It’s been a month since I ran that marathon, and while my foot has mostly healed my left knee is not forgiving me.
“Heather,” it whines when I when I walk down a flight of stairs. “Remember at mile 14 when I told you I wasn’t up for that shit? And you played it like I was just talking to myself?”
“Left knee,” I answer in return. “You’ve known me for what, 36 years? You really think I was going to let you stop me from finishing that marathon?”
“You’re saying that bragging rights are more important than vital body parts?”
“YES. THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I’M SAYING.”
It’s as if my left knee has never read this website.
For someone so addicted to the endorphins that follow an intense workout, it’s been a rough month (CUE THE SAD VIOLINS). I’ve had to ease slowly back into things, and by slow I mean cursing under my breath as the 75-yr-old man with a cane makes it to the chest press machine before I do.
I can’t run, and spin class tortures my injuries. Also, I’m not sleeping and have completely lost my appetite. I’ve read about post-marathon blues where you’re left feeling aimless after working so hard toward that one goal. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling? Every day since that race has resembled those last four miles when my emotions followed a sine curve:
Everything is okay.
No, actually. Everything is shit.
Maybe I’ll just relax and read a magazine.
Maybe I’ll just take all these pills so that I don’t have to wake up.
You’re being ridiculous.
I wish it were that simple of an emotion.
Aren’t you supposed to write something funny for your website?
Q: How many Mormons does it take to change a light bulb?
Oh, God. Stop. Don’t even—
A: Four. One to say an opening prayer, one to give a talk on changing light bulbs, one to change the light bulb, and one to say a closing prayer.
That’s a really stupid joke.
You’re not convincing me to walk away from those pills.
Go put on your brave face and do all that stuff that you do. This day will fade into the next and then again into the next. Just pretend you’re a machine.