Bret Hammond’s art speaks to me. He does some wonderful pieces that involve pop art women consuming wine as well. PREACH ON!
Lately, the schtick has hit the fan at work. It is registration time at my office, which coincides with a few other big administrative projects that I’m responsible for, so time is short and my life is current a huge messy combination of student appointments and paperwork.
My coping mechanisms for craziness in my life do not always coincide with my relatively healthy love of running. Sometimes that gets pushed to the side and I hone in on my love of sleep, food, and adult beverages. But don’t worry, I always get out on the other side and go back to hitting the pavement when it eases up.
How I Cope:
-Dressing super swaggy for work. Looking cute always makes me feel better in life:
I also had a paper due for my class this week, too, so add that to the list.
-Enter savior: cute nails, beer, and cupcakes:
More coping mechanisms:
-Foooooood! We had arugula in the house, and Boyf brought home a beautiful tomato from his parents’ garden. So I …. PUT AN EGG ON IT!
Since I’m not training for anything right now, I’ve been eating all kinds of salads and roughage with reckless abandon. It absolutely destroys my stomach, and I stay away from it during training, but I loooooove salad/greens/vegetables. I’m that person who gets pissed when I order a sandwich and its all meat, not enough greens. So I’ve been saying F*@*# it since I’m not currently racing anything long, and honestly, its been glorious. Crunch, crunch, crunch!
However, I will say that I did take time out to get some running in. I motivated myself using the last Summer Ale in our fridge last night. It got me through a few quick miles on the dreadmill, at least:
Work should quiet down by Thanksgiving, but until then, it is full steam ahead. At least Brixton still seems to be in one piece at the moment. Thank god for her Peekeeper, though. That thing is a lifesaver (and a carpet saver).
I swear I’ll try to log more miles by the next time I write… ’til then.. tell me:
What are your guilty little coping mechanisms?