I’m editing to link this bad boy up with Blythe, because this right here encapsulates what a hot mess I am.
This morning after I put Will down for his morning nap, I threw on my running clothes, woke the husband up enough to tell him I was going on a run and headed out. I was running down the main road through our neighborhood, relishing the stroller-free run and thinking about how much I love our neighborhood. There’s a festival going on at the park in the center of the neighborhood this weekend, there was a 5k this morning, and lots of people outside the little restaurants waiting on breakfast tables. I’m cruising along, coming to the top of a big hill about a mile from my house and boom:
Lovely. There was a group of cyclists riding by who were kind enough to stop to make sure I was okay but I was so mortified I was trying not to cry. I (briefly) considered finishing the run, mostly because I was so enraged that I just ruined my one chance for a long run this week. However, I was able to be rational enough to recognize that finishing another 8 or 9 miles on that knee might be fine…or it might be a good way to create a real injury out of a skinned knee. So I turned around and limped a mile home. Past the festival with the volunteers and cops setting up, past the 5k, past the breakfast crowds, past the people leaving the yoga studio. And everyone stared at my nice bloody knee. Sweet. Always another opportunity to grow in humility!