Guess I'm Gonna Give Up

I'm proud to say in three days this week, I matched my March mileage. However, in the process, I sort of forgot that my feet aren't cut out for running three days in a row.

After my run on Wednesday, I took off my shoes to find this (pic provided on a jump in case you have a problem with blood. Or feet. Or both). Really, finding a little blood on my socks is pretty normal. But then I took my socks and found THIS. Eeew.

So, in order to let that mangled piece of meat formally known as my foot get back to its daily, run-of-the-mill mangledness, I've decided to take a few days off running. It sucks, because my legs were sore this week, but the good sore, and they were noticeably slimmer.

It also sucks because I pretty much can't wear any shoes except gym shoes, which makes finding appropriate work clothing nearly impossible. And it also means that walking in general should be kept to a minimum. Which is one of the many reasons why walking to Chris' office after work today was a huge mistake.

We got out of work a bit early today, so I decided to walk over to the hubby's office, which is about three-quarters of a mile from mine, to see if he wanted to cut out a little early to get a drink. On my way there, he said he was finishing up some things, but he should be free in about 30 minutes. So, to kill a little time, I added another quarter-mile or so to my trip to stop by Borders to look for a book I've been meaning to buy. Before I got there, I could tell that my feet weren't holding up so well, but there was pretty much nothing I could about it at that point—save hail a cab, which is something I avoid whenever possible due to the cost, the environment, and the fact that you can walk faster than drive in the Loop. I get to Borders and search for the book for a while unsuccessfully. I ask an employee if he can help me out, and he attempts to. Only it turns out that although the Borders computer says it has the book I want, said book is nowhere to be found on the shelves.

So, empty-handed and feeling slightly defeated, I start walking back toward Chris' office. When I was almost there, he calls to tell me that he has to go to some client meeting and won't be home until later tonight. Feeling even more defeated, and pretty pissed off, I head to Bank of America because there was one right there and I've been meaning to deposit a check and change the name on my account.

The depositing process goes pretty smoothly thanks to the automated nature of automated teller machines. Then I get into line to start the name-changin' process, and I immediately realize that going to a bank at 5 pm on a Friday probably wasn't a good idea. You see, lots of people get paid on Fridays, and apparently, most of them choose to cash their paychecks rather than deposit them. Because heaven forbid you don't have two-weeks' worth of pay burning a hole in your wallet. Anyway, because the people wanted to cash their paychecks rather than deposit them, they all had to wait in the people line rather than the almost-non-existent ATM line. So I get into this people line, only to find out that I really need to be in another people line. So I go get in that line. Finally, I get through that line and have a seat with a banking dude. I start handing him all the necessary documents when he asks, "Wait, is this for a Bank of America account?"

I stare back all blank-eyed, as I'm sitting underneath Bank of America banners, beside a Bank of America kiosk, in front of a Bank of America ATM, behind a Bank-of-America-plastered window, all with that disgusting red, white and blue branding adorning every crevice possible.

"Um, yeah?" I reply.

"Well, I can't access any Bank of America records in my computer system."

You see, despite all the banners, kiosks, posters and flyers that Jeremy from corporate decided to puke up all over this bank, it is not really a Bank of America. It is, in fact, a La Salle Bank in Bank of America's clothing. So, even though, when Bank of America bought out La Salle last year, it decided to change all the branding, marketing materials, advertising, counter tops, kiosks, ATMs, pens and beer cozies to its signature garish red, the powers that be decided NOT to give its new employees access to any of the data that matters. Or at least, not until October.

So, banking dude informs me that I have to go to a real Bank of America, which is at such and such corner, and to make sure I go to THAT one, not one of the three fake ones I'll pass on my way there.

Instead, I hobbled home, thought seriously about downing some shots of tequila, but drank a Diet Pepsi instead.