Sunday, April 25, 2010

On Thursday, while pulling a handcart with two cases of wine left over from a five-hour tasting (this event was grueling, and my feet hurt like no one's business), I went off the curb at a crooked angle, sending bottles flying into the streets of San Francisco. There was broken glass everywhere.

Yesterday, within minutes of starting my shift at the wine bar, I dropped two pilsner glasses and spilled beer all over the floor (right in front of the entrance, no less) and down my shirt. Luckily, I did not squeal or yell any expletives when this happened.

This morning I woke up with a sprained ankle. I have no idea what caused it. (And I haven't been drinking, so I can't blame alcohol.) So instead of doing my last long run before next weekend's race, I am sitting here in my pajamas, while Mr. Happy gets to know my ankle. (Don't worry -- he's wrapped in a towel this time -- no more self-inflicted freezer burn.)

I am starting to wonder if (A) this just hasn't been my week, (B) someone put a clumsy curse on me or (C) maybe I just really need to rest.

(P.S. The photo is from Thursday's tasting -- Wine Enthusiast magazine's "Toast of the Town" event, held at the opera house. This was my one quiet moment -- I wandered up to the top floor, got myself a taste of Schramsberg Blanc de Blancs and a bite of seared tuna with wasabi on a sesame cracker, and put my feet up.)

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