I’m not really here to gush about how much the “comeback trail” kind of stinks. Everyone’s heard me do that before, plus I’m pretty sure we’ve all been there. But to be quite honest, four months ago I thought for sure I’d be coming off of Club Cross and getting ready for USA XC in Boulder right now which–considering this is a World’s year–is going to be epic, but if I don’t get to join in the fun, it will still be fun to spectate (this is my vain attempt at making it sound like I’m cool with spectating). At any rate, things haven’t quite panned out that way. It’s slow going. It’s not as though I’ve lost a leg or anything, but this little speed bump has been a bit of a doozie. I’m thankful to at least be on the Recreational-Four-Times-Weekly-Jogging Regimen. I am. Don’t let my whining fool you. Don’t be put off by my attitude-of-non-gratitude. It’s better than nothing. It’s that much less time in the pool. But I was getting antsy um, about three months ago. Nonetheless, stuff is a little bipolar right now. I get super pumped about a 60 minute shuffle of a “long run” then the next run it’s all Armageddon and stuff and it’s like, “Oh. Oh crap. I think it hurts. It does hurt. Does it? It’s hard to say. No, I think I might be malingering. We learned about that in psychology, remember? Why’d I even major in that? It’s like science’s version of an art history degree. In retrospect that was a poor choice. Oh well, too late now. Then there are those people who project their malingeringness onto their children or spouses and wind up killing them. Like that little girl under the bed in the Sixth Sense whose mom poisoned her.
What’s that disorder called again? I forget. Munchausen’s by proxy, that was it! Point for me. No, but I loved that movie. I cried at the end when *spoiler alert!* Bruce Willis found out that he had been dead the whole time, and that his wife wasn’t really ignoring him, he was just dead. The kid was sort of wussy sometimes though. Then again, I probably would be too if I saw dead people giving me the stink-eye all the time. That’s bound to shake a person’s confidence. No but seriously, the last time I accused myself of malingering I ended up with knee surgery. That was so not cool. Major buzz-kill. So no. I’m not. I think it hurts. No, it doesn’t. No wait, yes it does. This sure seems dramatic.” 1 Mile Later: “No. I’m fine. Everything’s good.” 30 seconds later: “Oh my God I can feel it TEARING OFF MY MEDIAL CALCANEAL TUBERCLE AND I THINK I CAN HEAR IT TOO WHAT IS THAT RIPPING SOUND???!!!” 2 minutes later: “Oh. Nevermind. Nothing’s ripping that was just a squirrel in the garbage can over there mangling a King Soopers bag. All is well. Run on, crazy lady!” 600 meters further: “I AM NOT FINE IT’S FALLING OFF. MY PLANTAR FASCIA IS CLINGING PATHETICALLY BY A MERE STRAND OF GRISTLE.” 3 yards later: “Oh well, at least they make some great prosthetics these days. I wonder how well those bad boys hold up on rocks and tree roots? At this rate, I’m going to find out. I could be the new Blade Runner minus the murder accusation, bad press, and legspeed.” 18 seconds later: “But I don’t want any prosthetics, I like my limbs the way they are and I have other great qualities too (I think?)!” **Cry in middle of trail.** So, at least I can say I’ve been working out, because every run is like a fartlek…for the mind: One minute happiness, 20 seconds paranoia, 4 minutes joy, 800 meters clinical depression, 1 mile bubblegum, 90 seconds sh*t-hole of darkness and despair, 600 meters unicorns and glitter, 400 meters self-loathing, throw in a hard 2 minutes of unbridled enthusiasm and glee, then 45 seconds of woe is me, kick it in with 100 meters of the heavens opening and the angels singing, then finish with a hefty dose of Prozac. Strides. Cool down. Get pumped for the next emotionally traumatizing run. I apologize. For this is neither uplifting nor inspiring, but it’s just kind of what it’s like right now.