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WazUP With My Body?

There was a definite moment of panic. And confusion. And trying to remember…

Initially, I was like, “Ummm, no…why…..?”

But then my dad was pretty insistent that he had seen a new cat in my house. And he’s spent a lot of time at my house over the years. And around my cats. He’s a cat guy. And then I remembered who I was. And I thought, “Wait. Did I get a new cat? It does sound like me…”

Like, I actually tried for several minutes to recount my actions over the last few weeks to determine whether or not I had, indeed, gotten a new cat.

When was the last time I visited the pound…

So, I guess I need to start putting some extra food out.

Which Alexander will obviously eat…

Poor new unknown cat is gonna starve.

But I didn’t really have time to stress about that, because I was busy trying to convince left Achilles that spending Saturday morning running through parking garages and up and down 1,000 stairs in downtown Roanoke was a fine idea.

She was still pretty pissy pouty that I hadn’t gone to magical Erica Austin yoga Wednesday night. Because she knew Running Partner wouldn’t be there whining for all of the attention, and we could try to demand all of the magic pressy back thingies. But I had hit a level of juggling five jobs exhaustion that I haven’t hit in a while and I knew I’d just pass out on the first child’s pose and while there are worse ways to pass out it seemed like passing out on the floor of the Vinton senior center was probably not how I wanted to be remembered.

So left Achilles was less than excited to run stairs this morning. And she had recruited right knee into the protest.

I can’t entirely blame her.

Do you know how many stairs are in this building?

Yeah, I don’t, either.

I started to count them as I was dragging myself up by the railings this morning. But, then, numbers. And oxygen.

I can tell you there are twenty flights. Of stairs.

I know that because of the giant numbers staring me in the face at the top of every single flight. And why is a flight two sets of stairs? I feel like I’m not getting full flight credit. And I deserve full flight credit.

It’s the only way I’m gonna get left Achilles to speak to me again. She likes feeling badass. It makes her complain less. And the more flights of stairs we can claim, the more badass I can tell her she is.

She had just started to calm her ass down with the nice mix of magical Erica Austin yoga and special Dr. Rich adjustments. But it’s been a few weeks since she’s last seen Dr. Rich and she only got one magical Erica Austin yoga session last week. She’s pretty pissed right now.

Because 1,000 steps. 3.25 miles of 1,000 steps. Because Mountain Junkies are as sadistic as they are exceptional race directors.

Last year, I did 6 miles before this race. And 12 more miles after.

And still, I ran this race faster then. In fact, I have gotten progressively slower every year.


I’m 44.

I don’t think I had to even ice anything after 20 miles and 1,000 stairs last year.

Oh, the difference a year makes.

Of course, I also didn’t have a Running Partner bringing me hot coffee in response to a whiny pre-race Facebook post last year.

I mean, I was cold. Like, actual shivering cold, and I spent a solid amount of time debating how many layers I could comfortably manage without puking from overheating and under-oxygening once we hit the Wells Fargo Tower. Meanwhile, Endong shows up in shorts and a t-shirt. Because of who he is as a person.

Still, I had intentions of painting my toenails tonight so they would be pretty for magical Erica Austin yoga tomorrow. I’m competing with Running Partner for her attention. So, I have to figure out a way to stand out.

I was gonna try a sparkly magical yoga color.

But I’m not sure how to balance the ice on left Achilles and right knee while trying to maneuver nail polish with my shaky hands.

Besides, I have to spend the rest of the night searching my home for my new cat. I’m gonna name him Kevin.


Just reading and writing and running and looking for my happy place.

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