The last few days at the rink were surreal, as the building slowly came down around us. I’d come in for a game and find myself staring at a blank wall trying to identify why it looked wrong. Ah, that’s where all the championship banners used to be. the next game, benches were missing, just the flat ends of bolts left in the cement. By the finals, we were watching the walls of the batting cages come down one at a time.
Watching the Winter Olympics with the youngling...
“Ooh figure skating!”
“Ug,” says the child.
“Think about it this way: she’s pretty much wearing knives on her feet and he’s throwing her up over his head like that.”
“Yup. He could get decapitated. You never know.”
“Huh,” he says, considering. “But they’re professionals.”
“True. But these guys get injured all the time. They practice everyday.”
“Oh sure, blood and gashes and stitches and bruises. You name it.”
So if it's been on the tip of your tongue to ask me how my 5k adventure went on Thanksgiving, you can save your breath. I got four weeks into my nine-week training program before I said, "Wow!" I hate this!" and quit.
Here's the thing. It's not just that it's hard (it is) or that it hurts (it does). Those things are true, but I can roll with that. What I wanted from it that I wasn't getting was more mental.
So we're two weeks into my 5k training program, Eddie and I. So far it hasn't killed me. (Can't speak for Eddie.)
I have a friend who is ridiculously excited about this whole thing on my behalf. This woman willingly signs up for marathons and triathlons and I'm limping along trying to jog for two minutes at a stretch so Eddie doesn't suck my brains out of my ears. (He's discussed this potentiality with me.)
"Have you gotten runner's high yet?" she asks me.
So I did something rash and signed up for a 5K. If you're about to remind me that I hate running, save your breath. I remember.
I had an unorthodoxly sportish weekend. I played hockey on Friday, softball on Saturday, and hockey again on Sunday. Just about every muscle I have is sore to the point where it was too much to knit last night. I had been thinking I might pick up a ballet class this week, but now I think I'll curl up in a ball for a few days and wait for my body to start speaking to me again (or at least stop swearing at me).
Happy Saint Paddy's day, everyone. I hope you're wearing something green. The ground sure is. Everywhere around here is fresh grass, clovers, daffodils and little white blossoms on the fruit trees, so I guess it's spring. It was never truly winter--not in these parts--but there's no use arguing with a polar vortex. Best just to put on a tank top and enjoy the 75 degrees.