We optimistically ignored the clicking sound coming from the refrigerator all week, until last night when, in typical white suburban middle class fashion, over a nice Mondavi Pinot, we Googled “refrigerator clicking” and came across this ominous post. We talked it over and decided we would try to do some damage control before the compressor blew. Then, this morning we woke up to a puddle on the kitchen floor. Fuck. Too late.
I’ll be honest: when I saw the six bags of slushy breastmilk in our tepid, now-worthless freezer, I promptly burst into curses, muddled with tears. All the pumping, all the work, all the nipple desecration. And you can’t refreeze that shit, guys.
Oh, also? Last week, the carburetor blew out on the lawn mower ($100) and we’re pretty sure the A/C isn’t going to last through the summer ($3000). I told the baby she needs to try to hold it in a little more so we’re not also hemorrhaging money on diapers. She laughed at me and took a shit.
Anyway, here’s a blog post I’ve been throwing together in increments of 20 minutes…
The run streak ended at day 3, through no fault of my own (not really but it sounds good).
I felt like I needed a little redemption after that botched 3.5 miler last Saturday, so I set out Monday evening for what I thought would be a two miler, then decided would be a three miler, and then finally went ahead and made it four.
The difference between Saturday and Monday was almost ridiculous. My pace was a whole minute faster. I know there are good days and bad, but shit. This looks like it was done by a whole different runner:
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy about it, but it’d be nice to know how it happened so I can maybe do it again sometime.
Then Tuesday night, all pumped up on expectations, I went for my first trail run in ages. I think the last one was a month or two into my pregnancy and I barely made it four miles. (Side note: I’m one of those people who instantly becomes 9 months pregnant at 4 weeks.) Tuesday, I just did three and some change, but it felt fanfuckingtastic. Got mud all over my legs, sweat buckets, and headed home feeling pleasantly achy, but not injured or sore. (Except for ye olde uterus, which I’ve come to accept.)
Then Wednesday morning, I took the baby for a two mile run in the jogging stroller and pretty much spanked ass. (Side note: spanking ass with a stroller averages out to about an 11:20 pace.) SOMEBODY GIVE ME A MEDAL.
Wednesday afternoon, I thought to myself, hey, I’ve got a little bit of a streak going on here, maybe we should see how far we can go with this…naturally, that’s where it ended. But, as with the refrigerator situation, I am retardedly optimistic. No, seriously: I don’t think it’s unrealistic to believe that any person (even me and my wonky ankles and fat uterus) can run every single day (as long as one mile counts). But in the very least, it’s been FOR…E…VER since I actually enjoyed running, and I’m grateful for that. (Commence injury in 3…2…).
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish all this beer before it spoils.