Ugly Excuses

"It wasn't not funny."
-Jesse James Outlaw


This morning's goal met?: No. Not even close. Sorry. No sugar coating that.


As you know, I am generally an optimistic person.

I always have been. I can turn pretty much any frown into, at least, a unwilling grimace.

Sure, Bambi's mother died, but at least his father wasn't a deadbeat. He stuck around, didn't he?
And though Bambi had a total bitch name, he grew up to be big and strong.

And yeah, the Lion King bit off of Bambi so hard...(Simba...Bambi. Am I the only one who thinks this deeply about Disney?) but hey. Simba grew up, he kicked his uncle's ass...saved the Pride Lands, knocked up Nayla, thus continuing the Circle of Life(a).


So it does pain me to say, with all my sunshine-like optimism, that there very well may be a chance that I will not finish the race.

(This is the part of the training montage where the boxer breaks his wrist/singer catches a cold /breakdancer runs out of cardboard boxes/rollerskater can't master the one-legged jump/quarterback gets paralyzed from the neck down/Prince's father off's himself...etc.)

Why?

Well, I said I was taking Friday off, right? And I did.

And Saturday.

Why? (To fully skip my bullshit excuse, look for this symbol *&* It will begin where I take responsibility.)

Well...because I didn't want to run. I knew I had to ...but it seemed like a great idea to just...walk to Dunkin Donuts, get the biggest coffee I could find, come back home, thoroughly clean my apartment, and the next thing I knew...it was six PM and my carriage would be downstairs. With a pet in it.

Long story. My S.O. got a pet. The pet was in the car, and I needed to see this ...pet. Nothing says, "Let's not argue" than a new pet. Or a positive pregnancy test....OK. Maybe just the pet.

Anyhoo... I'm all for pets. They make me feel really girly and touch that "unlimited affection" button that I only reserve for things that can't say "get off me..."...like furry animals and babies.

This was a combination. A four week old rescue animal...named Miles. (I'm not saying what kind of pet it is on purpose. Whatever your preference, I want you to go there and feel the affection towards whatever kind of baby animal you prefer. It's easier to get where I am if you do that.)

Like I said, I'm all for pets, I just don't want one. I'm fine being "Aunt Nyree".

(Don't worry...I'll get back to why I don't think I can run this thing in a second.)

"Aunt Nyree" is the best job. All the rewards, none of the bullshit. In the end...you go HOME.

Like for instance, take PF Lito's "Nyde"...the BEST pet in the WORLD.
I love him! I'll play with him! Will even walk him!... Gladly!!! He's soooo cute!!!
(....Just don't bring him to my apartment son. That's my word.)

*&* So I know I should have run. But I didn't. And I figured I'd make it up on the back end. Meaning Sunday.


Sunday.

Fuck. It's raining. Sure, I've run in the rain before. But not today. I want to sleep in. I want brunch. I want quality time. I want to play Aunt Nyree with Miles. I want to watch gangsta movies. I want to eat pasta and meatballs. And I'm going to do what I want. Damn it.

Sunday night (during the Emmy's. Particularly the part when Bob Newhart is told he's only got three hours to live.)

... OH SHIT. I've only got two weeks and I can't run three miles!!! I'm waking up tomorrow morning and kicking out at least three miles. At least. Well, you can do some push ups. Three sets of 8. Goodnight.

This morning?

A miserable failure.

Oh, I got up. Oh, I ran....on a track this time, not a treadmill. A wet gravel track. (Caution. Bullshit excuse alert...add your own whining...) it felt like sand. Pavement running was much easier...*&*but in total, I was able to kick out 1.25 miles and walked the remaining .75 mile. ..to give me a grand total of 2 miles.

Pathetic.

...A man with a prosthetic leg passed me. Seriously.


Tomorrow is another day and I am committed. I was gonna bag the whole idea and just walk it. I mean, it is a walk/run, but nah-uh. I gotta run this. So I'm gonna train a little harder. And I now realize, I can't do it alone.

It's gonna get ugly the next few days guys. I'm calling in the big guns.

I'm calling in ...MYKE...from the fitness center. God help me.

(This is the part of the movie where the mysterious, Clint Eastwood coach type/Kill Bill-esque Tao-Lin Master comes from out of a cloud of dry-ice and shadow...and whips our hero into one-armed push up shape...)

To be continued...

-Nye

Tomorrow's goal: 3.5 miles on the treadmill...while Myke sets my pace. I respect the track vs. pavement and I need to kick it up. God help me.

Hot beat to train to: Lose My Breath - Destiny's Child


PS. I have a really tough memorial to attend tomorrow. You don't know the family, but pray for them anyway...K? They'll need it.