I’m really not sure how I survived before I started running. It is the perfect outlet for me, and it’s just a shame that it took me so long to realize it.
That poses a problem when I can’t do it. Sometimes I feel rather bipolar; when I can run, I am almost cheery, but when I can’t, it’s like a big curtain of gloom has descended on the world. And not that there’s ever a good time to get injured, but now is the worst possible time, what with this oh-so-lovely holiday that has me both protein-deprived and feeling like a fat bloated pig (overdoses of wine and matzah, yay). I don’t like stuffing my face and feeling like that, but if I get something out of it — in this case, being able to run — it’s slightly more tolerable. Except that when I can’t run, I kind of fall apart.
Just for the record, the injury in question isn’t even running-related. I went to work on Friday, and I was fine. And then at some point I got up from my chair, and I wasn’t. Apparently, I am so talented that even while sitting still, I can pull an intercostal muscle (or something — self-diagnosis is necessary when your doctor is an idiot, and I don’t need to go to him because he’ll probably just say [again] that I broke a rib). So I haven’t run since Friday, which is actually only one day off, since I wasn’t supposed to run until today anyway… and I’m already going insane. And my ribs hurt.
Check back in a few days when this stupid injury has (hopefully!) healed, and I’ll be cheery and chipper.