it's posts like this that will come back to bite me in the ass someday

A recent tata injury that kept me off the pavement for the 72 hours it took until the first signs of healing appeared made me once again consider my addictive personality. (Regarding my Booby Juicer damage, suffice it to say that sometimes lemons get bruised when lemonade is on the menu. And for all you men who think that doesn’t sound like too much of a big deal, consider how your own fruit might feel if they were damaged from the inside out. Damn straight you should be cringing right now, in addition to picking up the phone to call your mother for everything she’s done for you.)

Luckily for me, the same compulsive tendencies that witnessed me start a half a pack a day habit at age 13, and convince me that the words “two” and “beer” should never be uttered in the same sentence (unless that sentence is “I’ll bring twenty-two beer to the party, if you bring the cake”), motivate me to make a run for it every day I can. Whether the course is 5K or 10K matters not; the high I achieve when I walk in the door after a solid run keeps me coming back for more. The walking I was forced to resort to for a couple of days a week or so ago now seems so pedestrian (“har-dee-har-har, Winter”), even though that was my exercise of choice for a full year before I took up running. Small steps, right? (“GUF-FAW.”)

I don’t often write about how much I’ve started to enjoy running, because I don’t really want to be that person who sometimes inspires, but always annoys, every time he or she writes about a recent run. I know this is how I will portray myself, because there is no other way a runner can portray themselves to non-runners, even if they never utter one word about their habit. Just the mere fact they run past you as you walk down the street is enough for you to simultaneously think “What-EVER, Exercise-y. Give. Me. A. Break.” And then to also secretly pout: “I wish I could do that.”

Because admit it, all you runners out there. You’re pretty darned proud of yourselves for running, and like to brag about it once in a while too, even if that brag is silent, and consists only of owning the latest shoe that communicates with your iPod to tell you how far you’ve run, and at what pace. (How. Rad. Is. THAT?) While I usually shun the cool kid’s club (partly because I’m, like, so anti-establishment, maaannn, but mostly because I don’t want people to stare at me with a puzzled look on their face that asks “what the heck does that fat girl think she’s doing here?!!”), taking up running has been for me like getting into the Wisha Coulda Eata Pie sorority: it’s a license to download all the latest hip-hop I can shake my booty to, and collect the Do Not Pass Go card when I think I might be turning a bend that will take me someplace where I might feel bad about myself, and how I look. So, yes, hate me for a moment like I loathed all those runners who came before me, with their snide v-neck long sleeve running shirts with moisture wicking, and contemptible cardiovascular capacities, and all. Hate me when I say this, but: I love running, and not even a swollen jug can take me down.