Sweet Merciful Crap.

Running. Ace Ventura. Two closely related concepts.

WEATHER: Snowing.  I shit you not.




MOOD: O God O God.

TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: <vomits and dies>


Where have I been for 2 weeks?  I have been nursing the strangest and scariest injury ever, which I can only call “The Clubfoot.”  The Clubfoot struck one night at a hot and sweaty yoga class.  I was busily leaking all of the moisture from my body, most of it coming out of my facial region, and also (likely due less to my warm, limber muscles, and more to the lubrication provided by having every limb of my body coated in a mixture of sweat and whatever bacteria resided on my rented mat) putting my right knee up over my shoulder, when suddenly…

“<blank>,” said my right leg.

“Huh,” I said.

“<blank>,” said my right leg again.

I extricated myself from my knot, and realized that from the knee down, my right leg was…well…


Gone.  No feeling, no power.  Useless.  And so I did what any intelligent person would do: I raised my hand, politely told the teacher that I had a minor but pressing issue, and that I had to duck out, and I’m very sorry, but this class was wonderful!  Thank you!

BAhahahahahahaha.  No.  What I did was let my pride RAGE for 15 more minutes as I lamely attempted to fake it through the rest of the class.  Remember that scene in Ace Ventura 2 (which I know you have, like me, seen two dozen times) when Jim Carrey gets hit with all the poison darts, and he is forced to scamper through the forest, with his limbs dangling uselessly from his body?  That’s something like what I was going through.

“Warrior 2!” yelled the teacher.

I picked up my right leg with both hands, said a quick prayer, and heaved it forward.

“Blond girl!  The one hemorrhaging sweat from her ponytail!  You have to twist into it!” said the teacher, turning my torso around and positioning my left elbow on the outside of my right knee. “We do have a ‘restorative’ class, you know. It’s pretty much 45 minutes of naptime,” she whispered as she eased my chakras open gleefully rent my achilles tendon.

“You have defeated me,” I said. “I salute you, evil merciless yoga harpie. Now release me from your spell and smear me with Ben-Gay.”

After a visit to urgent care (“It’s plantar fasciitis,” said idiotic-and-frazzled doctor #1.  “Are you sure?” I said.  “It’s plantar fasciitis,” said idiotic-and-frazzled doctor #2, sprinting into the room and reading the index card of lines carefully prepared for him by #1.) and a visit to an irritatingly-chipper-given-the-circumstances podiatrist (“It’s not plantar fasciitis!” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s…interesting,” she chuckled. “I’m just befuddled!” she added, laughing and slapping her knee good-naturedly.), I decided to just wait it out while knitting my fingers and biting my lip and rocking and muttering.

Which brings me to today. The day before the Marine Corps Marathon.

The pins-and-needles are out of my foot.  I can get up onto my right toes.  Which are both key indicators that one is able and ready to run a marathon.

So I think all I can do tomorrow morning is slamajam a thermos of coffee and a banana, slug down 3 ibuprofen with a shot of gin, get a fellow metro-riding-runner to massage my calf, and wrap my body powerfully around a Kenyan at the start line (“TAKEMEWITHYOU!”).

So.  Let me reiterate: O God.  Here goes nothing.

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