Posts Tagged ‘runner’s knee’


I mean…why ask why?  (Image from




WHERE TO: Anywhere I feel like!

MOOD: See this post’s title.


Today a lovely and close friend from college, who I will call Doris, called me.

“I’M LOSING MY MIND, DJ!” was the thesis of the call.  You see, Doris has runner’s knee, and has moved to Crazytown as a result.  The conversation made me strangely emotional, as I recalled my months on the DL.

Apparently, Doris’ husband (who is also — kickass! — training for the NYC marathon) essentially told her, “Calm down.  It’ll get better.”  And while, yes, the runner with a nagging but low-pain injury needs to take a chill pill and also develop a meaningful and close relationship with a physical therapist, STAT, telling them to “calm down” is about the equivalent of telling someone with ebola who is also bleeding out the eye sockets, “Walk it off, champ.  It’s just a sprain.”

Dramatic?  Yes.  Overstatement?  Probably.  But fiddle-dee-dee.  Bite your tongue.  To tell the Serious Runner not to run is like…well… <violin chorus cue> telling the sea to stop roaring like a restless lion.  Like telling the clouds to stop their inexorable dance across the heavens.  <oboes and timpani chime in> Like telling a daisy not to bloom its beautiful face toward the sky.  Like telling that little brat from across the street to stop trying to pee on your bicycle tires as you ride by.  <sopranos> Like telling a foul-mouthed blogger to stop using the word “boner” so much.

Some forces, friends, can’t be stopped.

So when Doris told me her worries and frustrations, I felt for her.

She said, “I see all these people with PERFECTLY GOOD KNEES not taking advantage of it!”

“I know!” I chimed in, rolling about on my bed at 11 AM.

“Like, do you know how GOOD YOU HAVE IT?”

“Dude!  Like, get up off your ass already,” I added, rolling over to my computer, consulting Bing image searches to compare the merits of shirtless-Prince-of-Persia-Jake-Gyllenhaal-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Arabian-Sand-grit versus shirtless-Gladiator-Russell-Crowe-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Coliseum-dirt-grit (revisionist history is SEXY, bitches!), and also whether I could survive on the sawdusty dregs from Friday’s trail mix left in the baggie in my work-backpack next to my bed, or whether the strenuous trek down two flights of stairs would be necessary so that I could score a few spoonfuls of Quik (shut your godawful mouth, haters; I don’t judge you for those nudie Carol Channing pics I found in your den).

See, even in light of Doris’ withdrawal, I was suffering myself from a mild case of burnout.  You know you need a day off when, even not-training for anything, you’re running enough that your plantar fasciitis is acting up and the word “fartlek” is no longer funny and your soul hurts when you see the giant mobs of Team in Training people out on the trails because YOUR running isn’t fighting disease or helping people or dutifully clogging the trails around Bethesda for the rest of the world (hey.  Just saying.).

Ever since my convalescence, I had been attempting to do every run with a good old can-do gung-ho grateful-for-my-health KAPOW! sort of spirit, but Jaysus.  Sometimes it feels so optimistic and perky and spunky that I want to punch myself in the face and do a self-administered swirly. So (sorry, Doris), I did the unthinkable — I took TWO STRAIGHT DAYS OFF.

I know.  Easy, tiger.  Soon I’ll start organizing my sock drawer by size and not color WHOOOOOOA I JUST BLEW MY FREAKING MIIIIIND.

Anyway.  Tomorrow is another long run.  Back on the horse, back to the sweaty drippy fun.  Mmmmm…..


Oh, and in other news, Madam Sixpack has a blog.  In which she tackles the big life questions, about God and love and war and conflict and pain and joy and loss and suffering and…oh, no, my mistake.  It’s about her love of reading about throbbing, painful erections.  ENJOY!

Calming Down…

Let the Annual Foodgasm Commence!

