I went for a run on Saturday evening. It was a survival run. Meaning: I had to do it to survive. Literally, guys. On the verge of a mental breakdown all day Saturday and I have no idea why. I just couldn’t shake the funk, so after dinner, I told Andrew that all of our lives depended on my running immediately. Without pushing a stroller.
I started running (really just jogging) again about a month ago, a few days a week, pushing the double jogging stroller with Oliver and Emil. But this was my first lone run in so long I can’t remember. It was f-ing amazing.
I ran like I was being chased. I ran away from that house so hard my heart was pounding in my temples and I must have looked like an absolute insane person or at least someone actually running for her life from a pack of blood-thirsty zombies. Or demons. Zombie-demons. I sprinted until I could barely catch my breath, then I pushed harder. I had no idea where I was going so I just went away.
I was gone a mere 20 minutes, but when I returned I was dripping in sweat, breathless. And cured. Sigh. I’m back. And I’m hooked.
See? Zombie-demons. I told you, didn’t I?