I keep seeing these dudes on Tik Tok. All pissy. Bitching and complaining about how we’ve hidden the powers of Midol from them.
But y’all don’t understand. Midol may be the only thing keeping us from randomly punching you in the balls. When our hormonals kick in.
Times like. Now.
I laid down for a nap.
And woke up to…what felt like death.
A full blown mix of peri-menopause combined with post-run rigor mortis.
The peri-menopause…well. That’s apparently unavoidable.
But the rigor.
I’ve spent the last few months coaching. Instead of running. And…
I wasn’t ready.
My body was not ready.
For the welcome back celebration. That Beautiful Beastie planned.
Five AM alarm.
Thirty degree temps.
Rolled up into the dark parking lot. Before sunrise. Without a headlamp.
Because I’m out of adventure practice.
Fifteen miles.
The views on the way up the mountain. As the sun was coming up. And the hunters were surrounding us. Were…perfect.
The views at the top. After the sun had come up. And we were nearly thawed out. Were…equally perfect.
It’s hard for you to tell. Because my phone…muted like my soul…
But I promise.
Beautiful.
We stopped at one point. To establish a headlamp train. So everyone could put their headlamps away.
Everyone but me.
Because I am so far out of adventure practice. I don’t remember to jump in on the train. And offer help.
But also, I’ve apparently been away long enough, that they’ve completely forgotten who I am as a person.
“Is that fried chicken??”
…yes. I told you. That I brought. Fried chicken.
“I thought you were joking!”
…why would I joke about something like that…?
“I thought you meant you had fried chicken in your car. For after.”
…I do.
I also have this fried chicken. In my pack. For right now.
It was exactly what I needed to get me through the last couple of miles back down to the car.
Except Dude With The Charming And Disarming Smile pointed out some rocks. To BB…
*SIGH*
Well, there they go.
But look. I’m out of adventure practice.
And peri-menopausal.
And uninterested in meeting my insurance deductible this late in the year.
And that. Has a very long fall potential.
But also, I’m very compliant.
So, I followed.
I just…followed more slowly. The way a 47 year old woman with a broken tibia should.
But again. They were right. It was worth it.
And as we reached the parking lot. And the rest of them ran off in random directions. To hit 15 miles.
I walked my 14.9 mile self. Right on past the hunters. With the dead coyote in the bed of their truck. And onto my car.
And I didn’t say a word.
Despite the pre-PMS that was establishing itself inside my body.
I just walked past. And did, in fact, not punch either of the hunters in the balls.
You’re welcome, men.
You can thank the Midol.
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