You know what I hate? When you've got a packet of dressing or something and it says, "Tear open at notch." Only there is no notch.

Last weekend Beth and I ran our second 5k together this summer. I wasn't really looking forward to it since I wasn't at all prepared. Between working some extra hours, studying for the PE exam this fall, and the ridiculously hot and humid weather I haven't had the opportunity to log many miles in the past month. My anxiety was made worse when we arrived at the race to find that the small field was composed of the Bradford High School track team and about a dozen other serious runners...and us.

So of course, when the gun went off everybody shot off like it was a sprint and left Beth and I trotting along by our lonesome. So after getting pummeled by the rest of the field and panting my way through the hilly course, imagine my surprise when I finished with my best time ever. Unfortunately it was not enough to prevent me from finishing last. Dead. Last. Ouch. (Where's that 80-year-old triathlete when I need him?)

But to make matters even worse, both Beth and I medalled. Yep. Now granted, because of the limited participation, everyone over the age of 19 medalled in their age group. But that didn't make it any less demoralizing when I heard my name and time called out on the microphone and was forced to sheepishly walk up and collect my medal. Undoubtedly, EVERYONE knew I had finished last, yet here I was walking up to receive my award. I felt like such a sham.

But then I got over it. All those tan, skinny little high school girls hanging out gossiping and flirting and finishing 13 minutes ahead of me...did they have medals? I don't think so. I had intended to wear my medal when we went out for dinner that evening, but I forgot. Next time.

I hate computers. Yesterday I drafted a nice long post only to have the internet connection crash and lose the whole thing. Argh. I guess I will have to return to drafting posts offline and then copying and pasting them later. Cumbersome.

This morning while driving down the highway I saw a sign in the window of a car that read "Scrapbooker On Board".

I hope it didn't refer to the vehicle's lone passenger: a 60-year-old man behind the wheel.