Adding Insult to Injury: Flat Pancakes.

Blah. The last 4 months have not been kind to my efforts to become the next greatest thing in the world of running. I’m still nursing a sore hip after an elegant and eloquent tumble down the stairs that I already mentioned here.


My nasty bruise on a ginormous photo of my hip. I feel really great about posting this picture here. Also, that other thing is either a mole or a small planet around which my bruise is orbiting.

Additionally, I abandoned the gym and heavy weight lifting after a year of battling shoulder and back strains. Frustrated, I went back to my basics. Chocolate and wine. And after resting and munching my way through 20 lbs., I went back to my other basics. Jillian and her ripped in 30 days broken promises grated on my nerves though, so I briefly branched out into the Iron Strength for Runners DVD.


Stronger, faster, injury-free running?!? YES, YES, and YES, PLEASE!!!

Unfortunately, thanks to its plyometrics, after a week I was left with a swollen and angry knee that could barely make it to a right angle. My knee is slowly on the mend but is not ready to run yet, and I even had to give up my lengthy walks in favor of sleeping in. Well, that could probably be argued, but MAN, I needed sleep. I’ve had minimal energy in the last 6 months or so, and found myself sneaking in “recovery naps” after my previously energizing walk/jog sessions. I also turned 45 this week and chalked my lack of energy up to age as well as probable further deterioration of my cardiac function. Turns out my thyroid is once again out of whack, explaining my current sub zero metabolism, my penchant for weight gain, and my lethargic attitude. True, my cardiac function could still be contributing, but it is a relief to discover an alternative component that can be easily remedied.

In honor of my 45th birthday, I treated myself to my first mammogram.


Yippee!! Do I know how to party, or what?!?

Technically, I had one shortly after my son was born, but my “suspicious lump” was indiscernible within my then massive milk field. Thankfully, it turned out to be nothing more than a clogged milk duct. Since then, I’ve successfully averted all other attempts by my doctor over the last five years to schedule the test, but finally succumbed to the pressure (Literally. HA!). I haven’t intentionally avoided the procedure, I just figured logistically I’m not equipped with much opportunity for lumps to hide. Also, I tend to be overloaded with tests and visits related to my challenged cardiac function, so other systems tend to fall to the wayside.

The medical intake form was mostly straightforward with questions about cancer and any signs or symptoms I was experiencing, all of which were negative. They really should have rephrased the question, however, when they asked if I had any complaints with my breasts. I thought about asking for another page to expand upon my lengthy list of grievances but settled on “they’ve become sad, droopy pancakes,” and handed my synopsis over to my technician.


It’s like looking in a mirror.

She was pleasant yet still serious and goal oriented as she led me back to the imaging room. I donned the medical gown as directed and wondered if she actually thought I could be hiding something in my modest, broken-down bosom. I stared and the Xray machine and silently questioned whether I would have sufficient hoist-able material to image on the tray before me, but my technician was undaunted. She expertly commanded my pancakes forward only to be further flattened by the apparatus. My defibrillator briefly presented a challenging obstacle course of sorts, but eventually my technician was able to navigate around the chunky device. It didn’t erroneously misfire and to the best of my knowledge it remains adequately connected to my heart, so I consider the whole ordeal a success. But any remaining perky-prone part of my meager bust was undoubtably obliterated during this procedure, as if to reinforce and commend the havoc wrought from breast-feeding and punctuate the laws of gravity.


Gabby’s latest drawing of me. She sees how it is.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no comparable imaging procedure for the male counterparts. Any man still reading this far into my blog is absolutely cringing at the thought. Surely an improved imaging technique could be devised in this technologically advanced day and age?!? As none has been invented yet and it remains the gold standard for early breast cancer detection, I will continue my rendezvous with this bust busting, chest compressing device on an annual (or at least semi-annual) basis.

Fortunately, my mammogram was completely normal (Hooray! …No one likes lumpy pancakes!). The lab work that was done simultaneously, however, revealed my wayward thyroid function. Now with my meds adjusted, I optimistically await new, surging levels of energy that will allow me to resume my musings in the running world. In the meantime, I’ve embraced yet another DVD set in the hopes of improving my flexibility and core strength: PiYo.


PiYo. Not to be confused with “Pie!! …YO!”