OK, team.  Auntie DJ is sorry she got all superpissed about…well, everything last week.  I’ve gone to my corner, come back a new woman, blah blah…

The crazy has been coming back to a certain degree.  Remember my tarot card post?  That was riiiight when this whole injury started nagging away.  A part of me has wondered if perhaps the tarot cards brought this on — that the unholy demon that has attached itself to my left patella and has been humping away at it for a month and a half was brought home from Barnes and Noble in that one fateful seafoam green box.  So when I came home from school in my usual exhausted heap the other night, that little part of me reached for the cards and held them dramatically above the kitchen garbage can, ready to send them the way of coffee grounds and Red Bull cans I’ve slammajammed at 3 AM during paper-writing-fests.

But hey.  Let’s all calm down for a second, because we know which “part of me” is talking here.  It’s the part of me that went to Bible camp and came away convinced that Ouija boards (manufactured by Satan himself) (oops…no, I was mistaken…Parker Brothers) would condemn me to a life of damnation and sadness and that perfectly nice gay people would one day be dragged into the fiery pit to assume their places alongside murderers, single mothers, genociders, and Buddhists.

So I did not throw away the cards.  I decided to take a deep Goddamn breath, close my eyes, count to ten, sing a few calming choruses of Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend,” and take stock of life.

The truth is that I’ve learned a few extremely valuable lessons in this time off from running.  Yes, this is where the oboe starts playing and we all get didactic-ified.  So sit down, sack up, and deal with it, pussy.

1) If I stop running, I will not cease to exist.

…not that I thought I would actually wink out of existence upon not doing my morning fartleks (but then, who knows?  I had never tried it.).  But it sort of was my “thing.”  It was how people (people who don’t know me terribly well, mind you, but still) introduced me at parties.  And somehow — though I am a smart, fantastically interesting person — I let it become my definition.  Which is scary, because we’ve all met that guy who can ONLY TALK ABOUT WEIGHT-LIFTING, and eventually we just want to punch ourselves in the teeth just hearing him talk about Romanian dead-lifts and squat-thrusts and Muscle Man 9000 Creatine Powder.  I fear that I was becoming VO2-max-and-shin-splints girl.  Perhaps I was.  And then it disappeared for <shudder, hands to mouth> SIX WHOLE WEEKS.  And I only barely held on to my sanity.  Which leads me to:

2) I need to take a freaking chill pill.

Yeah.  Know who’s in friggin’ grad school?  Me.  Know who needs to graduate and find a job?  Me.  Know who let running, a running injury, and then freaking the shit out about a running injury get in the way of a crapload of schoolwork?  This kid.

3) If I stop running, I will not become morbidly obese.

Militant feminist though I may be, the patriarchy’s obsession with having a kickin’ bod is still residing comfortably in my head.  And to be perfectly, brutally honest, it took me two or three weeks of doing a crapload of elliptical and subsisting on dust and sparkling water to understand that I wouldn’t be muffin-top-ing all up in everyone’s face if I didn’t get to jog every morning.  Sad?  Perhaps.  But we’ve learned our lesson.  As I type this, in fact, I am currently chomping down a handful of nature’s most perfect food, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (Slogan: “Ruining your life deliciously — every spring since you were 5.”).

4) Yoga is really kind of fun.

And here I thought I’d hate it.  But it allows me to be strong, flexible, and oh yeah make lots of fun observations about the yoga culture.  For example:

5) Most men only go to yoga when dragged by their girlfriends.

OK.  I hate gender-based generalizations.  I really do.  And I wish I could say differently, but this appears true in 99 cases out of 100.  Trust me, ladies, next time you’re hoisting your thigh over your shoulder to the strains of Thievery Corporation, take a glance over at Kevin.  He hates every second of this.  He’s red and shaking not because of a good workout but because his scrotum is stretched so thin it’s transparent.  Know what?  Next week, when Heated Bikram 1-2 rolls around, let ol’ Kevin stay home and drink bourbon and scratch his hairy ass (How do I know it’s hairy?  He was doing 20 gazillion downward dogs in front of me in those silly shorts you made him wear, OK, Brenda?) and sniff your undies for a few hours.  You’ll both be happier.

