold myself to that furiously, but the truth is that I’ve never been able to accurately predict how any creative endeavor in my life will turn out. Why should this be any different?
I texted my best friend tonight with a picture of me in my pink footie pajamas (Body text: “I hope you are prepared to die of jealousy”) and she texted back “I love it! Hope your novel is going well.” It made me feel happy that someone was thinking of me and rooting me on in this endeavor. I’m assuredly the luckiest girl in the world in the friends department, even if I can’t write a decent fucking book.
