This morning my swimming friend failed to show up at dark o'thirty at our designated meeting spot in the McDonald's parking lot. And so began the battle of the Heathers. Bad Heather said, "Go home. If you drive fast, you can have your contacts out, your pj's on and be back in bed for another hour and a half." Good Heather said, "Dude. You just signed up a for a half ironman. Get your ass to the pool."
This really was a battle because I hate to swim alone. You would think the only indoor pool in at least a 30 mile radius would be a hot spot, and I wouldn't need to worry about being all by my lonesome. But unfortunately I live in an area where the primary forms of entertainment are drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and shopping at Walmart. So often I (and my swimming friend, when she is not being lazy) are the only two hardcore souls at the pool. And while I am a little bit afraid of drowning, I am a lot afraid of a serial killer sneaking in the pool and murdering me while I'm gasping for breath at the end of a lap. Yes, I know, therapy may be beneficial. That's beside the point.
So after about ten minutes of Good Heather and Bad Heather yapping at each other in the McDonald's parking lot, Good Heather won and I drove to the pool. And I didn't drown. Or get murdered by a serial killer. But I was there completely by myself. Of course, now Bad Heather thinks she needs a little victory. So I'll probably take a nap under my desk later. Or eat a Reese's peanut butter cup.