6) Physical therapy works…eventually.

How do I know?  Because…

HOLY FUCKING GOD I RAN EIGHT MILES TODAY WITH MINIMAL PAIN AND I FELT LIKE A REAL PERSON AGAIN!  I mean, OK, yes, I could be a person without running, but I was also a person who was forgetting what Georgetown or the Mall looked like or what it feels like to blow past some 50-year-old buzz-cut tool who refuses to let a girl of all things pass him.

And then?  You guys?  I came home?  And walked down some stairs?  And felt almost NO CLICKING!  How did this happen?  WHO CARES, BITCHEZ?  TOUCH MY KNEE AND BELIEVE, YE WHO DOUBT ME!

Interestingly, a very good friend and fellow marathoner, who I will call The Mountie, has been nursing runner’s knee for I think even a little longer than me, and she also started magically getting better this week.  It’s, like, a CONNECTION, man.  Like we just KNOW in our bones that it’s HEALING TIME, right?  Far out, yo…

Anyway.  I salute you, Mountie.  We are kicking this.  Tasty-style.  I’d invite Mountie to do a victory dance with me, but she’d put me to shame.  So I’ll just sit here in the corner and sing a triumphant rendition of the Indiana Jones theme song while she busts a move.  Are you all watching?  Goddamn right you are.  This is what VICTORY looks and sounds like in the Republic of DJ — off-key and hilarious, yet strangely sexual.

Yes, I’m aroused, too.  It’s OK.  Embrace it.


WEATHER: Mid-30s, rainy and gross.

MILES: Not since high school have 3 measly miles felt so good and non-measly.

WHERE TO: Logan Circle and surrounding area

MOOD: Cautiously optimistic, once again.


The hole lets the happy in.

God bless the good people at Ace bandages.   My God, I feel fab.  Not fully rehabilitated, mind you, but at least somewhat human.

Random Internet Strangers are the BEST.

WEATHER: Over 40!  Sunny!


WHERE TO: A magical land of KICKASS!

MOOD: OMG!  You guys!  Guess what!  You guys!


YOU GUYS.  Today I ran 2.5 miles.  Without pain!  WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….

Why did I decide to run?  Runner’s World forums, that’s why.  I went on and asked the good fellow-injured runners about whether my doctor was a dumbass or not for telling me to run on a clicking knee.  As it turns out, other people have gotten this advice before.

Upon reflection, maybe I’m the dumbass.  Seasoned medical advice?  No, thank you.  Advice from a bunch of other yahoos who are probably also 50 kinds of pervy?  Helllls yes!  So.  I tied on my running shoes and out the door I went.

Now, let’s not freak the hell out with joy yet, because I came home and iced and — graawwwrrr — there was indeed some hurt.  But LESS, kids!  And — strangely — it has migrated from the outer corner of my kneecap to the inner edge.


I’m just gonna take this as a sign of progress (right?  RIGHT???).  I think I have to, because I’m starting to lose touch with reality in a very small but very real way.  My brain has been living in my left knee for the last month; every time I sit or stand or go down stairs or go up stairs, all I can do is tune every sense to this one stupid joint and think, “Is it popping?  Yes?  No?  Whoa!  Wait!  Stop!  Did we feel something there?  No?”

People wouldn’t know it to look at me, but at any given moment, I’m internally either celebrating a successful stand-up or mourning the teeniest imagined twinge from hopping off of a curb.  So today I tried a new experiment — I spent an hour today running errands and imagining that my right knee was the hurt one, and just focused on that.  And suddenly I realized that I could totally mentally fabricate these little aches and stings — IS MY RIGHT KNEE POPPING OUT?  HOLY FUCK!  SIT DOWN!

