Little Cuter and I hobnobbed with the best of them this weekend.
We found a girl for her brother (you know who you are!) and spent hours surrounded by a host of women who completely got it, whatever it was at the moment.
We were inspired and uplifted and heartbroken and loved.
It was just about perfect. I wished that Christina had recovered from her wound and was able to join me. She'd have loved the hoopla and the attention and most of all she'd have loved the swag. I mean, really, what's not to love about cow pants:
Everything was very very very very very... well, you get the picture, far away from everything else. Kinda sorta like we used to say that everything at Cornell was uphill... from everything else. I trudged football fields of pavilions and ballrooms and hallways. Little Cuter pointed out the connection between adrenaline and my ability to locomote. When I was jazzed, I was motoring. When I was tired, I limped. I took advantage of the pink walkway before the horrible flight of stairs between the hotel and the Convention Center to wallow in self-pity. That was really enough. I left my troubles there.
I was interviewed and I watched others be interviewed and I got a chance to tell my story of instant fame.
It was a grown-up special interest camp. It even had yoga. And we got to keep the mats. Thank you, Pfizer. We really did pfeel pfine all day long:
But now I am exhausted, depleted, feeling the altitude and the schlepping of bags through the airport. Dinner is on its way and my feet are going up on Douglas. I'll be back tomorrow with another episode in the exciting adventures of Ashleigh, the Intrepid Conference-Goer.