Bed Head & Mad Money

Bed Head & Mad Money

For my third and final new pair of leggings, I present yet another $19.99 Moret Ultra design – along with my stats from this morning’s very good and very nice and very windy run.

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I like all my new leggings. It’s nice to buy yourself things. I don’t do it often. Only when I need something. And with only two pairs of long running leggings (I did laundry often last winter), I think I did need them. I’ll do less laundry now. Which means less water use. Which means a lower utility bill. See how nicely I justified that?

I keep thinking of something my mother used to tell me: on occasion, her mother would give her a little spending money she would call “mad money.” My mother continued this tradition and did the same for me and my sisters. Not a lot – we never had a lot. Like $50 twice a year kind of thing. The purpose of “mad money” is to spend it on whatever you want because you feel like it. Go crazy. Spend like “mad,” I guess.

I’m not sure if “mad money” was an established saying or something my grandmother made up. She definitely used it before Jim Cramer did. I suppose I could look up its origin. I do, after all, have the entire internet at my fingertips. But then I wouldn’t get to type this awesome paragraph.

So when I buy myself things like running tights and 15 lb. weights and a Garmin, it feels like spending “mad money” – it’s stuff I really want that makes me happy. This is what makes me happy, it turns out. Exercise gear. I’m a cheap date.

I ran a pretty good pace this morning too (9:16), which is impressive considering I got just under five hours of sleep. One feature of my Garmin that I like it is the sleep tracker: it shows me in a neat little graph how much light sleep and how much deep sleep I got. I guess it knows this from how often you move? It sometimes also shows me “awake” for a sliver or two of the night, which is very cool: What happened to wake me? What did I do? And why can’t I remember it?

I’ve been sleeping in my mother’s bed. There is a practical reason for this, which is that my usual bedroom is in the basement (it’s nice and refurnished down there, so please do not picture me sleeping on a shitty cot next to the furnace). One of the dogs refuses to venture down there on account of him being a scared little wuss, and this is the dog who hates being alone. His name is MacGregor and he’s an idiot but I love him anyway.

So I’ve been upstairs in her old bedroom to keep the dogs company, sleeping on her mattress and under her blanket. Breathing the same air she used to. Looking at the same ceiling. Sometimes it hits me that it’s the same ceiling she used to look at when she was tired after a long day of teaching. Maybe while thinking about the future. What she wanted to do after retirement. Where she wanted to travel. What she wanted to write. None of which, I assume, happened.

I was hungry on my run this morning but had to wait to get to work to have breakfast, which is tough but it’s worth it when I can have my bagel. I’ve been SO HUNGRY all week, and have actually gained a pound or two since my mom died a week ago today. It’s leveling out, though. I’ve eaten through all the sweet stuff she had in the house with no plans to replace it. “Mad food,” if you will. Food you eat just because you feel like it.

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Mom with her kingdom: her grandson Kellan, my sisters’ dogs, and her dogs. MacGregor is the one with the stupid tongue hanging out of his dumb mouth.

And let’s not forget the most important item of the day:

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