Gerbil on a Rampage

The gerbil got back on the treadmill yesterday. Yeah, that would be me. Well, me, myself & moi because we were all trying for something different. Me, I was running just because the date of the domestic violence run  is starting to loom large. Another part of me, she was running because, well, she hasn’t. Plain & simple.  Yet another motive of moi was running as support for my husband who has this BuffBodyByBowFlex plan. While he elipticalled, I ran.
This run was right up there with all things that suck. First, why is it that when I don’t play by the rules I get by just fine – yet, when I follow “procedure” it bites me in the ass? I’m talking about running shoes. When I started training a year ago I didn’t have running sneakers, per se. I think I had cross trainers which, incidentally,  had already logged a bunch of miles (I used to do “garbage walks” around town in an attempt to clean up the loser lottery tickets and empty butt boxes). I walked a lot. When it came time to get new sneaks I went to professional and professionally got burned. I hate the new digs for my feet. Okay, hate is a strong word, but when your heels start to bleed after 25 minutes something is really wrong.
This run also sucked because I couldn’t grab a groove, uncover a rhthym, or heartbeat, something, anything steady to keep me sane. I felt knock~kneed and nerdy. Simmons across my ass, black cats across my chest. I couldn’t get more childish and teeny bopper if I tried. All I needed was BubbleGum to snap.
Still, I ran through the blood and the feeling foolish. I have a bloody sock a la Curt Shilling, but I got in a run. For those of you who know, that’s enough. 

2.81 miles in 25 minutes with blood