Proving Myself.

I was desperate yesterday, hating myself, feeling like I had to prove something, so I ran ten miles instead of the six I started out for. Anyone else seeing a pattern here? It's like the only way I can get any spontaneity into my life: start out for a certain distance and then at the last moment, at that critical turn for home, I say NO! I get to do something totally unexpected and the thrill of being a free agent, in a world where I so rarely get to make decisions on the fly, is just thrilling.

And then I keep running, wondering what the hell I was thinking.

My particular plan yesterday was to run six miles, when at the pivotal moment, I decided to make it ten. At the time, ten didn't seem that much more than six (I think the running was messing with my brain; plus,math has never been a strong subject for me). I felt really good, not at all like the last time when I ran after eating a huge greasy cheeseburger. I pretty much felt like a contestant on the Biggest Looser on that run. I wanted to die.

This run was like flying. All I had for breakfast was a half of pastry and two cups of coffee and not one single cramp the whole run. I am making a mental note to remember this.

When I got home I was pretty tired. I stretched a lot because Joey told me I needed to. The look on his face when I told him I had run ten instead of six was pretty priceless, like You did what you crazy woman? Whatever I had to prove I had, or I thought I had. I had Ethan help me stretch by pulling on my hands as I stretched forward. He sat on my back and his little thirty pound pressure was just perfect. I guess I felt I had even more to prove because I did the splits, on both legs, something I have not done in years, and to my twenty-seven-almost-thirty delight I was amazed I can still do them, both legs. I feel super bad ass about this.

Then we went to Home Depot for some plants. Our plan was to do yard work all day. I know, I know, I am a complete idiot. We bought seven or eight plants, a huge blue spruce. These all had to be carried up our stairs in the back. Then we had to go up and down, up and down, sixty five million more times to get the hose, or more planting soil, or whatever. I started to move extremely slow, like a cartoon being hit with a tranquilizer. I could tell Joey was a little upset, and in fact the truth came out a little later when I told him to stop being so mean to me, and he said, "Well, you make me do everything!" He had dug all the holes, carried all the super heavy things up the stairs. But the thought of digging a hole in our hard as rock clay soil made me want to take the shovel down the stairs, crawl into my bed, and take a nap with it.

I thought he'd be a little more sympathetic, seeing as he runs like this all the time. Instead, when I started to complain of my hurting legs, he told me the number one cause of injury for runners is increasing mileage too rapidly.

And in fact I have hurt my IT band, as Joey calls it. Whatever it is, it aches and sometimes burns and then feels like pins and needles. Yowchers. This is all a huge blow to my pride. When we went to bed, he graciously rubbed it down. The pressure of his hands was relieving, as was the fact that he didn't make any Itoldyouso comments; he was helpful and maybe even tender. He showed me some specific exercises to stretch it out.
At least I know I can do ten. And if I can do ten, I can sure as hell do thirteen point whatever.