I am so ridiculously proud of myself it's kind of embarrassing.
My neighborhood is amazing. Walking home from the Expo center with a dopey smile on my face, the sun was setting across the ocean and I heard the slightly off-pitch but still dulcet tones of an aging Sinatra impersonator and all was right with the world. I still had my race number on and oldtimers with their dogs and cigars clapped for me.
While I feel like I'm getting faster, according to most race results I'm sticking at around a ten minute mile (shut up, I never said I was fast). Near the end, my whole body was tingling, my arm was numb, and I felt like I was going to throw up. Then my Amazing DenialBrainBot4000 (usually utilized to convince myself that I'm not in love with people and/or don't need any friends) took over and by the time I reached the finish chute I passed eight people and almost forgot to stop.
Considering all I've had to eat today was half a salad and a handful of trail mix, I'm pretty impressed. Though I know that's not a healthy diet. And I've been so soul-crushingly sad for the past few weeks I could barely put one foot in front of the other, much less train for a race. Or get through a single hour of a single day without crying. (More on that later, because while it pains me to write about it or admit much of what has been going on, it must be done because a life without honesty is just stupid. Life is short, and I'm pretty sure that at the end of it there's nobody handing out cookies for not talking about stuff.)
Anyway I wish my roommate was home because I want to go drink a Guinness. That counts as dinner, right?
FIVE MILES, DUDES. FIVE. That's FOUR MORE THAN ONE, which is what I could barely run six months ago.
The below photos are from around mile 4.5 or so. I love that my face is all puppies and fluffy clouds but inside I'm cursing the day I was born and wishing I could curl up for a nice nap in the middle of Day Boulevard.
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