Busted. My. Arse.

So I get up a little late. I'm dragging ass. Get dressed. I'm late. I shouldn't even go. I will go. I have not chosen this day as a resting day - I will go. I'm going. I'm running. Music not holding my attention. Pass by a neighborhood. A woman in a minivan is coming out. I think:

"Hey, that's where X lives, from the kids' board, interesting, don't think that was her, I remember her crowing about her jeans size* on the boards, weird... oof! unh!"

Splat. On the ground. Hands skinned. Hip and shoulder took the brunt. Could have been much worse. Testing parts. Sprained? No. Broken? No. Locate water bottle. Retrieve water bottle. Stand. Flex legs. Resume jogging.

I have to admit one fleeting thought that went through my head was: oh good now I have an excuse to walk. Gone as quickly as it came.

I did walk a lot, not from injury (two measly bruises, two scratched hands) but sheer laziness. Or fatigue. I was three minutes off my goal. Oh well.

That's all. This is my first 16 mile week. I'm excited. You don't care, and that's perfectly OK.

What do you care about? Comment. Now.

*Wasn't that a hypocritical thought? I've totally crowed about that after meeting a goal. Huh.