Physical Therapy, 7:30 AM
I woke up this morning and my foot hurt. So without going into so much detail because it’s unnecessary and mostly it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not running yet.
I sobbed in the car on my way in to physical therapy this morning because it has been 31 days since I woke up and realized my choices were (1) Crawl to the bathroom (2) Action Spiderman’s Chosen Method Of Transport And Slither Along The Wall.
For the record, I would not recommend car-crying because in addition to making desperate attempts to pay attention to the road, the thought of crying black, Miss Wisconsin-style mascara tears before 8:00 AM is nothing short of terrifying.
I mean, I guess you could call me vaguely “healthy” because I can walk, largely without meaningful pain. For a lot of people, that right there falls into the category of doing pretty damn well.
But walking isn’t really my goal.
I could handle DNF-ing my second marathon because I know that I did all of the work. I’ve said it before, I will say it a million more times. I do not regret any of it.
But 31 days into an overuse injury that has no set end-date, I am on the verge of losing my mind.
This is me, officially sulking and declaring myself a pity party for one day only. Because sometimes you just need to get it down, get it out and get on with it already.
How do I really feel?
The glass half-full is getting me nowhere. The marathon is 12 weeks away. Everyone else is out doing something while I am consigned to squats and calf raises and pelvic thrusts. This is not the life I signed up for. If I see another one of those Pinterests that outlines Finishing Last as being more noble than a DNF or DNS I am going to tear my hair out by the roots. I cannot operate in a world where there is no reward for giving everything. I’m tired of biking. I’m not a biker. No I don’t own a road bike, and yes I’ve thought about biking on the road. I’m still not interested. I’m allergic to chlorine, so please just spare me now unless you belong to a health club with a salt water pool. No, I don’t want to join a gym. No, I don’t want to join Your gym. I’m even less interested in the ways that your personal trainer can help me unless they come with a free pair of New Legs. The light at the end of the tunnel is gone.
It’s embarrassing, really. I want so badly to be Little Miss Valiant. Little Miss Totally Okay With It. Little Miss Keep Calm And Carry On.
But I am just sick and tired of all of it.
At some point, this has to get better, right?