If I’m Gonna Tell it then I Gotta Tell It All
Any Usher fans in the house (circa 2004)? Don’t try and pretend you don’t know every word. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve been jittery all day. Hell, who am I kidding, all week. Inactivity is not jiving with me. I had this grand (delusional) plan that if I just rested I would be fine to run on Wednesday. I could still get all my runs in this week. This week, the last big week of training. The highest mileage week. The week I was looking forward to. A confidence building week. Redemption after a tear stained 21 miler. And I haven’t run a mile since Saturday. I haven’t done anything besides plank the ground. That and cry over the stupidest shit (how DARE Freshii try and limit my previously unlimited toppings to four). I’ve also thought every irrational thought on the planet. This is karma. This is the universe laughing in my face. I should have believed in myself more. It doesn’t actually hurt; you’re just scared. I feel more batshit crazy than usual.
Icing on the cake: White Coat Syndrom. I’m panicking about going to the doctor tomorrow. I don’t like the doctor. No fat kid likes the doctor. Please don’t remind me the awful, awful disservice I’ve done to my body. The guilt is bad enough without the reminder. I don’t remember the last doctor I saw more than once. None as an adult, that’s for sure. Because facing my problems wasn’t my style. It’s still not my style. Ignore and it doesn’t exist, right? 10 hours and 22 minutes and I’m already sweating through my fucking sheets. My heart is racing. I tried to sleep and light danced on my eyelids. I’d say this is going well already.
So that’s where my head’s at. Let’s pretend this never happened and I’ll be all smiles and giggles in the morning. Well, maybe the afternoon. We’ll see what the doctor says.