Which is encouraging — maybe I’m more healed than I thought! — or upsetting — maybe I’m a running-injury-hypochondriac! — depending on how you look at it.

Anyhow, at least we know that recovery is possible, but it will be slow.  <sigh>

In other news, I ran into S. at Starbuck’s the other day.  He was little help.

“My knee does that too!  I run on it!  Don’t worry about it!  Let’s go for an 18-miler!”

Needless to say, I walked home drinking a Grande Pike’s Place Roast seasoned with bitter tears.  Screw you, S.  You’ve been running all of what — 2 years?  Bah.  You’ll get yours.  <sniffle>  You really <choke, sob> will.  OH GOD COME OVER TO MY HOUSE AND MASSAGE MY LEG YOU STUPID HANDSOME EDUCATED SOMEWHAT FUNNY LAWYER-Y PERSON. <tantrum on floor>

It strikes me now that I end up crying in like half of these posts.  So here is a picture to up today’s happy quotient by like a BAZILLION.  Hoo-wah!

He's totally defeating Gannon. WITHOUT Game Genie.

You might want to sit down. Repeatedly.

Hey, readers.

Are you ready for awesome?

<stands up>

Did you hear that?

<sits down, stands up>

No, you did not.

<sits down, stands up>

<sits down, stands up>

<sits down, stands->

Wait.  Dammit.  There it was.

But still.  We’re batting about 0.500 for being able to stand/sit without clickage.  Let’s get blasted!

Let’s Play Doctor.

"My GOD. Her x-rays are BREATHTAKING!"

Apparently Mother Nature had some bad shellfish or just one too many espresso-and-grapefruit breakfasts (don’t know what I’m talking about?  Try it sometime!), because as you might have heard, this past week she dropped trou and let loose a massive dooshing of snow, plus a spatter-painting of slush, onto Washington, DC.

But when your knee is clicking and you are going to yoga EVERY DAY out of cabin fever/boredom and the instructors are wondering why this hopeless case with the all-spandex wardrobe is there all the time, especially when she’ll never be able to do full lotus pose or even the half-tiger or double-earthworm, well, then it’s time to get shit taken care of.

So on Monday I traipsed down to Foggy Bottom (2.5 miles away, kids…no buses and spotty Metro service, of course) and saw Dr. Fine.  Really.  This is his name.

“Lie back, DJ.”  <grabs my left leg>  “Now, let it go looooose….”  <bends it this way and that>

As it turns out, his name is disturbingly apropos:

“Mmmm…yeah, OK.  Your leg is fine.”


“Does it hurt?”


He puts his hands on his hips.  “It just clicks?”


“…well, just don’t become a CIA agent then!”

<blank stare from me>

“You know…….it’s tough to sneak around…..when you’re clicking.”

“Oh.  Ha.”

So after my appointment with Dr. Comedic Genius, I trudged home over piles of solidified slush and streets (unplowed, natch) coated with 8″ of packed snirt.  Aside from the single-lane-traffic sidewalks, fruitless (literally) grocery store run on the way home, angry motorists, angry pedestrians, angry God, and steadily moistening socks, I was also tormented by persistent questions I SHOULD have asked Dr. Genius and that he neglected to even address.  I mean, really non-pertinent stuff here — like, oh, I don’t know…”When will this be better?” or “Are you sure I’m OK?” or “CAN’T YOU FEEL THAT?  CAN’T YOU?  AM I ON CRAZY PILLS?”  By the time I got home and put my meager food purchases away, I was sniffling and reaching for the cell phone, ready for “I’m-losing-my-flipping-mind-phone-call-to-Mom” number 8 of the week.

This post has taken me forever to write and I’m not staying on track, so perhaps I should just get to the simple main points:

1) Dr. CG said I should elliptical for 2 weeks (1 of which is about up now), then try running again, a mile at a time.

