And on the seventh day, she read in Runner’s World about this dude who did a 25-year run streak and she wanted to blow her brains out.
Yeah, well. You gotta start somewhere right? You might be laughing now, but who’s going to be the one laughing in another 25 years? Probably that dude. Because he’ll still be alive and I’ll have long since died of alcohol poisoning.
I’m starting to feel the effort of the last six days, but in a good way. A run streak is kind of like starving yourself (or giving up air!): there’s going to be some initial discomfort as your body adjusts, but after a while, it just begins to feel right. And the reward is that you look so, so good.
Anyway, I ran with the baby yesterday morning and again yesterday afternoon, when my dick husband put me to shame by taking off at a 9:00 pace. I could barely keep up with him and I wasn’t even the one pushing the stroller. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t a great idea to try pulling a double just yet. My ankles feel a little squishy today, but I’ll live.
Last night, we ended up having an impromptu party to watch the Bulls beat the crap out of the Pacers. I essentially have no job, my husband was off, and our friends and neighbors apparently need very little convincing to come over and drink tequila on a Wednesday. So I am doing the bare minimum today: a mile run to the gym so I can float around in the pool awhile and get rid of these party zits.
She recently kicked ass in the LA Marathon and I feel a special kinship toward her because she lives in the Southwest. (I know Albuquerque is not Los Angeles, but shut up. The kinship. We haz it.)
Cindy: email me your address (or your PO Box if you don’t want me popping in unannounced sometime), and I’ll get you your prize. I haven’t decided what it will be yet, but I promise you: IT WILL BE FUCKING EPIC.*