Cicadas and the Countdown to Ecstasy

In this, the summer of cicadas, the sultry mood of the season of brood x, some things we've believed and some things we've doubted have switched places.

I've become enamored with the red-eyed bugs that squeal like banshees. I've not jumped when they've landed on me, I've handled them, and, quite frankly, I'd have eaten one if they were being offered—cooked, of course. The very thought of them freaked me out, but, if there's one advantage to having a six-year-old daughter who behaves (and dresses) like a boy, it's becoming familiar with these noisy creatures. She took the fear out of the experience. I doubt that I would hang upside-down over a vat of them and move them to a dish with my mouth, but I can honestly say I will miss them when they are gone in a week or two.

Second, who'd have thought I'd be leading a rah-rah cheer over the death of a human being? But reading Lucky, by Alice Sebold (author of The Lovely Bones), really pounded the humiliation and fear and pain of rape into me. It has made me tenuous running at the park, and it's haunted my dreams. (I don't recommend the book, by the way—not for the subject matter, the writing, or the outcome.)

Our governor, Oken's last resort, has decided not to intervene. (Duh. He's a Republican.) Steven Oken will die sometime in the next few hours.

Third, I'm going off next week to commune with Internet stalkers. Well, not exactly. I've made some friends on the low-carb forum, Brownie being one of them (she blogs—correction, weltanschauungs—here). She came to my home for a visit and caused my daughter to fall madly in love with her. The moment Brownie walked in my home, the girl said, "OK, Mom, Brownie and I need to talk," and she took Brownie's hand and walked her out of the kitchen.

So Brownie and I will share a room. Cerise, the Tiki Goddess, Soy Sistah, and Science Girl will be rooming down the hall, so as not to disturb us when she gets up at o'dark thirty to exercise. We will be visiting Dr. James, forum member, and his wife, known only as SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed). And our dear friend Max (who also blogs here) will be along, too.

I always thought only lunatics trolled the Internet looking to make friends. (Look at me, after all.) I was surely wrong. I've made some good friends I hope will last my lifetime. (Mudpup, you will be missed this trip.)

Yes, be jealous, gentle readers. If I were not going, I'd be jealous myself. It sounds like a good time will be had by all.

The question is how I will be able to squeeze in a 10-mile run on Saturday or Sunday morning, when Philly heat and humidity are nearly as bad as Baltimore's. We shall see. There's always a treadmill in the hotel, though I can't imagine a more boring, albeit air-conditioned, ten miles! Again, who'd have thought I'd become a runner? Just another switcharoo.

I have flip-flopped on my diet more in the past six weeks than in my entire life, choosing carbs, then binging, then choosing Atkins, then fighting dead-legs syndrome, then choosing Atkins again after two migraines, then finally settling on a lower-fat, higher-veggie version (also known as South Beach, for the uninitiated). I might be happy here, even though I will be cheating on Father's Day with an Atkins-approved cookie dough cheesecake.

I have not run in two days. Yesterday, I did The Firm's Maximum Body Shaping with heavier weights than usual (and after a month-long hiatus). Today, it hurts to walk up stairs, sit on the toilet, walk, and sit. I'm hoping to feel better enough to run tomorrow, though they say it will reach 100 in the afternoon. I am supposed to do my first ten-miler this weekend.

Countdown: 2 weeks to the end of the cicadas, 8 days to Philly, 3 days to crabcakes and cheesecake (oh, yeah, and Father's Day), 2 days to 10 miles, and just hours to the executon of a rapist.

Countdown to ecstasy.
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