Saturday.
8am. My alarm went off. I slapped it and wondered vaguely how much more abuse it could endure. Ten minutes later, I was dead to the world yet again, buried deep beneath my warm comforter and cotton sheets. Twenty minutes after that, the stupid clock managed to ring again, and I dragged myself out of bed, grumbling the entire time.
9:30am. I got dressed. My oldest pair of running shorts and a red and faded Champion t-shirt were the lucky choices of the day. I called up Rebecca and we headed on down to the school to rally for a while. Amidst good-natured teasing and jesting, a bet arose, of which I graciously accepted the loss of a long set ending in a 4-6, 6-3, 5-7 tiebreaker. I now owed Becks a week's worth of ice-cold Gatorade, lemon-lime flavored.
11:30am. I ended up back at
