I’ve had more socialization in the last 24 hours than I have all week.
And my introvert is exhausted.
Apparently we have to exercise our socials in order to keep our tolerance for people up?
And these are the people that I love.
What’s gonna happen when I’m finally forced back out into the world with the randos?
I may have a full on meltdown.
Got to see GBFF…WHTBS on Friday. For our feeding the children bus route. Three hours on a bus winding up and down backwoods mountain roads. Let me know that my tendency towards car sickness is still a thing.
But I didn’t have to ask Bus Driver Colin to pull over at any point. So I could pee. On the side of the road. Surrounded by all of the wandering dogs. Who we all know I would’ve tried to befriend. As I was squatting.
And GBFF kept asking. If I had to pee. Because he really wanted to witness me asking a stranger to please pull the bus over so I could pee on the side of the road.
Friday evening, I met up with Rogue and Fall Risk. For some Magical Roanoke Yoga in the park. Because J-Vicious can even make my hamstrings angry virtually. And I needed some stretchy. And real life Magical Yogess vibes.
Had to chase a dude out of his parking spot. So Fall Risk could park.
“Soooo, are you leaving? Or are you just gonna stand here chatting all night?”
I just told y’all. My social tolerance is low.
Once Magical Yogess coaxed us into an appropriately spaced circle. Which was a struggle. Mostly because me…
We got our yoga on.
An hour of yoga. With this behind us.
And this under us
And this above us
The only thing that would’ve made it more perfect is if Magical Yogess had been able to lay hands on us.
Ima be real. I’d risk the Covid for some Magical Yogess pressy back squishes.
But she’s a way better citizen than me. So it was no-handsies.
Towards the end, she had us stretch our arms out in front of us. To connect with the earth. At which point I realized that I’d plopped my mat down right by a pile of poo.
“Huh. Well, that’s dog shit right there.”
But then I thought, “meh. It’s probably way safer than touching an actual human right now. There’s probably no Corons in dog shit. So…”
My already questionable boundaries have loosened way up during this quarantine.
And then I thought, “But the Rona all started from an animal to human jump. I do not want to be patient zero for the next Covids.”
So I moved my hands on over to the right. Away from the poo.
At the end, Magical Yogess made us send our positive energies back and forth to one another. And I was initially skeptical. I don’t wanna give my positives away right now. I wanna hoard that shit like Fall Risk hoards pandemic essentials.
But there was peer pressure. And the others were sharing theirs. So fine.
And it was nice. Apparently everyone else’s positivity is way more effective than my own. So I came out feeling better.
Not sure how they came out feeling. With the shit I let them have.
But I was all stretched out and relaxed. My hamstrings were all happy and shit…
Until Saturday morning.
Because K-Rob-D suggested I run 13 miles of some bullshit Everyone’s Favorite Husband came up with.
So we met up. From a distance. At the Rocky Mount Farmers Market.
For the Bud Light Hard as Hell Half.
Now, when I was told about this plan. I was told that there would be lots of beer along the way.
Ok. What I was actually told was that there would be lots of “beer cans” along the way.
But my brain just heard “lots of beer” and said, fuck yeah. Let’s do it.
Ok. So this bullshit.
I think it may actually be the worst 13 miler I’ve ever run. Like, maybe not the worst 13 miles. Because the last 17 miles of Bel Monte contained the worst 13 miles I’ve ever run. But this was definitely the worst 13 miler.
First. The reason it is fake-sponsored by Bud Light is because of the ridiculous amount of Bud Light cans that have been discarded along the Franklin County backroads.
And part of this run involves spotting them. Before everyone else. And keeping track of points.
And there are a few issues with this.
First. Numbers. I shouldn’t t ever have to keep track of numbers. Numbers make my brain hurt.
B. Observational skills. I don’t have those. My complete lack of observational skills is how I managed to survive working in prison. Without emotional scarring. There are some images you just don’t want to carry around with you. My ability to avoid those due to my complete lack of awareness is a well-honed survival skill.
Three. There are so many other fucking cans and bottles and random bits of trash lining these roads. It’s damn near impossible to pick a Bud Light can out of the mix.
I think everyone else ended up with, like, 20 or 30 points.
I ended up with 2.
There are also the highly questionable areas we were running through.
I’ll run my suburban white ass through highly urban city streets all fucking day.
But put me on a back country road. Lined with confederate flags. And MAGA hats. And really angry animals. And my inner Mexican gets a little…anxious.
And I’m not just talking growling dogs.
A rooster chased EFH’s behind down the road. Telling him to fuck off the whole way.
And said the same to the rest of us as we passed.
At one point, some woman, who I can only assume was under the influence of something. Maybe weed. Maybe meth. Maybe the Corons. Drove up on us. And crawled past. Inspecting each one of us. I assume for some sort of sacrificial ceremony.
Whatever characteristics she was looking for. None of us had them.
But the really worst part of this route. Is the relentless climbing. Up and down road mountains.
Those hills just went on forever.
And I’d forgotten to wear my inserts. That “please get naked” chiropractor said I needed. For my arches. Lest all of them fall on me.
So the pain was relentless. For the first four miles. Then some endorphins kicked in. And I was kind of ok for a few miles.
And then my body apparently ran out of all of the positive it stole from everyone during physically distant yoga. And the pain returned. In force.
And my hamstrings had re-wound after the first major climb. Just fucking up all the work Magical Yogess had done the night before.
And I was hungry. Obviously.
And when we finally made it back to the Farmers Market. And I didn’t give a fuck that my Strava only said 12.74 miles. Beautiful Beastie made me keep going. Until hers said 13. Point one. 13.1. Because fucking runners are insistent on exactness.
Because numbers. Fuck numbers.
So, today. I’m all limpy. And shit. Trying to appease not only my hamstrings. But also my arches. That are near collapse.
I fucking hate that Tommy Carlos was right about the arch tape.
And did y’all know that Rocky Mount was named after an actual rocky mount? Like, there’s an actual mount. Of rocky. Smack in the middle of town.
Ok. Obviously I don’t know if it’s smack in the middle. Or even anywhere near the middle. But look at that. There it is. The rocky mount. Of Rocky Mount.
I wanna climb it…
Also. I feel like I should point out that Fall Risk has not been hoarding supplies since the pandemic started. She had that sickness prior to the pandemic. And so had all the supplies she needed wayyyy before this shit kicked off.
And for the right price. I’ll totally tell where she lives.
And obviously that price is food.
Because the pandemic hasn’t changed me.
But just leave it at the door. Because I can’t people anymore right now.
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