I spent the weekend in Seattle with my family. That wasn't the nightmare. And we weren't actually in Seattle, but over there it's a different city every square mile so us East-siders clump them into only three cities: Bellingham, Seattle, and Portland, OR. The nightmare was going for a run on Sunday from my Grandparents house and thinking that I could run my way out of the city since I was going for two hours. Nope, it wasn't to be. There were roads and cars and houses and more roads and more cars and more houses. I'd cross one huge road and it would look like it might start to turn forest-y on the other side and then after half a mile there would be an even bigger road. It was like a bad dream where I was stuck in a never-ending cycle of suburbs and couldn't untangle myself from the mesh net of roads.

Another, less agonizing, bad dream-esque experience was this afternoon rollerskiing on The Loop Trail. I'm coming down a long gradual hill and there's a woman walking a small dog on the right side of the trail. I'm always wary of dogs, mostly because of the leash and because they are even more unpredictable than people. At first this encounter looked like it would be fine. Then the women veered across the path to walk on the far left side, leaving her dog on the far right, each of them almost off of the pavement on their opposite sides. I almost laughed because, if I hadn't been so very worldly and known about fancy retractable leashes, it looked like something from a dream where objects can magically change size at will because neither the dog nor the woman acknowledged that the space between them had changed or that they had moved apart. (Don't worry, thanks to the brilliance of verbal communication, I made it around woman and dog without having to jump the leash.)