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My grouchiness has passed. I didn't know it at the time, but I was suffering from stick up my ass syndrome. The cure is to do a bunch of shots. It's an ailment that happens to the best of us--usually sneaking up from behind in such a way that we don't immediately recognize the culprit. Luckily for me, Ange (and Mark) had a 40th Birthday Drink and Dance Fiesta on Saturday night, and a few hours in and several shots later I was cured. Huge relief. Thanks Ange and Mark. I needed that.

Here are a few shots of the cure-all shot evening. 

Alina, Ange, Me--
perhaps at our peak hammered-ness.

 

Jeff, (Ange's little bro) and Mike. Mike and I, against all odds, got up after 3 hours of sleep (ahem, separately...) to run the next morning. 

Alina and Darrell. Not sure what the conversation was here.

 

Alina and Andy being goobers. 

The next morning, as I mentioned earlier, I met a group of Mainers to run a few miles.
It was not pretty.
We had closed the bar the night before.
Here is evidence.
Observe the lights, now on:

(Ange and Mike)

Anyway! We closed the bar, got home, and I got a few measly hours of drunken sleep before awaking for said run.

Usually I am unbelievably and annoyingly chatty on such runs. This morning I let the others talk. (Thanks Stacey, Erin and Nate!) I .WAS. HURTING.

My heart rate was low, but I was breathing audibly. My stomach churned. I felt like someone had put bricks into my legs.

But worst of all was the pain in my FEET.

I have pretty ugly and deformed feet as feet go, as I have discussed in earlier posts. However, said feet (and legs) still look pretty sweet in boots. Hence, I felt the need to wear boots and a little skirt at Ange and Mark's little fiesta.   This is unusual for me; generally I WANT to look sexy, but I just can't bring myself to wear anything other than Uggs and jeans.

But, in case you have forgotten, we are turning 40.

So all bets are off. There is no longer any fucking around. I need to wear the damn boots and little skirt while I still can.

Unfortunately, my feet suffered from this reasoning. They suffered a lot. By the end of the night I had to stop dancing so I could sit and  fantasize about taking the damn boots OFF.

Which brings me to my run. My little tootsies were NOT (really really not) pleased about that run.

Oh, and wait, did I mention I only packed my Nike Frees? You know, like bare-fucking feet running????

(What the hell is wrong me?)

The pads of my feet are still STILL on fire.

We ran around 10. I still needed to run for 39 minutes, though, to get my assigned two hours in. I was no longer sick to  my stomach at this point, just really tired and trying to ignore my SCREAMING feet.

But I did it. I finished the damn run.

I wanted to curl up on the side of the road and whimper, but I did not.

We are back home now. The kids are watching Wall-E and I'm typing while my poor little feet are raised, smoke lifting off of them like burnt pieces of pork.

The boots were still worth it.

Happy Birthday Ange and Mark!

We are following closely behind you.....