I’m a terrible blogger. I know I should have stuff sitting in the archives, for times like this—-times when I just don’t have it in me to write something that doesn’t sound like an angsty, gothic teen. The problem is, every time I do write in advance that I get so excited that I’ve actually written something that I get antsy and post twice in one day.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
Just to let you know, I feel like I totally have every right to whine, mope, and generally feel sorry for myself. I’m going to prove it, too:
Two and a half years ago, I was in great shape. I was running regularly, working out, doing cardio sprints, etc, etc. I was training to run in the Camp Pendleton Mud Run and I was gonna go all out. YEEAAAAH! WOOOO! HOO–RRAAAAH!!!!
Then Mr. Sperm found Ms. Egg, and a DragonMonkey was conceived. By the time the mud run rolled around I was a waddling 6 months pregnant, had already gained about 50 of 70 flabby pounds, and was already lying to people about my due date so that they would quit trying to insist that I was having twins.
After I gave birth to the DragonMonkey (or rather, had him ripped forcibly from the flesh of my stomach right before they piled all my intestines on my chest and then stuffed them back inside haphazardly. Yaaay for C-Sections!) I decided I would participate in the next year’s Mud Run as my training program to try and drop the weight. After all, I did gain 70 pounds, and since the DragonMonkey was obviously 55 pounds at birth, that meant I had a pesky 15 pounds to shed. You guys believe that, right? Right?
I saved my money, anxiously counting down the days until I could sign up. The Camp Pendleton Mud Run is a pretty famous race and it usually sells out within a matter of days. I even had a little countdown on my calendar, numbering the days to registration.
Let me end the suspense: the day before the registration we had money. The day after the race closed out we had money. During registration? I think we had $4 in our bank account, due to some unforeseen expenses. Figures. The day the registration closed I cried like a whiny two year old.
This year? Same exact scenario: We had absolutely NO money during that first week in January. At least I was expecting it this year.
Then came a surprise: A new mud run opened up— the Irvine Lake Mud Run . My friend told me about it, and thrilled beyond belief I actually had the money to sign up. I glanced around, waiting for something to pop up to steal my ticket away from me. (I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re federal agents with the BIATHFA–the Becky Isn’t Allowed To Have Fun Agency– and we’re here to confiscate your Mud Run ticket.) Nobody came knocking at my door. No evil gremlins came creeping into our bank account. No little spermies snuck into my uterus. I was IN!!!! I only had 6 weeks to train for the run, but I knew I could do it.
I’ve gone and done something to my knee.
It’s been three weeks, and I am barely able to walk normally again.
I had a blood workup and thankfully it’s not my Rheumatoid Arthritis coming out of remission. It’s not my tendons or ligaments either. The doctor thinks it’s bursitis– which is doctorese for “Wow! Your knee is swollen!”. I would have insisted on an MRI, but the after-hours doctor looked like he just stepped off the set of Grey’s Anatomy. It was unnerving having some Greek god have his hands on my knee/thigh. Knowing that I hadn’t shaved in a week only compounded that fact. I would have agreed with any diagnosis he gave me, no matter how ridiculous. (What’s that? My knee has been injured by tiny leprechauns? I should rub Unicorn Horn juice on it to make it better? Okay, just write the prescription, Doctor McDreamy.)
I personally think that it should be illegal for doctors to be good-looking. I think all doctors should be old, craggly, and look a little pissed-off that you interrupted them with your problems. They should NOT be 6’3″ with kind eyes, wavy dark hair, tanned skin and bronzed, bulging biceps.
So, anyways, yeah. Something’s wrong with my knee. It’s getting better, but slooooowly. The Mud Run is coming up on April 11th, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a Mud Walk, or even worse a Mud Hobble. Knowing that I am going to be the chubby girl waddling in the back of the pack has put me in a bit of a funk, to say the least. I guess I should be glad that I wasn’t hit by a train, or crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I’m beginning to think that maybe I shouldn’t sign up for Mud Runs.
On a brighter note, I haven’t stripped naked and bumped into any strangers lately, so I guess that’s a plus.
So, there you go.