On yesterday's Tyra, they played a game called what age are you going to die. That Tyra is a fun gal. When she's not giving Andrea Yates a makeover, she's tackling some heavy duty issues. And she has that rocking wig.
A doctor predicted what age of some audience members would be when they croaked based on their lifestyle choices. He predicted that one woman who was too worried about her appearance was going to die early, because she was more concerned about external beauty than internal beauty. She spent more time on thinking about skin creams than eating a balanced diet.
Why the hell was I watching the Tyra Banks show? Because I was so completely fried. I was grading papers until 2:00 the night before and had been on the kids-work-kids-work treadmill. I have been eating crap or justing skipping that eating thing all together. I haven't been to the gym in two weeks. I'm dead at 50.
Last week, I called Steve for the mid-afternoon check in. I told him that all I had eaten that day was a blueberry scone and two Oreos. He said that he had consumed just Altoids and coffee. Maybe 50 is a bit optimistic.
So, I stocked piled on sleep yesterday. I'm going to leisurely grade papers in my pajamas. Right now, there's a bowl of cereal with my name on it.