You think I haven’t been running, don’t you? Ha.

I have. Been. Running.

I just haven’t talked about it as much. Trying to come back from injuries is humbling.

Injuries themselves are humbling. Especially when they happen one right after another.

It feels like constantly being tripped up in the aisle of the school bus.

I haven’t run a race in a long time. I’m too scared. I feel like I would push myself during a race to the point where I would reinjure myself.

I have very little self-awareness when I run. I am working on that. I usually don’t feel an injury until it’s way past too late.

Today, I ran my first less-than-30-minute 5K. Not a race, just in my hood.

I was so proud I almost cried. If you’ve kept up with my past running posts, you will know that the whole crying while running business is not foreign to me. It has to be hormonal, I am sure of it. But it happens. For real. It does.

Roll Me Away by Seger. Sigh No More by Mumford and Sons. The Mortician’s Daughter by Black Veil Brides. Dreams by the Cranberries. My Skin by Natalie Merchant.

Yeah, I’ve run-cried to all of them.

Stop laughing at me.


Did I tell you about the part where I stuck my finger in the sewing machine? Yeah. It sucked kinda bad. See, I was sewing, right. It’s this awesome little red dress I am going to wear to Sarge’s last formal before he retires. So, there I was, no shit. Sewing along like Betty f***ing Crocker or some shit. And then BLAM! Sewing machine needle through the finger. The tip of the needle broke off and everything. Went through my nail cuticle. Thankfully, Sarge snatched the needle sliver out with his pliers so I didn’t go to the ER. ERs are dumb. They have germs there.


Sarge and I have been talking about doing the Spartan Race and/or The Warrior Dash again this year. The Spartan is March 23. There is no hell way I’m going to be ready in 10 days. Not upper body strength. My god-awful triceps tendon is a bitch and a half. That is the slowest-healing injury I have ever EVER ever dealt with. Like, EVER.

Hopefully I will get by on my dry satire and storytelling abilities? Perhaps the menfolk can pass me around as the village whore?

Whatever I gotta do, right.


So, yeah. I ran a 28:31-minute 5K this morning. I almost run-cried, but didn’t. My legs feel fantastic. My arm does not. I sewed my finger. I just bought Jake a man-purse because apparently being in college isn’t enough of a super-dorky thing to do at 17 years old, but he has to have a murse to go with his scarf, too. Andrew has a trash-stache he refuses to shave. I desperately need a new vacuum cleaner that I have put off buying for 2 weeks now.

And I am seriously in the mood for some goddamned WAFFLES.

The End.