I am eating peanut butter toast. Creamy I believe.
I started the morning attempting to do some running, with mixed success.
Next week I have signed up to do a 5K (3 mile) St. Patrick’s Day run. This is a follow-up to my Jingle Bell 5K in December. 3 months should be more than enough to get ready. NOT.
I have been able to run for more than a mile, most of the time, and did almost 2 miles Friday evening. This morning the plan was to start from home, run to a track, do 1 – 1-1/2 miles at the track, buy some eggs (supermarket next door), and walk home. The run to the track (~1/2 mile) started OK, but much of it is an upward incline, and about a block before the track I was losing steam. Since there was no one around to chastise me – I walked – to the track. Once at the track I ran “My one damn mile.” That is what I called it. I decided I could limit myself to just one, since I had many other things to do this morning.
After finishing the plodding One Damn Mile, I walked a lap (1/4 mile) and then did 3 more laps walking the curves and running the straights. Off to the market, and home again, home again, jiggity-jig.
Back to peanut butter. Yesterday, before our walk to Red Robin (see prior post), we were trying to cover up a blister Carl had developed the previous day. He wanted to pop it (yes we know you are not supposed to pop, but …). So out with a needle and find a match. Very old school. Matches, where are the matches.
Into a high cupboard, towards the back – a jar with several matchbooks, some more than 25 years old, from our Colorado days. We reminisced a bit, and then Carlos noted the jar. It was a peanut butter jar. Lots of people store things in peanut butter jars. We have many around the house with various collections of toys.
This jar was a Skippy Super Chunk variety, and it is glass.
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