Oops.
I don't know how this happened. One too-fun trip. One relentless heat wave. Double duty at work, prematurely ending summer.
And I forgot to train for my marathon.
This is my documentation of the low point. I haven't stopped completely but I'm way off my routine, which just feels like fat, hot, sluggish failure. It simply can't get worse or I won't go and will have wasted about $3,000, my only lifetime lottery win and a cherished dream.
My only hope is that the sting of the realization, like Katie Holmes secretly filing for divorce from me, will propel my sobered and forceful comeback.
There's nothing to do now but shut up and run. Four weeks of a much busier job and 95 degrees forever? No one cares. No excuses.
For an embedded mind-meme of shame, my conscience has chosen the moment where wise old Rose derides deluded Loretta in Moonstruck "Your life's going down the toilet!" It just runs like a loop in my brain. It helps.
Plus scary Aretha in Blues Brothers scolding Matt 'Guitar' Murphy "Don't you 'don't get riled, sugar' me!" and anger-singing Think! in his face.
I could go on, because I thrive on when protagonists get punished in fiction.
Like, I think Raskolnikov had a really nagging reflective moment when he overslept on a long run day.
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