It’s a combination of Pilates and Yoga and there are a dozen or so workouts included in the series of discs. The instructor, Chalene Johnson, is actually encouraging and positive, which is new. She doesn’t yell at me like Jillian used to do. Not that I mean to dis Jillian. We’ve been through a lot together, and she has earned a special place in my heart. But Jillian is more of a tough love, drill sergeant kind of coach and the change is nice, at least for now. As for the workouts, I suck. I’m an inflexible idiot frantically trying in vain to keep up and swing my leg into a standing split while my children and husband gaze on in confused horror, unable to identify what exactly I’m doing, certain I should not be doing it.


Even the cat is concerned.

But I’m getting better and I haven’t managed to injure myself further as of yet, so there’s that. Then again, the journey has just begun…


How to Disguise Running Rest Breaks

One month to go before my half marathon debut! I am definitely running more than ever! That’s because I am so impressively slow it takes me forever to finish my runs.


I start out each run convinced that day will see my best speed and that 10 miles will magically sail past. Then, a quarter mile in, I remember I am not very good at this sport, and the miles drag on and on. I’m still not convinced that whatever my legs are doing really and truly counts as running. Pleasantries aside, anyone who’s seen me “run” can attest. I’ve seen their quizzical glances during my gazillion laps around the gym track: “Is that…is she…why is she still doing that?” Meanwhile, my sister Kristiann, who is sworn to stay by me in the Diva Half, has been nursing a nagging foot injury over the last month. Obviously, we need a new game plan. If increasing my mileage has taught me anything, it is how to best disguise my walk breaks to make it seem like I’m a far better runner than in reality. The goal is to appear to be walking not because of global muscular fatigue and lack of oxygen, but because there is simply no other option THAN walk. This list is sacred, and will hereafter be assumed as the game plan for Kristiann and me during our half marathon next month. To any similarly challenged runner readers, you’re welcome. Use this list wisely and keep “running.”

How to Disguise Running Rest Breaks 

1. Photos. I’ve mentioned this before. Don’t pass up your opportunity to capture that selfie by each mileage sign, that gorgeous lake, the amazing sunrise, the stellar sunset, the herd of cows, the goose on the road, the snake in your path, the rock next to the grass, the flowers, the mountains, the paint colors on that house over there that you may want to use on your own home next year, etc, etc. Opportunities are endless.


2. Play with your watch. If you have a smart watch, use it. If your watch is slow and stupid, it doesn’t matter. No one will know, just grab the face and pretend to push some non-existent buttons obviously there to help you track something to do with running. Meanwhile, catch your breath and rest your legs.

3. Stretch those calves and feet. Feeling spent after a couple of miles? Better keep those legs healthy. Pull off the road and stretch them out! Don’t forget to hold those stretches a bit.

4. Drink some water. You’re dripping with sweat already. You don’t want to pass out from dehydration! Drink something, now! Forgot your water bottle? Better pause and find that fountain, or stop at that store and buy yourself a bottle.

5. Munch on fuel. Some fuels work on the go, but thankfully not all of them. Choose wisely, and snack slowly. Easy open fuel gels and instantly accessible jelly beans that can be inhaled effortlessly on the fly are not for you. Now, if you’re excitedly thinking this means you can pull over and enjoy a pizza because surely that will take a while, not so fast. I can certainly relate to the desire, because those miles make you oh, so hungry. Unfortunately, no one would be fooled into thinking you are a conditioned athlete still in the process of running. The idea is to be subtle with your fuel selection: something in a challenging wrapper, like a granola bar, that you could possibly choke on if you don’t stop for a few minutes.


Wrappers are a friendly way of saying, “breathe while opening.”

And if it’s dry enough, you’ll probably need a drink to wash it down, which could add another minute or two of rest. The Shot Blocks above actually come with the warning, “Always follow consumption with water.” Ummm, OKAY! No need to ask me twice! Think good, solid fuel that will buy your aching body a few minutes of respite, and no one will question your mandatory stop.

6. Diabetes. If you’ve got Diabetes, you’ll need to check your sugar many times while on a long run, and this is going to involve a pause in running. I don’t have Diabetes, but my sister does. Run with a friend who has Diabetes. True friends stick together through this process, so stop with them and pretend you need to help them. What if they tell you their blood sugar level feels fine? Well, you can’t really know for sure unless you check…

7. Fiddle with your music playlist. This is definitely too difficult to do while moving at anything greater than a walking pace.

8. Lip balm. All that huffing and puffing leaves your lips chapped. Better pause to reapply some balmy relief for your lips and your lungs.

9. Hold your side as though you have a side cramp. Everyone knows side cramps are legit excuses to break from a run. If you really have one, that sucks. If not, fake it and rest up!

