I fell again.
Yesterday, during my morning run.
It was darkish, and I was bopping along as I do, when I tripped over the steel foot of a ROAD BLOCK sign (and drowned in a boiling vat of irony).
Again with the SLAP! and the HUHT! that ejects from my lungs when my body hits concrete. Again with the bloody shredded knee that swells to the size of a tennis ball. Again with the public cursing of MEN WHO LEAVE THEIR SHIT EVERYWHERE SO CERTAIN PEOPLE CAN TRIP OVER IT.
By the time I got home (and I ran home, because if there's anything more pathetic than a runner with a bloody tennis ball knee dripping down her leg, it's a HOBBLING McHOBBLERPANTS with a bloody tennis ball knee dripping down her leg) I was feeling all weepy and sorry for my poor uncoordinated self who is bad at math and money.
What, you may ask, does being bad at math and money have to do with tripping over a construction sign?
Nothing! Welcome to my brain! It's not much, BUT IT'S HOME.
I sat on the toilet seat like a two year old, while Larry disinfected my knees, and I just leaked tears over all the things I'm terrible at. Putting my hands out when I fall. Remembering the capital of Iraq. Excel spreadsheets. The Macarena.
It occurs to me that if Larry treated me the way I treat myself on days like this we wouldn't be together. If anyone treated me the way I treat myself on days like this they'd be unfriended, unfollowed, or ignored.
Do you torture yourself this way? View your entire existence through the lens of your nearest flaw?
"So, Amanda, you just finished another half marathon, and ran a pretty good clip. How do you feel?"
"Hmmm. Let me just take a look through my Chubby-Thighs-a-Scope and see."
Why, why, why?
Seriously. Why?
Update: Knee is much better today. The size of an actual knee.
Yesterday, during my morning run.
It was darkish, and I was bopping along as I do, when I tripped over the steel foot of a ROAD BLOCK sign (and drowned in a boiling vat of irony).
Again with the SLAP! and the HUHT! that ejects from my lungs when my body hits concrete. Again with the bloody shredded knee that swells to the size of a tennis ball. Again with the public cursing of MEN WHO LEAVE THEIR SHIT EVERYWHERE SO CERTAIN PEOPLE CAN TRIP OVER IT.
By the time I got home (and I ran home, because if there's anything more pathetic than a runner with a bloody tennis ball knee dripping down her leg, it's a HOBBLING McHOBBLERPANTS with a bloody tennis ball knee dripping down her leg) I was feeling all weepy and sorry for my poor uncoordinated self who is bad at math and money.
What, you may ask, does being bad at math and money have to do with tripping over a construction sign?
Nothing! Welcome to my brain! It's not much, BUT IT'S HOME.
I sat on the toilet seat like a two year old, while Larry disinfected my knees, and I just leaked tears over all the things I'm terrible at. Putting my hands out when I fall. Remembering the capital of Iraq. Excel spreadsheets. The Macarena.
It occurs to me that if Larry treated me the way I treat myself on days like this we wouldn't be together. If anyone treated me the way I treat myself on days like this they'd be unfriended, unfollowed, or ignored.
Do you torture yourself this way? View your entire existence through the lens of your nearest flaw?
"So, Amanda, you just finished another half marathon, and ran a pretty good clip. How do you feel?"
"Hmmm. Let me just take a look through my Chubby-Thighs-a-Scope and see."
Why, why, why?
Seriously. Why?
Update: Knee is much better today. The size of an actual knee.
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