2) Dr. CG said he would give me a referral to a physical therapist.  “<scoff> If you really want one.  I mean, if you think that’s NECESSARY.”

3) Dr. CG gave me exercises to do as well — exercises he treated with the same flap-of-the-hand, “Do them as you will, dahling” attitude with which he seemed to treat the rest of my well-being, Goddammit.  I have been doing said exercises with a level of commitment I can only wish I brought to studying, religion, or any relationship ever.  I do them while watching TV.  I do them while studying.  I do them on the bus.  I do them in the bathroom stall at work.  I have even done them during every single time I have had intercourse over the last week.

Ahahaha.  A little circumstantial-celibacy humor for you all there.  Go ahead and laugh.  It chases the sad away, and if you do it hard enough, it almost reminds you of what an orgasm feels like.

Wait.  No it doesn’t.  Does it?  Doesn’t it?  Holy freaking jeez, do I remember?  OH GOD I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE WITH A LEAN CUISINE SEASONED WITH TEARS SITTING IN MY LAP <sound of “Legends of the Fall” being inserted into DVD drive>


In “keeping-myself-sane” news, yoga continues to at least somewhat fill running’s place, if only in the way that a teaspoon of skim vanilla ice milk can take the place of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food with a can of Reddi Whip on the side.  <sigh>

However, all is not lost, as I had a class today led by The Most Gorgeous Man in The World (TMGMTW).  TMGMTW is a tall man with fantastically dark skin and long beautiful dreads and these shoulders.  These SHOULDERS.  Hohhhhh these shoulders <falls off chair, writhes on ground delighting in the knowledge that there is such beauty in the world>.

Anyway.  TMGMTW actually didn’t teach that spectacular of a class, though perhaps it’s not my place to judge.  I have all the balance of a drunk Holstein, so naturally TMGMTW incorporated every one-legged pose EVER into today’s class, and also threw in a few that I suspect he made up on the spot, just to mess with my wobbly ass as he strode up and down the rows, giving feedback.

ME: <grunt, moan, wobble>

TMGMTW:<in a tone one would use toward a puppy trying to do organic chemistry> Good job!  Keep trying!

ME: <face-plant>

I’ma go ice my nose, y’all.  Bye.

Welcome to Crazytown. Population: me.

Feelin' fine, everybody. Just flippin' fine.

The knee is still not better, and Boston is looking less and less likely by the day.  Pain = gone, clicking = still there, probably exacerbated by over-vigorous elliptical-ing.  So.  No more gym for a while.

In a way, it’s a little bit of a relief to be giving the gym the middle finger for the next couple of weeks.  The elliptical machines had been provoking what I would call a mild homicidal rage in recent weeks.  Though this was worsened by middle-aged fellow who saw me wearing a race shirt and had thus started striking up conversations about how “the elliptical is so much better for you than running, you know.”  Oh, really?  How so? I thought.  But instead I just palmed his face and calmly continued with my lat pull-downs.

I mean, we’ll survive.  We’re just setting our sights on a new race.  A 50-mile race.  Because as they always say — when life hands you lemons and runner’s knee, take a big sour chomp and plan a 50-miler.  Because that makes sense.

The bottom line here: a few of you wonderful readers have been asking, “Where are the new posts?  Where are you?”

Now you have your answer: Crazytown.

Never been to Crazytown?  Allow me to tell you what life is like here:

We shuffle around the house all weekend in our orange Jagermeister beater, oversized Clippers shorts, and bright-coral-and-turquoise-striped knee socks, clutching a Costco-king-sized bag of raisins in one hand and a 2-liter Diet Coke in the other.

“How’s the knee?” says well-intentioned roommate.

In Crazytown, we react to this by bursting into tears and burying our face in the raisin feedbag.

Why raisins?, you ask?  Well, why not, you little turd?

