The Endocrinologist has spoken in her three-word addendum at the bottom of my test results: there’s nothing obviously wrong with me, at least in any of the areas she tested for. While I’m glad there’s nothing wrong, I was kind of hoping whatever she tested for would yield some clues.
The Nutritionist remains puzzled by my total lack of progress: “I wonder what your metabolic rate is.” Uh, I’m thinking it’s in the basement, or being warmed by magma. To get an answer to that question, I am still trying to get an appointment set up at the fitness facility with the dodgy carbon dioxide detector. No one was there today when I called — another snow day?
Yeah, so here’s the part where I whine and wallow in a most unattractive fashion.
My damned adductor is acting up again, for no apparent reason, asserting itself during a two hour driveway-clearing session this morning. It’s been snowing non-stop, making getting the 25 minutes north to the gym impossible on many days. I often don’t feel like running on our treadmill, so I blow it off; it just seems completely pointless. I’m chronically injured (as is Jonathan). I’m getting fatter, for reasons no one understands. I cannot run outside because of the snow and ice. What the fuck am I even training for? I can’t even set any goals in this current state. I will part with $290 for two Chicago Marathon registrations next week, but I don’t even know why. I don’t know if I can even handle a 4 mile race in 10 days, physically or psychologically.
Why did I love running? What did it feel like, to believe I could improve? I’m having trouble remembering.