I miss the optimism of the Brady Bunch. Yes, I said it. I miss the Brady family. There is nothing that couldn't be resolved in 27 minutes plus commercials. And how about those fantastic lessons they always taught us. Stick together, do the right thing and everything will turn out fine. Some of my families could learn a lot from the Brady Clan!
I especially miss the one where Mrs. Brady loses her voice before she is supposed to sing at the Christmas service. Poor Cindy is heartbroken and asks Santa Claus for her Mommy to get her voice back. Yes, I especially miss that one. I knew at the end of my daily ritual of after school Brady Bunch sugar filled goodness, there was going to be a happy ending.
I want my rose colored glasses of youth back. I want to know that it is going to be fine at the end. I want my happy ending. (No, that isn't what I meant you sickos).
I'm injured. Five days before my big dip into the 1/2 marathon world, I am benched. After 13 weeks of increasing mileage, countless nasty chews and more ice than you can imagine, I can't run a single mile. It actually happened one week ago, although I think it most likely stems from my baptism into the yellow number world. I ran too fast down some really steep single track and I f-ed up my knee. Yes, that is an "F" but it is really bad news. So I am spending most of my time walking. When I'm not walking I'm doing a fantastic exercise program that my Boot camp guru made up for me to try and stabilize the other muscles to make up for that darn knee. My foam roller and I should be on a first name basis at this point in time. Yes that thing has seen a lot of action from me. Mmmm, maybe it needs a pet name of some sort and it certainly should have bought me a drink by now. But I digress.
The bottom line is that I have never worked so hard to try and get back to where I was just nine short days ago. I've tried everything I know from diet, water, exercises, praying, begging, crying, fit throwing, you name it. I'm the first to admit it hasn't been pretty. So far, no definitive intervention to tell me that I'll be OK by Sunday.
But I'll hang in there and keep trying, and keep believing that it will be OK. Just like the Brady family, it will work out in the end. I know there is a moral lesson in here somewhere, I just need to open my eyes a little wider to be able to see it.
One thing I know for sure is that I didn't realize that in spite of the terrified feelings surrounding the idea of me actually doing this 1/2, the possibility of me not is far, far worse.