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nothing to do with triathlon

So I'm back in Washington at Annie's bachelorette party, which means the mister is overseeing the cats.

And I've discovered he can't tell the difference between cat barf, a hairball and poop.

We had a 30-minute conversation tonight about the texture, color, smell and overall placement of something he thought was poop but I'm pretty sure was a pile of cat barf.

Me: Was it like a dog poop but smaller? Was it dark brown? Was it hard? Because someone barfed yesterday. It had pieces of dry food in it. Was there dry food? I don't understand why they would just poop on the floor. I haven't even been gone that long. Why does this always happen when you're taking care of them? Are you sure it's poop? Can you look in the litterbox and compare? This is really a poor choice if someone is actually pooping on the floor. How big was it?

Him: I picked it up with toilet paper and flushed it. I'll take a picture next time.

By the way, this is where I am right now. Not shown: Any sort of feline expulsion.

guilt. the struggle is real.

Don't worry. This isn't a post about recovering from Catholicism. Although I can go on and on about how growing up, my family vacations did not involve national parks. Instead, my parents took us to places where the Virgin Mary supposedly appeared. Let me tell you: There's nothing like being a teenager who is forced to pray in public on the side of the highway while tons of cars whiz by. I'll refer to it as "character-building."

So yes: Guilt. And by this I mean the skipped workout kind.

Like when work sends you to San Antonio to present your public relations plan to the entire Americas leadership team and all kinds of unexpected emergencies pop up so you never get to put your running shoes on even though you packed them with the best of intentions.

This was my one sit-down meal in San Antonio. It was Spam fried rice, no surprise.

And then you return to find your new hometown's most iconic musician has died unexpectedly, so instead of swimming, you must dance in the street to celebrate his life.

And then there is an evening cooking class -- which is an absolute necessity since you are learning to make gluten-free pasta and you can't remember the last time you were able to eat fresh pasta so this is pretty much a miracle.

And then your first networking dinner with journalists in your new industry starts late because of traffic and goes longer than originally planned because of white chocolate mousse and tapioca pudding with avocado lime sorbet.

I'm telling myself it's fine. Vineman isn't until July. Life happens, and sometimes it's better to choose sleep than to try to stay up ridiculously late or wake up ridiculously early just to get a workout in.

Right? RIGHT???

But the guilt is still there. And also, just as I typed that, one of my cats started gagging and almost barfed on my bed. I feel judged.