10. Port-a-Potty!!  This could probably warrant an entire blog post in and of itself. There is a reason people say they’re pooped after a long run. After about an hour and a half of trying to run, if you see a port-a-potty, use it. Even if you don’t think you need it. USE. IT.


These are here for a reason, people. No, you are not fine, and you do need to go. Use them and thank your lucky stars some poor, less fortunate runners saw to it that no one ever need suffer their miserable fate on this route again.

In the early stages of a long run, your body tries to peaceably protest with tears, snot, and the occasional leakage below the belt (…or so I’ve been told). If you continue to neglect these cues, somewhere between miles six and nine, your body physiologically throws one last temper tantrum and stages an alarming revolt against any continued forward momentum. It’s a surprising sensation that will send you wide-eyed into a knock-kneed sail’s pace with a prayer for finding safe harbor in the next thirty seconds, if not sooner (…or so I’ve been told). Obviously, this happens because running sucks, but it may also have something to do with pre-run fuel choices. I’m still trying to figure out what works, so I have no practical suggestions other than definitely not chili. The only advantage of this is the inherent recovery period for the rest of your body.  My only advice is to try to ward off the evil coup d’etat by taking advantage of restroom facilities prior to its onset.

11. No one around? Take advantage and walk. Why run if no one is there to witness? If a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound…

12. Is that something in my eye? Is that something in your eye? Who cares? Better stop and figure it out.

13. You COULD double-knot your shoelaces so they don’t come untied while running. OR…

14. Limp a few paces. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hopefully, your legs are not really injured. If they are, you need to sit down and call someone to pick you up and take you to the hospital, or to a bar. If you’re just exhausted, throw in a few healthy hobbles until your lungs get back in the game.

Now carry on, fellow wannabe warriors! Just fake it until you make it! With a bit of camouflage, you’ll still look brilliant!

What no one wants me to say.

I am sorry. I had the wind knocked out of me, or maybe that was my heart, and at the moment I have no funny anecdotes to share. I have been down this road once before and am not thrilled to have to go down it again. Five years have passed and it is not long enough.

An open letter to my cardiologist and future caregivers,

You know just how bad things were for me medically following my last open heart, you were there. You and my surgeon navigated my medical disaster with skill and perseverance, and I am here today as a direct result of your watchful eye. In the past, I’ve tried to tell people about the pain I experienced but I’m always met with blank stares and sympathetic nods of persons who cannot really relate. I tried to tell my prior surgeon about the pain and lack of pain control only to be met with similar appreciating nods and a look that implied I should be grateful I survived, like perhaps I didn’t grasp the gravity of my near death experience. I let it go. Focused on the future and put it behind me. Now I am told that another surgery is not far off in the distance. How can I possibly convey my fears without sounding like the ungrateful, melodramatic patient? I am putting you in my place. Then perhaps you might understand what I feel when you tell me I will need to repeat my open heart.

You awaken on the ventilator and struggle to allow the machine to breathe its shallow breaths into your non-collapsed lung. You spy the clock across from your bed and recognize that the surgery did not go as planned. You were told you were not going to remember this machine or this feeling for the rest of your life, but you will. You close your eyes because of searing pain in your right shoulder and you focus on the surprisingly steady sound of your heartbeat: you are alive. You take inventory of your extremities and cerebral functioning to rule out a stroke and other complications with which you are unfortunately familiar.

Your arms are restrained, as you were told they would be, so you wouldn’t interfere with the ventilator immediately following surgery. You have no means of communicating with your caregivers. You were apprehensive of this prior to surgery so you devised a plan to use sign language to communicate. You frantically fingerspell a word when a nurse grabs your one free hand. She pats your hand and says she is sorry, she doesn’t know sign language, and tells you to try to relax. Had she understood, she would have known you needed suctioning. You can feel a mucus plug somewhere deep in your throat. Is it a blood clot? You can feel it slowly trying to interfere with your already meager, rationed breath. You force yourself to remain calm and not fight the shallow half breath of the ventilator. Be compliant. Get off the machine. Every morsel of your body wants to suck in more air, but you are not allowed nor are you capable. After more than an hour, you are instructed to try to cough to help facilitate the removal of your breathing tube, but you find you are unable to forcibly cough and the pain is unbearable in your shoulder with any movement or effort.

