I’m in South Jersey without my computer. You see, we’re having Em’s first birthday party at my parent’s house. They happen to have a backyard with some of the plushest green grass you’ve ever seen. Plus, they don’t have those viscous tiger mosquitoes that have taken over Brooklyn this year. If those bugs aren’t a sign of an apocalypse—even a small one—I don’t know what is.
The party is Saturday. I came down a week early. I planned on relaxing, working out, and seeing every movie out right now including the sinfully corny Mama Mia.
I’m here for a week. I’m without my computer, my husband, and most all of my clothing.
I’m also without my Murray and I’m embarrassed to admit how much I miss him. I miss him, everyone. I really, really miss him.
My pinkie toe is broken. I didn’t realize it was broken until last night when I suddenly could no longer walk on it. You see, about two weeks ago I stubbed it on the makeshift boundary we have set up in our (railroad) apartment to keep Em from entering the dining room. I stubbed the hell out of it. But it didn’t hurt the following day at all. I forgot about it. I’ve been running 3.25 miles each and every day since and nothing has happened. There’s been no pain. Nothing.
Now it hurts like hell. I didn’t change my workout yesterday (or the days leading up to yesterday for that matter). Why now? One would think the damned toe would have warned me before giving up entirely. No?
I’m depressed. I’ve been busting my ass to get into shape. I run every single day for at least 40 minutes. Even last week, sick with a cold, I made it to the gym. I’ve been so afraid of breaking out of the routine and losing ground. Literally.
I can’t believe a toe—the small toe even—has stopped me.
I miss my fat lovable Murray. I want to smooch him up. I want him to make me laugh.
I want Murray. Someone bring me Murray. (You can send my Tobyjoe as well.)