Seventeen

Well, it turns out that running seventeen miles is equally un-fun as running sixteen is. I only started crying the last fifteen minutes this time versus the last forty-five. I should probably work on that, since they say marathon running is about being mentally strong. It would be just lovely if I started throwing my crying-tantrum during the actual race.

Here is a brief collage of how I recover after my self-induced torture sessions.

From Top Left:

1. This is how I feel about running for three-ish hours.

2. This is the beginning of my "summer" scarf. I am hoping I can finish it before summer is over which is, oh, in a month. :(

3. An action shot of me knitting. It turns out training for a marathon takes over your life. Meaning, I better not do anything too active on Friday night or Saturday because I have a long run on Sunday. So knitting seems to be the only productive, un-strenuous activity I could come up with. Plus, I have not knitted in ions.

4. I gave myself my first official pedicure. I soaked my feet in bubbles, clipped those toe nails, tried to scrub off the aftermath of running for three hours, buffed, and painted. I used this super cool polish kit my dad bought me for Christmas (the one that is sold at the kiosks at the mall, the one where the sellers grab your hand and say, "let me see, I shine for you." Turns out it works).

5. There is no fifth picture. If I had thought about it, I would have taken a picture of the cajun, catfish poboy I inhaled earlier this afternoon.