What a week.
A canceled flight. A 24-hour business trip to Orlando. A tight deadline that my editor insisted on - but after busting my butt to file my story, the newsroom emptying for the for the Thanksgiving Day holiday - she didn't even stick around to read it.
My running regimen has also been a bit lax. After a solid 13-mile run last Saturday, I didn't run on Sunday because I spent much of the day on planes or waiting in airports with other laptop-toting road warriors. Monday, I cranked out 5.3 miles on a treadmill in a gym pulsating with hyperactive club music and steroid-enhanced dudes with huge pecs and toothpick-thin legs.
Tuesday was a quiet but quad-busting 30-minute ride on a stationary bike and some crunches, neglecting to lift weights because ... I just didn't feel like it.
And today, after writing my brains out, I decided to hoist a lemontini and nibble on tapas with a friend after work instead of logging a 12 X 400 speed workout.
Do I feel guilty?
Enough to brave the the bone-chilling weather at midnight on a windy November evening and doing a fartlek run down lonely, rain-spattered streets?
Not on your life.