During a conversation last night discussing age with my darling daughter, I mentioned that it sucked I was going to be 43 this year. Every year when it gets close to my birthday I start saying my next age, you know, roll it around a little, get used to the idea. Why cling to the number that will soon disappear. Well, it seems that I got so used to it, I had myself convinced I WAS 42 and then started thinking that I would be turning 43. She set me straight, I was so excited last night to learn that I was just turning 42. Then I got upset because I thought how fucking old and senile do you have to be to forget how old you're turning on your birthday. So the happiness was short-lived, but on August 4th, you can wish me a happy 42nd birthday, and I'll take it.
Run/walk was 7.75 km today and I felt awful. Turns our 3 pieces of cheese and two glasses of red aren't decent fuel for working out the next day. The boys were having 5 Guys, and although it one of life's treasures, it's not exactly fitting in with my current plan so I skipped it. Not one fry. Before you critique the choice of wine over five guys, hello!! Wine is good for you, read the articles. I only drink it for my heart, I'm that dedicated.