For example: It's only January, and I've already spent 12 days living out of a suitcase -- which, if you consider today's date and do the math, is 43 percent of 2015 thus far. (You may want to double-check that number, though. Remember, I was an English major.)
My cats apparently really hate my schedule; they pooped in my bathrobe, which I did not discover until I tried to wear said bathrobe, and two turds came tumbling out. The cats also enjoy knocking the kitchen trash can over and spreading garbage all over the floor. And they seem to be using the contents of the litterbox for an avant-garde art project on the walls, water heater and wine refrigerator.
|Look out, Damien Hirst.|
During a recent trip to Walla Walla, I found myself explaining what a typical day is like for me: "I travel a lot. I train. And when I'm home, I spend a ridiculous amount of time cleaning up poop."
What's shocking: When you review your planned workouts for the week and it suddenly hits you that you have a 70.3 coming up in less than three months. (Someone please remind me again why I signed up for New Orleans. Oh wait, I remember now: Sazeracs, fried food and that dive bar with the French doors and the woman who calls me "love.")
It's tough easing back into training. The travel doesn't help. But I do my best. Track last night, pool this morning. And apparently a double trainer ride tomorrow:
Me: "Do I really have two bike workouts in one day?"
Coach Mark: "Yep."
Me: "Sweet. More hot dogs."
And finally, I ordered a (gluten-free, duh) pizza. And it took a very long time to arrive.
|NOT RYAN GOSLING.|