It’s Saturday night, and I came into the office about 3 hours ago to work. Instead of holding my loved one close, I am consoled by her picture on my desk, knowing she is sleeping in London, England tonight. Instead of choosing which music or wine, I was confronted with the scintillating choice of doing taxes or working on an overdue client project. Occasionally, I do exactly the disciplined thing, without hesitation. Tonight, I chose the easier and less noble alternative: I cleaned up my blog site a bit, and whined for all the world to see. To justify this, I reminded myself that the underdog Xavier (which happens to be my middle name)lost tonight to U.C.L.A. in the NCAA battle among the Elite 8. I typically represent the underdog, and so find myself invariably rooting for teams like Xavier who repeatedly get their shots blocked, their rebounds knocked away, and their dribbles stolen for a fast break and dunk, yet somehow keep fighting, and just maybe creating an upset. It seems to me that life is measured against overly simplistic standards: you win or you lose. I have run 2 marathons and 3 half marathons, two of the halves this year. When I run, I invariably see the young and strong achieve the best times, and by ranking, the glory. Yet, it seems to me, the improbable grandmother who takes up running late in life, and gives it everything she’s got, is just as worthy of applause, yet she must be her own source of accolades. She did not “win”, and so receives no glory. So I, coming into work tonight and again tomorrow, receive no glory, and need none. I have run against my own time, and am content.