The pain remains constant and unrelenting through the next day. You begin to suspect that perhaps your right arm had been erroneously broken during surgery, as any effort to move it at the shoulder is excruciating. You want someone to amputate your whole arm to eliminate that kind of pain. At least then the pain would begin to subside and you would heal. There are no mirrors, and you cannot move sufficiently to inspect your incisions, so the pain then leads you to believe you had a full sternal thoracotomy, instead of the minimally invasive approach that had been planned. You are in heart failure and have a collapsed lung, and any effort to verbally communicate is exhausting. You question your nurse in very short labored phrases about the procedure but, unfortunately, he does not know what approach was used and has to check your incisions, and even then is still not able to tell you definitively.

You keep your eyes closed and try not to move so that you might not make the pain worse. Every effort is focused on taking the next breath and feeling the beat of your heart, not disturbing the pain. Each and every one of your shallow, feeble breaths is painful. You are on a morphine drip but this does nothing other than make you nauseated and groggy, with enormous untouched pain. Because your heart is barely functioning, you have to undergo a battery of stat tests. In one test, your bed is wheeled to the cath lab to determine whether you had suffered an attack. Several persons transfer you to and from your bed by pulling on the sheet beneath you and sliding you onto a firm table. The pain is exquisite and agonizing. It feels like a knife piercing through bone in your shoulder and upper chest and you wail for a moment, though you don’t have the breath to explain or the energy to continue. You cannot fathom anything in this life that is more painful than these transfers. You wait to pass out from pain, but it does not happen. Tears flow from your eyes, but you cannot wipe them away. You try to tell everyone within earshot about your unrelenting pain, but you do not have the energy to explain in more than few quiet sentence fragments. They assist you with your morphine drip and you close your eyes. Try not to move. Focus on your heartbeat. You are alive.

During the second night, you vomit on yourself. You have so much pain with any movement, the only thing you can do is to turn your head to the side to throw up. You are grateful that at least the vomit managed to clear the plug from your airway. Was it a clot? You can’t lift your head to check. The vomit lands on the left side of your face, and in your hair and on your pillow. You are unable to yell for help because you are too weak and still struggle to take a breath, only able to softly mutter a few words at a time. The call button is surely on your bedside somewhere but damned if you know where. With your left hand taped to a board to protect your IV and searing pain with any movement of your right arm, you cannot reach for it anyway. You wait for a nurse to walk by and try to call “help,” which comes out only slightly louder than a hoarse whisper. She doesn’t hear you. You wait for someone to pass again and try to call at exactly the right moment so that your pathetic attempt to speak might be heard. Every effort to call is both exhausting and painful, and you don’t have the strength or lung capacity to make an effective sound. Tears flow from pain and from helplessness, but there is too much pain to cry. You can’t wipe the tears away because of pain in your right arm and your left hand entrapment. You are exhausted. You conclude it is better to lie there and not aggravate the pain than to continue to try to call for help. After three unsuccessful attempts to summon help, your final attempt manages to attract the attention of a night nurse. You strategically time your phrasing to coincide with your limited breath, “I threw up.” She wipes the bulk of the mess away from your face for which you are grateful, but she does not bother to clean your pillow or your hair. You lie in your stank, rancid vomit until the next day. You are overcome with exhaustion and pain, and you do not care. When your day nurse finally finds you, she is appalled and apologetically tends to you and cleans your bed.

Your nurses offer you ice chips and politely place them on your bedside table directly in front of you. Your mouth feels like cotton as you have not had any food or water since the night before your surgery. The ice chips look lovely, but as your left palm and wrist remain secured to a 2 by 4, and your right arm is unusable on account of excruciating pain, they are utterly unattainable. You are also told to use a breathing apparatus to improve your lung function. This is also left in front of you on your bedside table, and you are unable to reach it. Even when the device is left on your stomach, you are unable to lift your right arm high enough to bring the device to your mouth. You close your eyes and try to block out the pain. You think of your young children and your family and you are grateful they are not here to see you with so much pain.

The third day, you tell your nurse in short, labored breaths you want to see the anesthesiologist. He refuses. He tells you they are in a meeting. All of them. He tells you that you need less things (i.e. drains/tubes/etc.), not more of them. He tells you his wife is the charge nurse of the ICU, and you realize you have no one to complain to. You have no energy to fight or to be your own advocate, and the unbearable pain continues. You silently curse him. You hate him for independently deeming you unworthy of some form of relief. That night you start to refuse the morphine drip, which is only succeeding in making you nauseated, and you have dry heaved multiple times. Each time is like a fresh wound to your shoulder and upper chest. It would be better to only have the pain without the nausea.

