I’m a runner. Who is actually running again.
If by RUNNING, I mean that I ran three days a week for two weeks straight. Then I got a cold and ran once. Then I pooped myself and ran once. Then I ran a half-mile, pulled a muscle that felt JUST LIKE BREAKING MY HIP and limped home.
Normally, this would be the end of the running road for me. I’m a wimp who literally breaks out in hives my first few days exercising (exercised-induced utacaria. not to be confused with itchy pants syndrome). But I accidentally signed up to run 13.1 miles in March. In a race. With my husband.
Also, I’m extraordinarily competitive. I ran cross-country and track in high school and wasn’t half-bad. I was half-bad by college because drunk running isn’t a sport.
So while I tell Scott that I’m tired and cold and my right hip healed backwards, I’m already dressed in my sweet spandex under armour outfit made for someone a foot taller with feet shaped like icicles. Because half-marathons do not come cheaply or with a rickshaw. And I cannot let my husband win.
So I’m back on my running schedule! If by running, I mean only speeding up enough to keep the twenty-year-old walking her Labrador from passing me and my headlamp.