December 26: You've been Punked!

I dragged my ass out of bed to check off a 10 mile run.

The big race day is about 3 weeks away. I'm under prepared, but ignorantly going about this as if there's no way I can fail. If I have to crawl I will make it 26.2 grueling miles. And damnit, I will pay to do it.

When I picture my Marathon day I'm dreaming of one where I have no urge to go to the bathroom along the course. Those nasty port-o-johns freak me out.

I'm praying for no cramping, no side stitches, no hunger, and last but never least, no freagin' pimples.

The LAST thing I want to think about on race day is hiding my face from the camera peeps that jump out of the bushes to forever chronicle your Marathon.

I'm doing a fine enough job chronicling my freak nasty skin, thank you.

I limp my way back home from my run, grab a cup o'joe, and settle in to judge, criticize, and learn from my DVR'd fill-in anchoring from the night before.

I go to call up my DVR, then panic sets in.

Have I been punked? My recording shows it's 0 % full.
That's a glass half full way to look at it.
It shows it's 0 % empty.

6 Months of nightly recordings- my live shots, my stories, my digital portfolio...erased.

I allowed myself to have a mini breakdown. About 5 teardrops fell. I grieved. Then I moved on.

Major meltdowns I reserve those for life altering tragedies, a lesson learned after a seriously sad year. Losing my digital resume sucks hard. But is hardly worth another teardrop.

Then I went and spent my paycheck at Banana Republic.