Perhaps the most prominent feature of residency in Crazytown is severe emotional volatility.  This can pop up at any time, and is often alleviated by a tearful call to Mom and Dad (a.k.a. The Nicest People Ever), who have no idea how to react, because they’ve gone cheerfully without running for 3 decades, whereas less than 3 weeks without running turns their daughter into a freaking wackjob.

But the emotional volatility probably most often manifests itself at school-or-work-related open-bar receptions, where after a few lemontinis, Casual Acquaintance’s Girlfriend (CAG) asks you the same damn question she asks you every damn time she sees you: “So are you seeing anyone?”

“No, CAG.”

“How long have you lived in DC?”

“A year and a half, CAG.”

She looks thoughtful.  And after a few minutes — the amount of time it apparently takes for this bombshell information to sink in: “…have you dated ANYONE since you’ve moved to DC?”

…at which point other tipsy acquaintances decide it’s time to turn the still-single freakshow girl into a case study.  “Yes!  What ARE your standards, anyway?”  “Too busy for a boyfriend?  PLEASE.”  “Well, where have you been going to meet people?”  “You do know that militant feminism is terribly unsexy, right?”

They all said other things, but I didn’t hear, as I was busy clutching my knees to my chest underneath the table, rocking, and suckling down sweet, comforting Sweet ‘n’ Low packets from the bar, dreamily imagining an alternate reality in which I administer a simultaneous face-palm and flying-scissor-kick-to-the-hoo-hah to CAG.

But let us ask ourselves: did she even “mean it that way”?  Well, perhaps not.  Perhaps I’m being unfair.  But like I said, kids: EMOTIONAL VOLATILITY.

At which point Enthusiastic-Acquaintance-Lady (EAL) asked, “HaveyoubeenrunninglatelyDJ?”

<rock, rock> “nnnooooo….” <rock, aspartame-induced twitch>

“Ohyou’reinjuredthat’srightwellIhavebeenrunningalotsoIthoughtIwouldaskandIjustloverunningdon’tyou,” said EAL, who under normal circumstances would be greeted by cheerful agreement from me.  But instead…

<rock, sob, quiet singing of happy-go-lucky showtunes> “Iiii haaave confidence in” <choke, sob, sniffle> “sunshine….”

What does this have to do with running?  Well, under normal circumstances, I’d shrug and mentally pump my fist in the air in response to CAG and EAL, thinking, “Fuck yeah!  At least I still have my bad-ass gams that allow me to run LAPS around allllll of life’s problems!”  Then I would quietly plan the next morning’s 5:30 AM 10-Mile Anger Run.

But no.  Instead, I quietly lowered my shoulders down and back, releasing all tension, and thought about how my next morning’s Heated Flow Yoga 1-2 Hatha-Inspired Happytime Meditative Restorative Silent Contemplation class would release all this tension.  I closed my eyes and let go of it all, squeeeeeeezing my fists tightly for a count of 1…..2……3……


“DJ, why are you squeezing the bejeezus out of skeezy waiter’s testicles?”

“Oh!  Oh.  Oh, dear.  I let my chi take over, and it just…you know...felt right.”

“Oh.  Carry on!”

That’s it.  I’m starting an Anger Yoga class.  We can all <inhale> gaaaaather up our energy and put it behind our left-fist chakra, <exhale> propelllllllling it forcefully and purposefully forward into the face of anyone who ever mentions master’s theses, dating, or running ever again to us.

Seriously, everyone.  It’s all gonna be fine.  We have a doctor’s appointment on Monday, assuming DC can de-paralyze itself from Snow-Flipout 2010.  Until then, send good vibes.  Send hugs.  Send money.  Send a feather boa and a machete.  Send a nudy poster of Jason Alexander on the hood of a 1987 Buick Skylark.  Because in Crazytown, that’s just how we do things.  Booyah.

Taking ACTION!


PAIN LOCATION: Left kneecap region.


