I am a marathoner. Because I am stubborn.
Last Saturday, I wrote this post. I worked through a few emotions, got some lovely encouragement both here and on Facebook, and went to bed very content with my decision not to finish the marathon the following day.
So what changed? I started.
For the first half, I had a great time. I had made (and surpassed) my goal of reaching Cinderella’s Castle. I had run more than I walked, despite having not run a step in months (and, um, being advised not to start this race). I live-tweeted the race, texted and chatted with friends. I truly enjoyed myself.
Somewhere between miles 16 and 22, I stopped having fun. My knee was taped up and looked like a sausage. A blister was sprouting blisters of its own and my feet hurt. I was bored. Why did I keep going? I honestly have no idea.
As I limped across the finish line with a time barely meeting the minimum requirements, I felt disappointment where most were feeling accomplishment. I was far more frustrated with my lack of wisdom and abundance of stubbornness than filled with any sense of pride.
This week has been a weird one. Congratulatory messages and conversations with people I try to take graciously, but mostly I’m still annoyed. Physically? I feel great other than nagging injuries that are actually no worse for the wear because of the race. Yet still I tout it as a dumb decision.
Any therapists have some insight to my bitterness?
At the very least, I can check it off my list and never again consider it!