Spartan Aftermath

Spartan Race has pretty long-reaching aftereffects.

My muscles have been begging for some yoga since we got home Saturday night.

I have chafing on my inner thigh. Where the grit and sand took hold and just went to work sloughing off the top layer of skin due to my clear absence of thigh gap. So it hurts to wear pants.

I continue to find mud in…places.

My mom claimed my racing gear. Because she’s got that magic cleaning gene that all Mexican mothers seem to have.

I’m pretty sure B-Major is still rethinking her marriage choices after back to back races in her most recent blog post.

Probably made worse since the race photos came out today, forcing us all to relive our experiences.

And injuries.

You know those metal toilet paper containers in public bathrooms? They look pretty solid, right?

Maybe even solid enough to support a person?

I mean, they’re practically a handrail.

Except they’re not. They’re not a handrail at all.

They will not, in fact, support a human person.

I’ll tell ya how I know.

That doesn’t look too bad.

But it is the reason I can’t support my full weight when moving between sitting and standing positions unassisted. It is the reason I took the elevator at work today.

I don’t take the elevator at work.

The elevator at work is a death trap that is known for shutting the hell down if you ask it to take you to a floor it isn’t speaking to on that day. Usually when you haven’t had lunch yet. And you have to pee. And there’s no way to know ahead of time which floor it isn’t speaking to, because it’s hella bipolar. (Don’t tell it I said that.)

But the bruising on my thigh goes down to my very soul. It is very bend/weight-resistant right now.

And that is how I ended up slamming face first into the thankfully secured bathroom stall door at work today yelling out “I’m fine!” to anyone on the outside who may have heard the string of profanities that I spewed out as I was simultaneously falling and scrambling to pull my panties up in anticipation of crashing straight through the door while also trying to still not put any weight on my soul bruised leg.

It was a lot of profanities.

I probably need to work on that profanity thing.

Even Rogue only stood there in shocked dismay as her leg was breaking underneath Tiny Brazilian in the dunk wall mud pit Saturday.

Not a single profanity? Seriously?

I mean, you can even see the profanities inside my head coming up out from under that damn wall…

But I’m really trying to get a handle on the profanity thing. In work spaces. Mostly because I’m shifting into fulltime at my high school job. So, I’m gonna need to self-censor for longer periods of time everyday. (But only Monday through Friday. Weekends are gonna remain fair game.)

And I’m trying to be less…gross.

Which is why I opted for closed-toe shoes today. Because as I was sliding into my strappy sandals that match my dress perfectly (I don’t actually know if that’s true. I don’t do a lot of “match my dress perfectly” kind of dressing. But in the movies, they’re always talking about shoes that match dresses perfectly), one of my toenails lifted up off of my actual toe.

But didn’t fully detach.

*sigh*

Now, this is not a new occurrence for me. This is the first summer I’ve started off with a full set of securely fastened toenails.

It’s really a freakin miracle that all ten of my toenails haven’t given up with all of the North Mountain loops I’ve made them do in recent months.

I don’t personally need a full set of toenails.

But I just couldn’t chance having this one partially-attached nail fall completely off at work. While I’m trapped on the overly-emotional elevator, for example. With my Director. And the CEO. The CEO that has definitely never lost a toenail because of a Spartan race before. All of her shoes match her dresses perfectly.

And so now I’m stuck with the choice. You know the one, my fellow runner friends.

Do I pull the nail the rest of the way off? Or do I let it work it’s way off on it’s own? Orrrr, do I superglue it. As my co-worker suggested. Because that’s how they used to treat wounds in WWII…

Aw hell. That bitch’ll be gone the first time it catches on a sock inside my running shoe. May as well help it along before it comes to that.

I’ve got more Spartans and other ridiculousness to train for.

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