OTHER SYMPTOMS: Obsessive elliptical use

HURTS WHEN I: ONLY WHEN I RUN.  Nothing else.  Really.  I walk, jump, squat, etc. …and it’s FINE.  I jog for 3 minutes on a treadmill and it hurts.  Go flippin’ figure.

HURTS SORT OF WHEN I: <see above>

DOESN’T HURT WHEN I: <again.  see above.>


1) Ice.  Ice ice ice.  The frostbitten patch on my knee is now hardened and keratinized and all funky-feeling.  It’s kind of cool.

2) Mad Men.

3) Obsessive thesis work.

4) Calling an orthopedist to get this crap taken care of.

4.5) …which necessitated a call to the nice people at United Healthcare.  Shirley explained to me my benefits, because understanding and seeking health care is one of those “adult” things I’m not yet able to do, along with doing taxes, going on a date with a man who doesn’t just annoy the sheer hell out of me, and going a full day at work without saying something mildly inappropriate but ridiculously funny, which is how I justify it when a word like “boobies” comes flying out of my mouth in professional company.

5) Education.  I showed you all a helpful diagram yesterday, but The Bear sent me a more comprehensive knee illustration to better show me how to treat my condition:


We are awed, The Bear.

…so I need to put ice on the boner, so it doesn’t keep grinding on the boner, which is also going to cause some pain, naturally, to the boner when it bends against the boner.  I get it now!

Seriously, this is all really depressing.  I think I’m taking a few days off from even thinking about it.

Signing off for a few,


Cautious Optimism

So.  I missed a day of posting.  I blame an ice-, Stairmaster-, endorphin-withdrawal-, and yoga-induced stupor.   But we HAVE gotten to a point where the pain is COMPLETELY gone!  POW!  The only issue is still a slight “click” when I bend and straighten it beyond a certain angle.  Can I still run on this?  No pain but weird noises?  <uncomfortable fidgeting>

Runner's knee is worse if your kneecap is blue, you know.


….YES.  Yes.

At left is a scientific diagram of the body of a runner’s-knee-afflicted individual.  This visual aid is to assist you, so that you can more easily and educated-ly give me medical advice.

Well, here’s hoping it’s all good.  Tomorrow I plan to do a measly half an hour on the treadmill, just to reinforce to myself that it’s allll fixed.  My workout today consisted of running around the house as much as possible, as well as lots of hops on my left foot, all of it “just to make sure.”  I’m probably annoying the bejeezus outof ol’ Smoky McIncense downstairs, but then again, he’s probably like waaaay too mellow to get up and bitch about it.

Seriously, though, I’ve been feeling bazonkers for these past 8 days of convalescence.  Not to get too drama-queen, but I’ve been experiencing a sort of minor identity crisis, forced to consider what on earth I would do if I didn’t have running to do for exercise/stress-relief.  Stairmasters don’t go anywhere, lifting isn’t sweat-intensive enough, and the instructor on last night’s Netflix yoga video told me “not to open your flower’s petals before it blossoms!”

Somehow I suddenly — in the room alone, mind you — had the urge to cover my vag.

“You’ll break the petals!” he said.

“PERVERT!” I yelled at the MacBook.

I guess the issue here is that I never realized how much I really really love/depend on running.  I mean, I’m not engrossed enough in my job or school to let those things take over my life, and I don’t have a husband or child to eat away at my time (not that I’m complaining).  Running has really been it for such a long time.  And there is only ONE EPISODE OF 30 ROCK PER WEEK to watch on Hulu!  Not enough to sustain me, kids.  I also have found myself, in my withdrawal-crazed internet browsing sessions, considering the possibility of a 50-miler.  Really.  Because that’s not at all insane.


So.  Dear readers.  Pray/do a forbidden dance/meditate/send some vibes my way so that I can have my goddamn life back.

…and there was much rejoicing.

20 hops!  On the left foot!  Which is the foot just below the (formerly?) injured knee!  And no pain!  Success, dear readers!  Let’s go get BLASTED!