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On days like this, I start to write over and over, abandoning each start because it's a hassle and I'm tired. It's too much trouble to get the words out. It's not worth the effort. It's easier to sit back and think the hell with it and go read other journals instead.
Deep breath.
This is the week of the Evil Cramps of Doom. (At some point in their writing careers, just about every female journaler I know has touched on this subject, so I apologize for the rehash. It's just that, you know, we all have periods. Kind of goes with the territory of being a woman. Show me a man who doesn't have a kicked-in-the-nuts story.)
As you know from reading everyone else's period entries, behind the cool underwear in the top drawer is the Evil Cramps Of Doom u nderwear. It's sort of frumpy. We don't wear it on dates; we have cool underwear for that. This is the underwear we keep for ourselves, comfort clothing in an uncomfortable time, something we won't be too upset to discard, should that become necessary (polite cough).
I'm wearing my favorite frumpy underwear today: soft yellow cotton bikinis. When I bought them, they were a bright, innocent yellow. I threw them in the wash with the dark load and they came out... grayed. Darker. Almost a mustard color. I hate mustard. But they're still comfortable, so they've been put into ECOD service.
I could use them as a code phrase: it's Yellow Underwear Week, or I'm busy with Project Yellow Underwear. The only problem with the phrase is the unfortunate implication of incontinence, which is, thankfully, not among my problems. In any case, I still feel like hell.
The day started with rain, but there's sunshine out there now. If I felt better, I'd be out there with my camera. I wanted to get pictures of people coming out of the Berkeley Street exit of the Arlington Street T stop (subway), because the Berkeley exit is only open once a year: Marathon Monday.
The marathon is over for another year. The end of a marathon makes for good photo opportunities. There's somethi ng touching and evocative about the thousands of nameless runners who run the race just to finish it. I like to see them after the race, smiling, wrapped in Mylar blankets, walking around the city as if they owned it, and in a way they do, if only for a day.
As much as I love sports, I have never loved running. I was a slow and not very agile runner as a child; puberty gave me a body that was clearly not designed for running. The day before my senior homecoming game and dance, I twisted an ankle while running and fell so hard I had grass stains on my clothes. The football coach taped my ankle and I got through the next day with the help of a couple of Fiorinal. Hey, it was my senior homecoming.
And at least I didn't have the Evil Cramps of Doom.
(This entry has been brought to you by Advil.))
Deep breath.
This is the week of the Evil Cramps of Doom. (At some point in their writing careers, just about every female journaler I know has touched on this subject, so I apologize for the rehash. It's just that, you know, we all have periods. Kind of goes with the territory of being a woman. Show me a man who doesn't have a kicked-in-the-nuts story.)
As you know from reading everyone else's period entries, behind the cool underwear in the top drawer is the Evil Cramps Of Doom u nderwear. It's sort of frumpy. We don't wear it on dates; we have cool underwear for that. This is the underwear we keep for ourselves, comfort clothing in an uncomfortable time, something we won't be too upset to discard, should that become necessary (polite cough).
I'm wearing my favorite frumpy underwear today: soft yellow cotton bikinis. When I bought them, they were a bright, innocent yellow. I threw them in the wash with the dark load and they came out... grayed. Darker. Almost a mustard color. I hate mustard. But they're still comfortable, so they've been put into ECOD service.
I could use them as a code phrase: it's Yellow Underwear Week, or I'm busy with Project Yellow Underwear. The only problem with the phrase is the unfortunate implication of incontinence, which is, thankfully, not among my problems. In any case, I still feel like hell.
The day started with rain, but there's sunshine out there now. If I felt better, I'd be out there with my camera. I wanted to get pictures of people coming out of the Berkeley Street exit of the Arlington Street T stop (subway), because the Berkeley exit is only open once a year: Marathon Monday.
The marathon is over for another year. The end of a marathon makes for good photo opportunities. There's somethi ng touching and evocative about the thousands of nameless runners who run the race just to finish it. I like to see them after the race, smiling, wrapped in Mylar blankets, walking around the city as if they owned it, and in a way they do, if only for a day.
As much as I love sports, I have never loved running. I was a slow and not very agile runner as a child; puberty gave me a body that was clearly not designed for running. The day before my senior homecoming game and dance, I twisted an ankle while running and fell so hard I had grass stains on my clothes. The football coach taped my ankle and I got through the next day with the help of a couple of Fiorinal. Hey, it was my senior homecoming.
And at least I didn't have the Evil Cramps of Doom.
(This entry has been brought to you by Advil.))