Beautiful day. Perfect day to go on run with my trainer/husband and the kids. So, we saddled up and off we went.
(For those of you not familiar with my tenuous relationship with running, check out my last post about my attempts to ascend to Iron Girl status. )
The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, kids were fed and happy with their water bottles, I'd gotten a decent night's sleep...All signs pointed to a good run. Plus, not only did I survive the last couple of outings, but was able to keep up the pace and go further each time. I was lookin' good and feelin' fine. Little did I know that I would soon be betrayed.
As I started a light jog, I suddenly realized that even though I was into this run, my legs most definitely were not. I felt like I was lifting dead weight from my kneecaps down. When my foot would hit the pavement, it's as if my legs were mocking me: "Sucker bitch. You thought you could run? Ha! Guess again!"
The husband breezed past me with the kids as he always does. Buh-bye. Ol' Cinderblock Legs left to her own devices. As I ran down the parkway along the creek I tried to distract myself with thoughts of the babbling water ("F'ing water. I hate that stupid creek.); some music in my head ("F'ing forgot the i-pod. How could I forget the stinking i-pod?); and the beautiful weather (That stupid sun is just beating down on me. Idiot.). I also tried to shorten my scope and not think of the entire three miles, but just running to the stop sign up ahead (where is that friggin' stop sign???) then running to the park up a little farther (OMG. That park better be coming up soon. I'm going to die.) then running just a little more to the bridge (F' that bridge and the horse it rode in on).
Finally, I did what I haven't done in weeks. I stopped. I can't believe I stopped. I was on such a roll. Darn, darn, darn!
According to our kids' babysitter, there is a saying in Trinidad that when someone is in a noticeable funk or bad mood, he has a figurative poop in his pants. Well, it's pretty safe to say I had a HUGE poop in my pants. And, as I walked along, wallowing in my doody drawers, I saw a little blue jogging stroller in the distance. It was headed toward me. My blood pressure started to rise.
Wait just a gosh darn second here! They can't lap me at the Ship Park, that's too early! They usually don't lap me until way past the Forest Glen stop sign! All of the sudden, ego and pride took over and I..was..runnnin'! (Sorry for all the Forrest Gump references, but I just can't resist.)
I'm not sure exactly how I must have looked to a casual observer. But, I felt like limbs were flailing about maniacally. Not a controlled, cool-as-a-cucumber jog, but a panicked windmill sprint. I ran my ass off. I was feeling the heat and the sound of Jack's nonsensical toddler blathering was getting closer and closer...There's the stop sign! I'm almost there! If I can just make it a little bit past, this run won't be a complete failure! Come...on! Run, you wimp! Ruuuuun!
As I neared the stop sign, I could hear the wheels of the Doodlebug right on my heels. Then, next to me. Then, that voice. That mocking voice: "Hi honey. You look great! Keep movin'!" Ugh. Did he have to be so damn...encouraging??? Jerk.
And so, they passed me. They passed me before I could reach the stop sign. I slowed down. Defeated.
"That is life, my friend," a wise Mexican cab driver once said to me during a vacation in Alcapulco. Yes, that is life. Two steps forward, one step back?
I may have lost this battle, but the war is still undecided...Stay tuned...
It’s Not You. It’s Them.
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