The next day, a different nurse suggests they try a different pain medication. Only after this happens do you finally start to have any form of effective pain control. Your pain is instantly reduced by half, and you finally begin to survive instead of merely exist. You improve but you are angry and you will not forget. You had zero pain control for three long days after open heart surgery.

You move forward and you repress. Put this behind you. You tell yourself never again. You look into your children’s eyes and you fight to be well. You embrace life and do your best to do everything right for your health. You lace up your running shoes and you walk. You run. You swim. You lift weights. Never again.

This is not your story, it’s mine. These are my nightmares. I am told I will need to go under the knife once again. I cannot go through that inhuman level of pain and utter helplessness again. How do I find the strength to embrace another surgery? How do I guarantee that I will not be this helpless again and that I will be cared for with the same compassion you would have for yourself or your wife, your mother, your child? I close my eyes. I breathe. I look at my growing children, who are still far too young to have their mother go through this again. I lace up my shoes and I keep moving. Please help me to not be so helpless.



The Roller Bolder Boulder

Knowing that I’d be confined to a wheelchair due to the recently ruptured tendon in my calf, Kristiann and I decided last night that some last minute preparations were in order. We stayed up far too late and became increasingly silly making signs and decorations for my wheels for today’s event. You only live once, people! Have fun while you can!

Where there's a wheel there's a way.

Where there’s a wheel there’s a way!

This morning, we arrived at the race venue early, but we were promptly horrified to realize we had forgotten to affix the orange card to Kristiann’s race bib, which designated her an “official wheelchair pusher.” Convinced that race day patrol would either deny our race entry altogether or force me to push myself the entire 6.2 miles while Kristiann ran, we promptly sought help. We made inquires with several semi-knowledgable staff members before ultimately locating our beacon of hope.

Aha! We need a solution!

Aha! We need a solution!

Once another waiver was signed and our legal status within the race restored, we rolled off to the starting line and were off! I had lots of fun with my camera, which is typically too much of a bother to fiddle with during a race. My cheap megaphone broke upon being lifted out of my bag, so the crowd was spared most of my witty banter, but it didn’t matter because I had lots of fun with my signs.


Hehehehe. In case you are new to my blog and unaware, the BB10K is notorious for its Slip N’ Slides.

Cheer for my sister stuck pushing me in a race.

Cheer for my sister stuck pushing me in a race.

What should you cheer? PUSH!  PUSH!

What should you cheer? PUSH! PUSH! Like the lady on the left!

Kristiann gently pointed out my arms were not injured and therefore capable of assisting in the forward propulsion.

Kristiann enlisted crowd support to remind me my arms were uninjured and therefore capable of assisting in my forward propulsion.

And back to that Slip N' Slide!

And back to that Slip N’ Slide!

The crowd enjoyed them, too, and we received lots of laughs, cheers, and encouragement throughout the race. Shortly after the first mile, we also met Bill.

Me, Kristiann and Bill.

Me, Kristiann and Bill.

Bill had already completed the race in an earlier wave and had decided to complete it again with his wife.  He laughed at our signs and then jumped right in and offered to push me. Well, designated pusher rules be damned, he was apparently a pile of unending energy and limitless strength and continued to push me over the bulk of the race without any outward sign of exertion. Kristiann made some questionable, half-hearted attempts to regain control of my chair multiple times, but it was as though she’d won the lottery each time he repeatedly reassured her that he was OK.

Actually, Bill was genuinely kind, fit, and friendly and we were fortunate enough to meet during one of his multiple laps around the Bolder Boulder. Not really joking, I told Bill he should try to see how many times he could successfully complete the Bolder Boulder within one year. Previously, I considered this a ridiculous concept and I now find it somewhat distressing that it is not at all far-fetched.

With my two stalwart drivers, we rapidly approached the finish line.

Wait, was that 6 miles already? My how time flies!

Wait, was that 6 miles already? Those are speed flames on my ride! …Why am I dressed like I’m working out? Hmmm.

At the finish line.

At the finish line!

One last sign. HAHAHA, good one!

One last sign I used in the stadium.  HAHAHA, good one!

***UPDATE: This morning I was chatting with Kristiann about how fun the people are in the walking wave of the BB10K, and that it would be fun to hang with the walking crowd again, when it hit me. Maybe it’s my chai and a sugar high from leftover donuts talking, but I am totally going to try to run AND walk the BB10K next year! GAME ON! WHO’S WITH ME?

