Shut up, nasty little man.

I realized today why my injured knee has been bothering me so much, emotionally. It's because that horrible little man, that man who lives in the back of my head and who I thought I had banished forever, is dancing with glee. He is dancing with glee and hissing "You see? I told you! I told you you are too fat to be a runner!'

Shut up, nasty little man, and crawl back in your hole, because my knee feels better today and I will run again.


Okay, you know the other thing that pisses me off about this? (Soon I will stop going on about this, I promise.) Blake decided that he was going to ride his bike up to Balm Beach, like, 135 kilometers, and you know what, I bet he is going to do it. But I decide I am going to start running and not two weeks into it I am couch-bound with a stupid injury! This after I had to give up hot yoga because of my back! It's like every time I try and get fitter something fouls it up.

How come everyone else can do this stuff and I can't? Waah!

I know, welcome to my pity party. I hope that eventually this will just be a humourous anecdote about the inauspicious start to my long running career. There I will be, cocktail in hand: "I had only been running for a week -- I had been out three times! -- and there I was with an injured knee! Ha ha! Can you believe it! Well, then I got proper shoes and here I am, three marathons later! Incredible! Ha ha ha! Pass the olives!"

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