I don’t like hills

Yes, it is true: Florida is flat, particularly south of the panhandle. But I happen to live in Central Florida in an area where there are actually some hills (or “inclines”, since I actually grew up in a place where mountains and foothills are part of the horizon, depending which direction you face) and my subdivision, in particular, has its own little inclines.

Oh, but they’re sneaky. They don’t look like much when you’re driving or even walking, but the moment you try to run, forget it. Either they suddenly become steeper just to mock me or I’m a wimpy cry-baby.

Okay, we both know it’s the latter.

So, yes, I did my training this morning. My calves are already rebelling against me, but I will be armed with my ice packs at the office to silence them. But for the first time, my knee has issued a protest, though this only happened after the fact, once I had finished my run, stretched, and hauled my sorry butt into the shower.

Why is it that I look forward to running, but about halfway through my training session I feel like this is the worst idea ever – and that the hundreds of thousands of people who do this are crazy? And then worse, why is it that when it’s done, after I’ve done my training and my muscles have stopped waging war on me, I’m eager anxious to get up and do it again?

It’s like a bad relationship. What’s the definition of ‘insanity’, again?

This morning, I awoke at 2:30 after having strange dreams about Disney Cast Members directing me to swim across the lake at EPCOT in order to get to the hydration station. About an hour later, The Boy called for me and proceeded to ask me who pays him when he gets a job, how does he go about getting a job, and does he have any say in what job he gets?

I wish I could peek inside this child’s head and know what prompts these discussions.

And now, I’m sleepy, and I’ve crawled back into bed after my shower. Cute Husband will be up in a few minutes, but for now, I just want to sleep for a little bit.

I trained hard this morning. I deserve it.

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