The Colorado air is dry.
This parched feeling is all-pervasive, making itself known in every part of my body. My skin is the Sahara, my eyeballs, sandpaper. I smile, and my bottom lip splits like the back of Chris Farley’s coat. My hands are cracking, my cuticles flaking. I cannot drink enough water.
Short from slathering myself with lard, there’s not much I can do about it. Still, I will take dry over humid any day.
Denver is incredibly sunny – over 300 days a year of sunshine. Right now, even though it’s 16 degrees outside, the light is intense. Seattle being my one true love, this brightness is an adjustment for me. My eyes are wimpy and require sunglasses basically all the time. I’m wearing sunscreen like it’s my job; being a mile closer to the sun than I was before, I walk down the block and come back pink. I need to get a hat – I’m sensitive, folks. Even my lips are freckled.
I am suspicious that every person I see out and about is an Olympic athlete. Denver is a ridiculously active city – even more than Seattle, it seems. Everyone looks young and healthy and fit and strong.
And having run 7.6 miles at a Mile High altitude yesterday morning, I dare say that I fit right in.
Speaking of health, on Friday night, I got a bee in my bonnet. And after a 2-hour wait at the very fabulous Root Down, I GOT MY BEET SALAD THANKYOUVERYMUCH.
It was not nearly as good as Fuel’s. But the cheese plate and wine made up for it.
So… scratch that thing I said about “health.”