Now that I've recovered from the hair episode, ahem, I can return to life as usual. (By the way, I have a hair appointment next Tuesday. Shoot).
So in other news, I've been running. Little bits. Slowly. I've been running the local 5k route almost daily for the past week or so. 5k equals 3.1 miles, for the kilometer-challenged. (And don't worry, I'm kilometer-challenged, too. I only know 5k because I've done it too many times).
I've been taking it slow to keep my temperamental, asinine shins happy. It's been working - sort of. They haven't been hurting, really. It's more of an "awareness," as if they're saying to me, "Hey. You. Hi, we're here. Hi, yes. You have shins, and guess what? Right when you're least expecting it, we're going to unleash our wrath upon your ass so you'll never run again. Mu-ha-ha. Foolish woman."
I'm pretty sure that's what they're saying, anyway. They're just letting me know they're there. Because, silly shins, they couldn't just COOPERATE for once. So I've been icing them and stretching them and strengthening them and cursing them vehemently under my breath, because, so help me God, if they keep me from training for this marathon, I will take a razor blade, slice open my legs, rip them out with my bare hands and throw them onto the freeway from an overpass to get run over by a semi. That's right. Take that.
And now I feel better. Thanks. I'm taking the night off from running because my shins need a break, my dishes need a cleaning and I only have a few episodes left before I'm finished watching season two of Dawson's Creek (for the third time. Cough. Hey, I don't have cable, shut up.) and can move on to season three.
Marathon training officially begins next Monday. Gulp.
Countdown to the Chicago Marathon: four months and nine days