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.

It’s exhausting.


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