Beer Out Of Mason Jars

I'm home. I've moved out of Cleveland and am now living in the country for six weeks before I go live in the mountains (!) in the South. Contrary to what every country singer, ever, would have you believe, we do not drink our beer out of mason jars in the country. That's why it comes in cans.

I should probably have some more feelings about the fact that life is whipping me along with it at warp speed, but I'm too busy enjoying my life to engage in any Garden State-style navel-gazing about how I feel and why I feel that way. Today, I feel tired, since I woke up in the middle of a dream that had some old friends and I in downtown-Cleveland-by-way-of-Put-in-Bay and it was raining. I feel pleased that my quads seem to want to work again, and not sulk painfully on my thighs like they did all day yesterday. And I'm dreading doing the workout again, the workout that I chose because I have finally gotten fed up with my genetically enhanced thighs and decided to do something about it, the workout that left me unwilling to walk down any stairs yesterday. That's about as deep as I'm willing to go.

Graduation was beautiful and wonderful and about ten times as interesting and fun as I thought it would be. I love doctoral robes. So colorful!

I am going back to bed for a bit before I have to get up and do more squats. I keep reassuring myself it will be worth it to have nicely toned legs. I'm not sure if I'm shallow enough to put up with all this pain.