Oh I thought I was such hot stuff… me and my fancy grilled cheese before my 9 mile run.  Look at me, I’m going to carbo-load because I’m such an athlete.  Such an athlete that I carbo-load for my intense workout of…limping home.

Womp womp.

Saturday morning I walked into the park and turned on my Garmin so that it could load up while I stretched.  My right quad was feeling a little sore so I took a bit longer trying to stretch it out.  I plugged into my Pandora, and started to run. First mile I knew something wasn’t quite right, second mile things got a little more uncomfortable, and once I hit 3.0, it just became downright painful.  I knew something was wrong, and that it wouldn’t be smart to keep pushing myself. Shoot.

I started walking limping, angrily yanked my phone out of my Spibelt and dialed my professional trainer: “DDAAAAADDDDDD! What am I going to do?  I don’t have enough time to skip this run, I only have four weeks to the half and how will I be ready in time! This hurts, whywhywhywhy and help MEEEEEE!!”  Clutching my leg, I started panicking. Not because I was afraid I was hurt, but because I knew running 13 miles in a month without a few good distance runs under my belt would hurt much, much more.

Yes, I was being dramatic, and yes, my Dad is a saint. As much as I would love to think I’m one of those people who can just wing a half marathon, or one of those people who can go out drinking the night before it, or one of those people who can run freakishly fast 8:00 minute miles… I’m not. I can’t.  I’m a girl. And not one of those bad-ass kinds.

I’m a girl who goes home to her banana-pumpkin bread…

…while icing the heck out of her pulled muscle. Bags of frozen vegetables in one hand, vodka screwdriver in the other (like I said, definitely not bad-ass).  It was St. Patrick’s Day after all, and I needed a drink.  I had a stressful morning, you know.


Kathleen and I weaved our way through several hundred green-threaded drunks in the street, and walked to Carrie’s. We were greeted with some very Irish snacks.

Butterflies are green. That’s Irish, right?

We spent some time up on Carrie’s roof being shenanigans and drinking concoctions that may have instigated certain shenanigans.  I don’t think I’m using that word correctly.  I’m reckless.

A few more people joined us on the roof, and after getting a little too raucous, I found myself comatose on Carrie’s couch with a belly full of 17 slices of Domino’s pizza. Perfect.

We enjoyed a little more wine on the roof to round out our early evening and spent the rest of the night on the dance floor with the other few standing surviving St. Patrick’s Day drink-a-thon New Yorkers . I sweat off my 453534124235 slices of pizza, while everyone else sweat off their “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shamrock stickers that they had plastered to the corners of their face. Ohmygoshsocute.

Sunday: more frozen vegetable ice packs,  a smoothie, a Subway sandwich, a movie, and some rooftop prosecco.  I’ll take it.

If this weekend can tell us anything, it’s that I would be a really convincing leprechaun, and really terrible runner.  Let’s put a pot of gold at the end of that 13.1 and see what happens (champagne-concoctions and sugar cookies wouldn’t hurt either), shenanigans and all.