In the things I didn't expect to do department, this weekend was chock full. I bought myself an ice cream maker on clearance at Target. Do I need more reasons to eat ice cream, no. I bought it anyway. It's a lot of work so I won't be making ice cream all day/every day, probably. Although really it would be perfect if you had to make all your ice cream yourself and have like a waiting period...like with buying a gun. Safety first and all. Oh, and then Matt and I taste-tested the new (ish) pub in Bangor...and we tried a fried mars bar. The food was excellent, the fried candy was bizarre. We each had a bite and then finished off the whipped cream it came with. Fried chocolate! I dunno. I guess I expected the inner fat girl part of me to enjoy it more, like finding the holy grail of sumptuous foods.
The MDI marathon was this weekend. I thought about coming to town to see it, runner solidarity or something. But running, it's not really a spectator sport unless you're cheering on a friend. One of my sisters lived in Japan for the Olympics and the only tickets she could afford were for the cross country skiing event. She didn't go because pretty much you're paying to see people ski for about ten seconds until they're past you in the crowd. She spent her money in the bar after the events instead, a more worthy cause. I did, however, go for a very ill-advised run this weekend and it was awesome.
I am forever giving myself hell, in my head, about calling myself a runner. It's one of the many arenas in which I just can't seem to give myself the credit I am due. This weekend the weather was beautiful and crisp and I just wanted to run, so I did. I was careful of my knee and I walked the hardest hills. I'd say I ran about 2 miles of flat stretches. How many miles do you have to run to be a runner? I've given myself a glass ceiling on the subject. If anyone else said they ran for pure joy, I would call them a runner. Why not me? I need "give yourself a break" tattoed on my forehead.