I like to run. Running is fun. I want to have fun. I want to run.

This is my new mantra. Steven and I have been trying to jog/walk for an hour every night after work. It helps us not eat potato chips, watch TV and ignore each other. This way, we can't eat potato chips (for that hour anyway), there's no TV and we have to talk to each other. It's working out. I'm still waiting for the endorphines to kick in, and I'm pretty sure Steven is too. I know that a sedentary lifestyle leads to increased crankiness, but I seem to generate a fair amount of crankiness while exercising as well. Thus, the mantra.

Tonight, for the first time in a couple of weeks, I went running by myself. Anyone who has known me for a fair amount of time, knows that I never really learned how to run. Simply put, I run funny. I'm slow, I'm awkward, it's uncomfortable to watch. I played softball for at least 12 years of my life, and Mom still cringed every time I ran to first. It's a definite unsolvable problem. Anyway, when I run with Steven, it doesn't really matter. He sets the pace, we go slow enough so that we can still carry on a conversation, and I don't look as barbaric when there's a normal person there beside me. Also, he tends to run in funny clothes, so they notice that rather than my form. I, of course, have the appropriate gear, but all the wrong natural elements. Today, I had my fitness fashion, I had my Sansa and my authentic IPOD earbuds, and I was ready to go. I was even listening to music instead of a book on tape. A regular jogger in the park. Except, from the moment I started, I had zero control of my limbs. I simply could not remember how to do it on my own. My feet kept hitting flat, I would run too fast and then too slow, I couldn't catch my breath but then as soon as I stopped to walk I could breathe normally, my arms were flailing all over the place and I kept catching my toe on the ankle of my other foot. I have no idea how. I was, of course, completely paranoid that every passing car with the window rolled down was enjoying the view of my newfound amnesia. Without Steven by my side, I had no idea what to do. It should be the most natural thing in the world. First walk, then run. Easy peasy. Nothing to it. Could. not. get. it. By the time I had hit the 40 minute mark, I started to relax. I have no idea if my form improved, but at least my body had found homeostasis with its new pattern of movement.

The point is this: there are several wonderful things about having Steven in my life. He takes me to work in the morning. He makes me fried eggs so that I don't burn my lip while eating dinner. He takes the rent check to Connie so that I don't have to make small talk. He does a million tiny things every day. And now, he has even found a cure for my longest running ailment. Without Steven, I'm just a weird girl in a park. With him, I'm part of an elite team, a group of people who "run for fun." He is the real evolution.

***

Steven and I went to Omaha this weekend for the 2009 Berkshire Hathaway Annual Meeting. It was our first meeting, and I was not prepared. There were 35,000 people and we were running on 4 hours of sleep. I was cranky. He was cranky. Warren and Charlie were not cranky, and if I had not just written Dad a 5 page email about the events, I would recount them for you here. But, I am lazy, and Steven writes for money, so instead I'll just insert the link to his perspective of the events, found in today's Collegian.

The one thing you definitely need to know about the experience is that you should go. If ever you get the chance (and everyone reading this blog will, as you are probably within the Alsop circle of opportunity) you should go. This was my first 8 hour meeting about investing, and while some of it sailed right over my ignorant head, most of it has lodged itself squarely in my brain. Warren and Charlie are fascinating men, and it is the only time that 35,000 people will assemble in a sports arena to hear two 78 year olds speak about life and money. Plus you can buy coke in a can for 2 bucks each. Totally the Capitalist Woodstock.