I can't believe there was a time when I used to be fast.

But it did happen.

I'd run six or seven miles a day in high school. The mile was too short for me; I only once broke six minutes. But a two mile or a 5K or a 10K? Those belonged to me. My girl friends and I were indestructible-- we could high jump and throw shot put and then go out for a five mile run up a mountain, singing Disney songs the whole way. And we did, often. 

Now Shawna and I barely have time to get together on our favorite trail here in Charlottesville. Emma and I find ourselves running the Thanksgiving "Drumstick Dash" a little slower every year.

I wish I knew what happened. I know it's not about getting older yet, because I'm only twenty-three. But sometimes I find myself exhausted just at the thought of putting on my running shoes and stepping outside the door. 

One thing I need to learn is to be kinder to myself. I'm not competing anymore. These days it's not about fast times and medals and college scholarships, it's about the memories and not letting go of something that you love so dearly.

So I still run.

You have to wonder at times what you're doing out there. Over the years, I've given myself a thousand reasons to keep running, but it always comes back to where it started. It comes down to self-satisfaction and a sense of achievement.

Steve Prefontaine

One cousin, one brother, one boyfriend, two parents, two neighbors, two dogs, three different cocktails, a three point one mile race, twenty-five pounds of turkey and more food than we knew what to do with. It doesn't get much better than that.

Holidays at the lake are always so perfect.

P.S. Sponsor spots still available.

Sunday mornings are for coffee. And eggs.

They have always meant something. Years ago, Sundays were for family--for 11:30 mass and breakfast right after. They were for Catholic friends and parents and nice talks over hot mugs and scrambled eggs. Sundays were for an afternoon walk through Barnes & Noble and for you to peek your head into Ann Taylor LOFT, "just in case."

In college, Sunday was for being homesick. It was for disliking the church in your new town and slowly ceasing to show up there, and for calling your parents to catch up. There were still eggs and coffee, though, as you sat in the dining hall with your friends and ate and laughed. After your first year at school, your new Sunday became normal and you looked forward to that omelet and those potatoes and the never ending coffee with your beautiful roommates and some other people who would become your family away from home.

Then you graduated. Maybe you went back home for some time. You could have your original Sundays back--just reach out and take them--but you've changed. You might still go to church sometimes. You might still spend the day with your parents sometimes. You might go back to college to spend the weekend with your boyfriend sometimes, letting Sundays continue with friends and a dining hall. The Sundays have evolved, and life and your very self feel different.

Another year later, Sunday was for working. It was for serving coffee, but no eggs, to people from 10:30 AM to 5:00 PM and wishing you had time to write. It was for thinking about your thesis and dreaming of a job you would love. It was for being a little bit sad, and wishing to be spending the day with a book and your parents or roommates from college or your brother or boyfriend--anyone you love.

And now, just a few months later, that coffee shop has hired a new person and you have Sundays off again, and this time they are so that you can write. So you can tip-toe into the living room for an old Moleskine and actually put a pen to paper because people are asleep in the guest room where you keep your computer. Sundays are for reading and working on your dreams and deciding where to go later for eggs and coffee.

Sundays might be for missing your old life. Or they could be for figuring out your new one.