If Running is Romeo, that Makes Me Juliet

Dear Running,

I miss you.

The universe is conspiring to keep us apart.

No fewer than 5 medical professionals have told me that you are a no-no this summer.

I said, “What the heck, what do they know?”

Sure, maybe the fact that they had to stop the exercise stress test due to me reaching my maximum heart rate in approximately 5 minutes of light walking was an indication that speeding things up may not go how I imagine.

I said, “No worries! I just won’t run as fast or for so long.”

Then Mother Nature figured she should get in on this, trying to stop me with the powers of 110 degree weather and South Carolina-esque humidity right here in good ole DC.

But I persisted. “I will get up before the sun so that I can go running!”

Turns out you don’t need sun for it to be so hot and humid that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls and you can’t breathe when you step outside the door.

“I will drink more water and wear my sweat-wicking clothing, thank you, Science!” I said as I stepped out anyway.

My brain loves you, Running. We feel incomplete without you. Nothing could come between us.

Oh, except bodily breakdown.

Yep. That’ll work.

This time last year, I broke my heel bone in pursuit of you. I thought that hurt.

No, Running. That was not pain.

Pain is developing a cyst on your tendon, a cyst whose size and therefore level of pressing down on said tendon (Read: SMOOSHING WITH THE FORCE OF A THOUSAND ELEPHANTS) is directly related to whether or not I stand up.

Sitting or lying down with leg elevated: Eh, ouchy.


So you know, I have been foiled at last.

For now, Running, we must consciously uncouple. We must take a break, and explore other options, like Pilates and Yoga and other gentle stuff that makes my mind feel like jello, but that will apparently be just a-okay for my tempermental tendon.

I just wish I knew how to quit you.


See you in October?

Love, Nic


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