update. 1:00 p.m. (file under: birthday bitching) I should have taken the advice contained herein and stayed in bed. For my birthday I spent 4 hours in traffic. 4 hours. In traffic. 4 hours. 4 fucking hours. Instead of the usual 20 minutes. If I wanted mudslides, I’d move to California. I might as well take lunch seeing as I’ve already got my coat on and all and none of the students who begged me to hold extra office hours today even though it’s my day off are anywhere to be found….

We now return to the previously posted post, already in progress:

I’d quote the bits from Lord of the Rings about the significance of turning 33, but I’m not able to focus at this hour.

And I’m not a Hobbit, so what’s the point? I don’t even like Hobbits, when you get right down to it.

Except for Smeagol, who some Tolkien scholars theorize was 33 when he found the ring. But those folks sort of scare me, so let’s move right along.

I’m 33 now. To mark the occassion, I’ve decided to train for a marathon this year.

OK. See, that’s fun in real life because I get to watch the storm of extreme confusion rage in the other person’s head after I say it. Hundreds of random people wander through here every day and the joke’s no fun ’cause I can’t see any of your faces.

I’m kidding about that marathon thing. That’s a lot of work and all. And pain. There seems to be pain involved.

But it’s amusing to tell people and watch them try to be enthusiastic and encouraging. Unfortunately, I’m a bad liar so I usually tip my hand before anything truly entertaining happens.

A marathon. Please. I’ve taken laziness to the next level and now I have my trainer come to my house a couple of days a week.

In fact, this is one of those days, so I must scurry away. I’m up too early, but you don’t have to be.

You may all sleep late and take the day off in my honor.

Go on, go back to bed. Your boss won’t mind. I’ll write you a note.

plucked from the ashes of the punkprincess.com archives, reposted 02-28-07