Chaffed breasts, black and bloody toe nails, two sweat soaked shirts, and an ice bath later, I can cross another long run off my list. I signed up for another marathon. It was the Olympics. But that buzz wore off and I'm stuck with my choice and these painful lacerations from my double bras digging against my skin for 18 miles. Those lithe, seemingly prepubescent, elite athletes make it look so glamorous. I can do that. I'mma do that. Then I waddle awkwardly down the road, knees bent inward, legs kicking outward, breasts slapping me in the face, holes forming in the top of my shoes. Nike has me on their short list for the next 'find your greatness, you sad motherfucker' commercial.

A word about my toes. I hardly flinched when I saw Honey Boo Boo's Mom's forklift toe. I have my own forklift toes, plural. My toe nails never recovered from falling off the first time; compound that with more running induced bleeding and tearing. I showed Eugenio once and he was disgusted and I haven't seen him since.