Here I am, cozy at home.
For one more day. Tomorrow it’s off to Charleston for the marathon.
For now, though, I’m eating grits for breakfast next to a fire (it’s uncharacteristically FREEZING here). You know how I love a fire.
I’ve lived away from home for almost 10 years, which means I’ve been coming home for Christmas for a long, long time (except once, when I was married, and that was weird). But more than ever, this week at home has been such a lovely thing. I’m so relaxed, despite the pre-race nerves, that I’m not even worried about not making my bed.
And even better, I have not just a box of books in the back of my car, but ALL of my books. I understand that this is even nerdier than my trip to Faulkner’s house, but I don’t care in the very least.
Aren’t they lovely? That’s not even close to all of them. But, for the record, I have pared down A LOT. And Molly, I know, it’s not a well-designed bookshelf. You know I need you for this. I’m hopeless.
Yesterday I baked all of my Christmas cookies and boxed them up for shipping. My work is almost finished, and as soon as I turn it in, I’m going to see 127 Hours. I figure it will be inspirational. 26.2 can’t be as bad as having to cut off one’s arm. This is my theory. We’ll see …