Well, it's official.
My body hates me.
Until now, it had only been a suspect in the myriad of crimes against myself. Today, as a shock to the world, all mysteries have been solved.
Many isolated events have led me to this conclusion. Events such as my appendix blowing up on me, my pancreas going kaput, my head splitting open (actually, that was my fault), a busted ankle that has still yet to diminish to its normal size (normal being the size prior to injury), and a throwing shoulder that throbs for a decent amount of time after throwing lightly for less than half an hour.
Yesterday, things got worse. Corey's dog enjoys running upstairs, prying into a room (usually mine) and taking a giant dump on the floor. I got extremely angry as this is the third time in the last few weeks. I chased the dog to toss him outside on his leash while i cleaned up his mess. At some point through the chase, I felt a twinge in my lower back. For the rest of the day I felt awful.
When Corey got home late last night, we got a wild hair and decided to go running. Here is why that was a bad idea: I haven't run for years. YEARS. I would gather that it has been at least three years since I have laced up any type of running shoe. The most running I've done since was running from my car to a door in the rain....and I ususally don't even do that, 'cause I don't really mind getting wet.
So we did it. Ran at least a mile. Nowhere near "race pace". Probably about an 8 or 9 minute mile. My back hurt the whole time. My legs were wobbly. I even turned my ankle slightly when I stepped off the jogging path for a second to avoid a giant pile of duck dookie. The one thing I have to hang my hat on is that I didn't stop. Not once. I ran the whole time at a somewhat even pace and never stopped to catch my breath, which seemed to be a couple of steps behind me.
Getting old sucks. A quarter of a century and my body is falling apart.
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