I could never be an elite runner, because I fucking hate icing shit. Right now I’m sitting at work with my space heater blasting on me and an ice bag rubber banded to my ankle at the same time. Having something icy and frozen attached to your sore ankle when you are already freezing your ass off bites. I hate being cold. I almost subscribed to Runner’s World once and then I read this article about some woman who had run over 200 marathons and took two ice baths a day and “didn’t even like hot baths anymore” and I almost started hyperventilating at the horribleness of it all and then Mr. E gently suggested that maybe one magazine a month (Martha Stewart Living) that drives me to panic attacks and tortured feelings of inadequacy was enough.
I refuse to be injured, I refuse. So far it’s going well for me, as you can tell.
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