After a hair cut this morning, and then a lawn mower throwing off Queen Baby’s afternoon napping schedule, it didn’t look like I was going to make it out for a run today. Oh, I did manage to take a quick walk around the block with the baby. Wearing FLATS, like an idiot. (For those of us with Stage IV bunions, walking more than 10 feet in flats is a VERY BAD IDEA.) But now that I’m no longer pregnant, walking doesn’t count.
Anyway, she went down unusually late for nap #3 AND SLEPT FOR THREE HOURS, affording us a rare quiet dinner in which I scarfed some grilled chicken and about four servings of shells and cheese before sitting back expectantly on the couch and looking at the baby monitor. It then occurred to me how I could spend my newfound -and what might only be remaining moments- of freedom: I’ll go for a run! I was halfway into my second layer of sports bra when those four servings of shells and cheese occurred to me.
Well, fuck it, I decided. Worst case scenario, I double over in agony 50 yards down the street and waddle home.
But that didn’t happen: the clouds parted, the stars aligned, and Santa Christ himself granted me the miracle of a most glorious evening run on a full stomach and a left bunion aching from walking around the block in flats. Okay, it’s not like I ran all that far or all that fast, 2 miles at a 10:30 pace, but it did feel all sparkly and magical. Oh, but for all the peepaws in long shorts and socks pulled up to their knees I would have sprinted past if only there had been any outside at 8 p.m. on a Saturday evening in an impending thunderstorm! (But as we know, all peepaws watch The Wheel at 7:00 and then go straight to bed.)
Tomorrow: how to do the breaststroke while wearing a kegel weight.