Help . . . someone . . . anyone . . . .

Help . . . someone . . . anyone . . . .

Where has Meggan Ann gone?

Have you seen her?

She's not at work.

She's not at school.

She's not out for a run.

She's not on the phone.

She's not swimming.

She's not biking

(poor Ruby has been sitting in the garage with #77 on her since the Oly.)

She's not even really sitting behind this keyboard.

Where is she?

Oh, that's right. She's trying to sleep 13 hours a night and capping that off by eating coffeecake for breakfast and greasy fast food for lunch.

Breaker, breaker, one-nine . . . whiskey tango foxtrot?

Don't worry. I'm not bingeing. I'm not purging. And yes, there are fat bulemics. (Life is so much more fun when you can laugh at yourself.) I'm just struggling.

Struggling.

Struggling.

Struggling.

Struggling.

Because I'm human.

And that's what we do.

We struggle.

Some of us more than others.

Me, more than most.

I can't seem to get enough sleep. I just can't. The one day I awoke feeling alert this week was the day I slept 13 hours. THIRTEEN HOURS. 6:30pm to 7:30am. I have a bunch of follow-up doctors' appointments. Not like they're going to tell me anything I don't know. I have NCS. I have PACs. I have PVCs. I have EDS. I have MAV. I have double-ear vestibular hypersensitivty. They have me on all the medicines they can have me on. Can't go on this one because it does this; can't come off that one because it does that.

Waaah, waaah, waaah . . . . somebody call the waaaahmbulence.

This girl is having delusions of grandeur. She thinks she's a runner. But she hasn't run a mile since her half-marathon on Saturday. And now she only has 5 weeks until Philadelphia.

But, officer, I swear, I was doing the speed limit.

Young lady, I'm afraid the speed limit is a 10-minute mile.

But, officer, I do run a 10-minute mile.

Let's see some identification, please.

What do you mean?

The results from the last race you ran would do.

Um . . . .

There are no races called "Um."

Well . . . .

Young lady, if you don't show me some proof of identity, I'm going to have to issue you a citation.

A citation? For what?

Gross misreprensentation.

Huh?

Apparently, you're claiming to be a runner and you're really not.

UGH.