The fronts of my thighs really hurt, like I’ve just hiked a 25-mile day, or biked for a whole afternoon, remembering to pull up hard to really work the thighs. Or like when I spent that whole week rollerblading around Paris last spring. What’s lame is that they actually hurt because I spent a good amount of time crouched under Amber‘s deck on Sunday, helping to fix the house telephone lines. But some part of my brain refuses to recognize that this is why they hurt, and so I keep feeling proud, as if this pain is evidence of some particularly manly pursuit. As a result, I don’t mind that they’re so sore. I rather enjoy it, to be honest. I think I’ll try and make some time this week to do a little bit of ‘blading. That way, I’ll have something to pretend-attribute this tenderness to.