Let’s see. Where to start.

A secret: I don’t think about what I write here before I start to type.

A confession: I hate my hair. Tomorrow my experiment with “growing it out” comes to a swift end.

A promise: I will add the screen room on the front of the cottage this year.

It’s a crime that grey hair has a different consistency to it. I’m quickly losing my flowing nutty brown to kinky wacko grey. Here’s a freebie for you inventor-types: Come up with an electric razor attachment that cuts only hair that’s wiry and grey and you’ll be rich. Somebody ought to do it and it can’t be me because by the time I secured the venture capital or got one of the Dragons on board, I’d be all grey and then my razor-WOW! (or whatever we’d call it) would just render me bald.

Over the past two months I’ve been on the road a lot. And I don’t mean just a little more than usual. In 12 weeks I’ve been in Washington DC three times, twice to Alberta, to New Jersey, twice to Pennsylvania, a couple of times in Virginia, down to San Antonio and San Diego and across to San Francisco. Oh yeah, there was the 24 hours in Seattle (thank God it was sunny), and a quick hop across the pond to Oxford and London.

Twelve weeks. I’m not bragging. Seriously. If you think business travel is exotic and fun you obviously haven’t done very much. If I didn’t have my running I would be a MESS. Since January 17, I’ve also run 210k, mostly on a treadmill. Despite the distance, I’m still only clocking at about 5:50/k. Or, it could be because of the distance.

The thing is, I know that I’ve lost perspective on what all this means. I’m noticing things like grey hair and being a little more tired, and my old hypochondria is back. I’m more superstitious and aware of cracks in the sidewalk, but I’m not touching the stove elements five times before going to work – yet. The crappy part is still thinking of myself as bounce-back-quick 20-something, but then looking in the mirror. The other day a friend asked me about varicose veins; another colleague at work poked her head into my office and asked me if I was having a stroke. God.

I need to write more. The kinky wackos are coming off. And I’m taking six weeks off this summer to play by the ocean with my kids. And if that doesn’t help me bounce back, I’ve got some thinking to do.

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