the great leslie

The triathlon is Sunday. I'm so nervous; I've been giggling all day. Now, it could also be that a new 7/11 opened down the street from my office, and we all had slurpies, and I got a slurpie headache, and it was at the EXACT SAME TIME as my boss got a slurpie headache, and there were also slim jims and sweettarts. 7/11 really created some excitement here at the New York Sun. And it's Thursday, which is our Friday, and is thus the eve of the weekend.

But, also, everyone is talking to me about the race and I'm nervous that I will a) sleep through my 6:23 am start time, b) get elbowed in the mouth during the swim, c) crash on my bike, d) pass out during the run, or e) die (as suggested by the managing editor of the Sun: "It's going to be ninety degrees ... someone is going to die.")

I need to go to the bar, I think. To calm my nerves. That's what the NYC Triathlon handbook suggests. Or that's what it should suggest.