Don’t Leave Me Chai and Dry

I’ve started to notice a bipolar trend in my running performance. When I manage one impressive speed or distance day, I become incompetent and incapable the next. I go from awesome to sluggish, to new personal record, to molasses, to Hooray! then Boo! This week brought this pattern to my attention. Easter Sunday I came closer than ever to rocking the canyon. I still stopped a couple of brief times on the way up and down, but I dug deep and managed some short sprints in both directions and finished with a 13:41 pace. That’s 2 miles uphill and still a couple minutes faster than my BolderBoulder pace last year!

Monday morning I headed back out hopeful for a repeat performance. Not even close. Apparently back to back days of revelry in my speed skills are still an unattainable dream. A half mile in, I almost gave up all together and turned around, but my iPhone chimed in an told me initially I was doing an 11: something pace. I briefly entertained the notion that maybe I WAS actually doing better than I perceived, and I kept going until I remembered my phone’s history of prior inaccuracies. I gave up and resorted to walking up the canyon, on account of muscular insubordination and excessive generalized misery. The unnecessarily large decaf chai latte I chugged before heading out was the primary source of the latter. I have only recently discovered the delectable goodness contained within decaf chai lattes, and it has become my new Achilles. I make them at home and really should be able to control their size.

You had me at Decaf.

You had me at Decaf.

I pour them into the largest glasses we own so that I can froth them, and then I savor every last spicy drop. Sometimes, I make two. It’s the creamy spiciness of the ginger and vanilla, and I can’t seem to get enough of it.

Get in my mouth!

Get in my mouth!

At some point, I discovered that with non-fat milk, it is somewhat healthier than my former vice, hot chocolate. I happily guzzle it down as my health conscious energy drink. This particular morning, I had roughly 24 ounces. There was extra leftover after I filled my pint glass, and I did not even pause for a second before slurping it all up.

Unfortunately, before a run this apparently exceeds my maximum latte capacity, causing the all too familiar slow breach of my southern dam and adding the element of suspense to my run. Nothing undermines my running confidence and capabilities like the question of whether evidence of my over stressed bladder will manifest itself on my exterior posterior. At the first sign of a drizzly day, I become a wide eyed cat entrapped in a harness for the first time, utterly unsure of my next move and reluctant to stir for fear of inadvertently unleashing the full wrath of mother nature.

What should I do?

Whoa! What IS this thing?

The only thing that kept me going were the port-a-potties at the end. I used them, then briefly tried to rally for the return trip until dementia kicked in and my bladder forgot it was empty and my body forgot how to run. I am certainly drier than I was last year, and on most days the dam holds. In fact, I can usually throw caution to the wind and partake in beverages of my choosing without significant consequence. Every now and then, however, the sprinkler system goes haywire, usually a direct result of my inability to coordinate the quantity and timing of beverages before my run. I have steered clear of my doctor since my visit last year, but after today’s experience I promptly rescheduled. Time to see what exciting new innovations the world of gynecology has developed in the last year.

As for the muscle memory lapses, I gather it is not necessarily the wisest training approach to attempt massive-for-me runs on consecutive days. The problem is that Mondays are my new day off, and I feel like I need to maximize running on all of my days off. I may need to rethink my current strategy. As proven by my efforts last week, trying to run up a canyon when I’m still reeling from the previous day’s effort is not necessarily productive. I may have to roll back the alarm and hoist my tushy out of bed for a run before work some other day. Either way, I’m back on beverage patrol for now, reducing my decaf lattes to human sized portions prior to my runs. Sigh. I’ll do what I have to do. As God is my witness, I shall prevail!



On a side note, my husband is my editor-in-chief and I asked him for some feedback prior to posting this blog entry. He rolled his eyes politely and suggested that people may be tired of hearing about my soggy situation. I can’t blame him. He’s been listening to the details almost daily over the last year. When he asks, “How’d your run go?” I immediately prattle off a reply in terms of wet or dry, when it turns out he’s really asking our son about his running effort for the school fundraiser. I’m tired of it too. I wish I no longer had an elephant on my runs, but it refuses to go away and it’s impossible to ignore. For better or worse, I am unabashedly continuing to post for other moms out there who know my misery and the struggle to trudge onward in search of health and fitness.  Most men who read this will have no comprehension of the matter until their prostate gets the better of them in a few years (and Grampy, I know you appreciate every word!). Deal with it. Hug your wife, uncork the wine, and pretend to understand the battle she is waging against this offensive, degrading outcome of giving birth to your beautiful children. …Incidentally, Dave bought me a lovely Malbec.