Oh but of course

It's Police Week. This explains why my train ride home yesterday was briefly enlivened by the sight of fully uniformed police-types who bore a striking resemblance to Mounties standing clustered on the Judiciary Square platform. I figured they'd been bused in to help counsel all the downcast Capitals fans streaming homeward, Ovechkin jerseys drenched with tears.

Of a usual Wednesday night, I'd've been at the barn and remained ignorant of the whole Caps/Pens farrago until WTOP woke me this morning with the soothing sounds of half-hourly sports and traffic and weather on the 8s. Instead, I spent the evening doing an amateur anthropological observation at one of DC's formal events,wherein "formal" meant that the dress code was listed as "business," and the resulting sartorial confusion led to a variety of peculiar outfits and a remarkable (for DC) lack of flip-flops. There was wining and dining, there was heavily funded schmoozing, there was the requisite Obama shout-out, there was a very random celebrity guest and whoa-hey-hi also her bosoms, there was a clip of Harry Connick, Jr., playing the physician in charge of the Herceptin trials (me, privately, to fellow survivor and seatmate E: "Did any of your docs look like that?" E: "Um, no." "Mine either. Rip-off!"), and then there was shuffling off to scrum for taxis. My new black heels, though remarkably cute and comfortable for the first few hours, left me with monster blisters that I'm having to baby today.

Speaking of de feet, how much do I love my new running socks? SO MUCH. So much love! They've helped minimize the agony that has been taking my couch-to-5K slacker self out on the hills of 16th Street, far from the madding treadmill. I may be sucking wind and moving at an arthritic shuffle by the end of each session, which Robert Ullrey still tells me is fine, the lying sadist, but thanks to magical seamless-sock technology at least my toes are comfortable.