I despise running. Loathe. Abhor. I would rather jump into a tank of rabid, mating Great White Sharks while bleeding profusely after stabbing myself multiple times before lacing up and “pounding the pavement.” Fuck that. I permanently regret whatever drugs I was on when I signed up for the Princess Half Marathon. I must have snorted some dumbass dust, because I agreed to running almost 20 miles over two days. Sure, let’s do the thing I hate most in my favorite place in the world. Take my money. Wait…training? Oh wait, though- I really have to do this shit?
The most asinine part? I live in New Jersey. It’s January. It is colder than Rush Limbaugh’s soul outside. I have to train in this shit. 20 degrees? Fuck you, run. Staving off a cold? Suck it up, wimp. Today I wore five layers of clothing, vaseline’d my face, and skidded over neatly placed pools of ice in the sidewalk. Not to mention I live on a street with the word “hills” in the name. Sounds fun, no? Let’s go spend a whole day working like a madwoman just to get home and leap into the arms of bitter, stinging running pains. I wonder if my neighbors can hear my cries as I shuffle up and stumble down the hills. The hills are alive with the sound of torture. (Side note- is getting waterboarded instead of doing the race a viable option? Anyone from the CIA- please let me know!)
I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on clothes and gear. I’ve woken up early on weekends, dragged my lazy ass out of bed, and whined with every step. I’m sure I’ll be really happy when we finish the race, blah blah blah. Right now all I want to do is weep into my pillow and ice my burning calves.
Be sure to check out my Instagram if you want to see my eat my words and have soooo much fun during this death parade.
By the way- if you didn’t get the title reference, Google The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. One of the more out of the box things I read in college. #themoreyouknow #triviacrack
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