An Apology

Last night, I was really bummed about the whole not-running thing. I’ve got an MRI on Thursday that will decide whether or not I’ve actually got a stress fracture. If I do, I’m probably looking at at least 6 weeks of rest. That cuts in to an awful lot of race season. It will also put me way behind in trying to be ready for a half marathon by November- a goal that I set for myself so that I know I’ll be ready for January. Seeing me acting like a big ball of grumpy over it, Jay told me to put it in perspective- to think about all those Boston Marathoners who are missing entire legs right now, or worse.

I apologize to those runners and their families. I shouldn’t be bitching and moaning about what, in the grand scheme of things, is just a boo-boo.

After bitch-slapping myself over that, I realized that I have someone more important to apologize to: my sister.

My sister, who I will call Moo (long story,) is a softball player. She has been playing since tee-ball back in Kindergarten. She is just finishing up her junior year in high school now. Moo has been on as many as 3 teams at one time (Mom’s car was equipment shed on wheels at that point.) She is the most intense player I have seen out there.  Without even having the ball in her hand, she can keep a runner from getting to whichever base she is guarding with just the look in her eyes. “Just you try to get on base,” she seems to say without a word.

She’s had that look on her face on more than one occasion. Dottie’s, not Marla’s. Marla’s face is what the poor base runner tends to look like.

That all changed, last summer, when she got into a nearly head-on collision with a large dump truck. After being trapped in the family’s Buick for 45 minutes, she was flown to the trauma center. When I finally saw her, not only had the wreck totally matted up her beautiful hair (it really pissed her off, that’s why I feel the need to mention it,) but it had broken her upper arm, collapsed 2 lungs, broken her sternum, bruised her liver and spleen, broken her leg in a few places (compound for extra fun) and sliced through some of the tendons in her ankle. If you saw the remnants of the Buick, you would know how lucky she is.

Moo was home by September and wearing 5-inch heels in time for Valentine’s Day. At this point, you can barely notice anything had happened, if not for the bright pink scar tissue, but she still can’t play ball. I’m kvetching that I haven’t run since last week and she hasn’t played since last spring. What. The hell. Is wrong. With me? Perspective, Nicole. Perspective! Spartan the f#*k up!

So, I’m sorry, Moo. I have no right to be a cranky bitch over a short hiatus in my new-found sport, while you have had to sit on the sidelines watching others standing on YOUR bases for almost a whole year. I don’t ever see you doing the woe-is-me thing.  Ever.  Why you haven’t whacked me upside the head with your titanium-enforced limbs, yet?

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