As I write this, it has been exactly 4,302 minutes since my last run. You know how long that is for an addicted runner like me? Just about as long as your wait when you are the 15th in line for the toilet and you got one minute before the race starts.
Last week was the first time that I ran just twice in a week—both of which were unchallenging, mediocre treadmill runs. My training log is cursing me for leaving him an orphan. My ipod is gathering dust. My tummy has morphed into a blob of jello. And, my feet—ah my feet—they are smooth, blister-free, and relaxed. Just the way non-runners like them.
Needless to say, I am grouchy, bloated, and whiny. If you see me, do not say hi. You must run for your life, especially if you are in red running gear, for The Bull Runner shall attack.
Okay, I’m exaggerating again as I always do. Despite the foul mood, I manage a little smile every hour or so, but these are reserved only for my husband and children—and myself whenever I open a block of Choc-nut in between my bouts of depression.
I’m saving just one wide thankful grin for my doctor later this afternoon though. I got a blood test this morning and, as soon as I get the results, I’ll go for a check up. I’m pretty sure nothing is wrong. My guess is that I’m anemic or I should be eating more nutritious foods, but nothing serious. (Nope, I am not pregnant. I’m 100% sure!) I shall ask my doctor, “So, doc, can I start running again tonight? And, can I join the Run for HOPE on Sunday?” To which he will most definitely reply, “By all means, go ahead and run.” And, with that, I shall instantly return to my normal happy self again with a wide grin to show for it.