Not really, but I pretended to be yesterday at the gym on the treadmill between miles 6 and 7. I listened to the Ramones "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" like 4 times in a row to keep my pace. I'm proud to say that I ran 7 miles in 67.50 minutes. But, the other day, outside in the blistering heat, I could only run 2.5 miles. What gives? And just when I've caught up with David and his 7-mile runs, he's bumped up to 8 miles. What gives?
On another note, I found a pair of Spiderman underwear in my gym backpack yesterday and it made me happy and sad. Johnny is about to turn three, and in many ways, this birthday marks the end of the baby years, which is hard for me to face.
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