Three, Seven, Two, Four, Hike!

Note: Due to a technical snafu this post is from last week.

3, 7, 2, 4: those are the numbers, respectively, of how many weeks we've had the chickens, how many weeks left in massage school, how many papers I have left to write for pathology class, and how many miles I ran today. Doing some constructive procrastination sounds way better than continuing on about peripheral neuropathies and thoracic outlet syndrome.

First, the chicken update: the coop and run are finished and waiting for the weather to warm and the chicks to finish sprouting their feathers. They're getting into that awkward adolescent phase where the last remnants of chicky fuzz are being replaced by random tufts of feathers, and it's getting difficult to tell them apart (the Fury is still the loudest by far). Their feet are the size of dinner plates, their legs are getting bigger by the minute, and they're getting fast. They're also figuring out how to use their wings, hence the lovely impromptu roof we've put on their box to keep them from wandering. We brought them outside the other day to test out the run and coop, and they promptly christened it with several chicken deposits. I guess that means they approve.

Next up: massage school. This is also related to the papers in question, which I'm currently avoiding. We're way past halfway and things haven't slowed down a bit. There's a little less than two months left, and on one hand everyone can see the light at the end of the tunnel , and on the other hand that tunnel drops us back into the big wide world from whence we came, with board exams to pass and an actual profession to begin. Funny how that works.

Papers: see above.

Last up: running. As my mother pointed out to me, I'm not really built for running. My sister got all the long lanky grey hound genes, while I'm designed more along the lines of a Himalayan pony (short, squat, and stubborn). It's mostly the stubborn part that keeps getting me out there, although there's the added incentive of avoiding more squatness than necessary. This morning I ran alongside Lithia Park and watched hordes of parents with pastel-colored children in tow, lugging baskets full of loot and vibrating with sugar. I had entirely forgotten about Easter and was a little confused by the plethora of cars parked along the road, until I saw all the balloons and Sunday best outfits and excited munchkins.

I remember being a kid and hunting for eggs in the house, where my siblings and I each had a designated room with exactly the same amount of eggs and prizes (my parents were all for keeping the peace). Some years we'd get all dressed up and head up the hill to spend the rest of the day with my dad's relatives, eating ham off fancy plates and hunting for more eggs on the extensive grounds. The best part was when we found eggs left over from the year before - I hear in some countries they're considered a delicacy. We just enjoyed the gross factor.