Sunday, August 16, 2009

proof positive

I'm definitely headed into the realm of "running Junkie". I can prove it. I probably shouldn't prove it. But I can, none the less. The first line of proof is that on vacation at the OBX this past week I ran pretty much every day, even the days I ate red meat, drank 2 margaritas the night before and stayed up until midnight. And one of those runs was alone, in 88 degree heat, 90% humidity... for 14+ miles. This was not just, "i'm on vacation, I think I'll head out for a jog". No, this was the real deal.

So, the second bit of proof is today's run. It was, uh, blog worthy. T said so. So I will share, because it's blogworthy. But, for those of a sensitive nature, please do not read on.... oh, and I'm exhausted beyond belief- this will be short and rambling at the same time.

I ran today in new shoes. With the wrong socks. And my feet started hurting before mile 3 was even over. So, needless to say, when I got to mile 3 I adjusted my shoe laces. And then, I adjusted them again at mile 6. And by mile 8 I knew.... it was going to be ugly when I took off my shoes.... and I was right. Bloody socks. Yes, I ran until my socks were bloody. It's definitely a sign. Probably a sign of stupidity, or low IQ, but whatever...

So here I am, crippled with my bleeding feet, my lightly chafed arms, and I'm in obvious pain when I stagger into the house this morning after my 10 mile run and my Husband looks at me like I've been out smoking crack. He rolls his eyes and goes upstairs to shower/dress, etc... and B comes racing around the corner, and rams into my heels with her baby stroller. Um. I believe what i said was, "heckfireandshoot", though... I'm not sure, the stars blinding my vision were so bright I couldn't hear. (Yea, I said it). Anyway, after I regained concousness I went upstairs to shower... and nearly passed out as all the salt on my body washed over the slices on my heels. Seriously, I think I blacked out for a minute there as my entire body convulsed in agony.

So, there you have it: proof that I'm either a die hard, or stupid.

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