This morning, I sat down on my run. Literally. As in, I bent my knees and put my bottom on the grassy hill of a stranger's front yard.
The issue: I had to tie my shoe. The laces of my right Ravenna was loose and off to the side, and I could feel my foot slipping. My Achilles stressing. My arches aching. I needed to fix it.
I stopped just after the buzz indicating that I had finished my second mile. I wiped the sweat from my face on my orange For Two Fitness tank and began to bend over. But I only made it to a 45-degree angle at the hips. I could have gone further, I venture as I'm not showing that much, but I just didn't want to. I needed to stop. To catch my breath. To lighten the heaviness on my chest.
From the moment I set off on the 4-mile jaunt, I was aware that it would not be the easiest of runs. The legs, even after Saturday's hilly half, felt good – or at least functioning. My breathing, though, was labored. I felt heavy from the waist up. Discomfort and near burning radiated from my heart.
It was the boobs. If I was less apathetic and, to be honest, anxious about my weight gain thus far, I would be able to give you an estimate of how much the womanly mounds have grown. Nonetheless, I feel secure in saying that a third of the pounds are in my chest. Mark read a woman can gain up to 7 pounds in the breasts during pregnancy. Though I think he's being optimistic and would have considered it far fetched 12 weeks ago, I can believe it. I have, after all, gone from "barely there" to "hello there" and feel as if they are trying to keep pace with my growing belly.
A new bra, purchased in a medium to accommodate the girls' new size, still felt unsupportive. Bounce, bounce, buh-bounce they went as I lumbered down the street. Thankfully, they are not of a size at which I would have to worry of being hit in the face for choosing a bra on the Target clearance rack and not the running store ... yet. However, I was beginning to fret that they could free themselves from the medium support shelf garment and create an unsightly situation.
In the beginning of the run, taking the first steps down my block, I wondered nearly aloud whether I should have stayed in bed. I tried to remind myself that, physiologically, it takes the body's energy systems several minutes to catch up. I would breathe better when I got to the intersection near the church. I would slow down and feel lighter once I got to the park. I could slow down more and take a breather at mile 2.
So at the house just north of the gas station, with the flood lights illuminating the patch of grass where I sat, I was forced to acknowledge that it wasn't going to feel better – at least not today. And that was OK. I got up and wiped the sweat off once more (it was 67 degrees! On Oct. 28! In Indiana!) and started again. The run, the Garmin. My search for the right pace.
I plodded along, wondering how I felt at this point in my pregnancy with Miles. But I could not remember. Somehow, I lost myself in the black hole of my brain, and the distance that I had ran became greater than what remained. The urge to complete it was stronger than the urge to quit. Although, as I rounded at home at 4.43, I will admit there was no desire to run down the block to hit an even 4.5 nor one to run around two blocks to log 5.
I was done ... for the day.
P.S. Hopefully, lovely diary, this will be the last entry for a while about this topic. Smooches.