It is finally getting warmer out, and I finally started running again.
My first day back, I cried the entire time. It was not the "oh-my-god-this-hurts" kind of crying, it was more like the "I-am-PMSing-and-there-is-nothing-wrong-but-the-fact-that-there-is-nothing-wrong-makes-me-feel-empty-and-why-isn't-this-run-making-me-feel-better" kind of crying. I stopped crying after the run, so I guess my methods worked, but it is unfortunate that I had to dampen the day of all the other runners on the path who likely think something terribly tragic happened to me. Nope, just PMS mixed with this never ending winter and my reintroduction to seasonal affectiveness disorder.
A few days later, feeling much better, I went out for another run. No tears, so it is automatically an emotional step up from my last attempt. Although my head was clearer, my tummy was not. You see we have not gone grocery shopping in awhile, and working from home, I could only eat what we had left in the cabinets...which happened to be goldfish crackers. Having binged on salty crackers all day long, I stuff one more handful in my mouth before we head out because it is now 9pm and my last handful was around 5pm. So, ya know, I could probably use the extra energy. After 3 miles of intense stomach cramping, Trevor and I finish our workout. Its 9:30pm though and neither of us really feel like cooking dinner. Plus there is not much food left in the house. We decide to walk a couple blocks to a Qdoba fast food Mexican restaurant and order a couple burritos. Before even drinking water after the run, we scarf down our burritos (because, ya know, the best solution to stomach cramping is Mexican junk food). Trevor practically carried me home where I was up all night with heartburn.
Recently, I went on a more successful run without any emotional or physical pain, however, I did get wrapped up in some good ol' social awkwardness. I was running along a path when I had to stop for a red light. While I was waiting for the light to turn green a middle aged woman came up to me and asked me where I got my shirt. She had a slight accent that I would guess came from Russia or eastern Europe. I looked down to see what she was talking about. My shirt was nothing particularly special, just a plain white hooded fleece. I remembered getting it when I was with Trevor and his Dad and his sister in South Jersey. I know we were not at a Sport Authority, but at one of those other sporting goods stores. I decide I must have gotten it from Dicks Sporting Goods.
I tell the Russian lady, "I got my shirt at Dicks, which is a sporting goods store."
She asks, "Is it in Harvard Square?"
I reply, "No I didn't get it around here, but Dicks are everywhere, you can just google it to find one."
To which she replies, "OK, I will google 'Dicks are everywhere,' Thank you!"
I immediately regret my poor choice of words and strongly consider re-wording her google search terms, but then the light turned green and she has already turned her back to walk away. So I go back to running... now with a smile ...thinking of that poor lady. I get home and tell Trevor about our conversation and how I fear that this poor Russian lady is at her computer now looking at awful websites and cursing Americans for pulling dirty tricks on her (even though I didn't mean to, although I didn't try hard to correct myself). Trevor laughs. Then he calmly says "You didn't get that shirt at Dicks, you got it at Modells." .....oops