Run along

I’ve been running.
I’m training for this.
Last night on my run I marveled at my progress since I started my training two months ago.
At the beginning, eight minutes of solid running was a triumph. I spent a generous portion of my workouts in fear that either my lungs or my head would explode before I made it home.
During my run last night I savored my progress as I loped easily past the “no helicopter” sign that was once such an accomplishment to reach. My steady, unencumbered breathing left me free to focus on the rhythm of my footfalls, my head felt more than safe from combustion and my sides were free of stitches. I ran that way for thirty minutes.
Today I decided I’d run down the street to the store and fetch a bag of butterscotch chips with which to bake a goody for my father who will arrive for a visit tomorrow.
I envisioned myself completing the 1.57 mile journey, entering the store and paying for my chips with a moist fiver. On considering the position of the cashier, I decided I’d have to come up with an alternate method of payment. The unavoidable dampness of the fiver would make for an awkward interchange regardless of my discretion in producing it from my bra, the only place I have to carry such things while running.
The whole plan went bust though, on account of the inexplicably sore foot I’ve been nursing all day refusing to cooperate and let me run.
And so I sit, waiting, while My Mr is out running my run, fetching my ingredient.
I suppose it’s for the best, his running clothes have a pocket so no one will have to worry over damp fivers.

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