Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen

I hate to immediately brag, but being an east coast Jewess, I will. Above you find a picture of the apparatus I slept in last night. I will be spending my slumbers in it until the race. Hot, right? Try not to spend your entire day in a fit of barely suppressed jealous rage. Make green the color of your ethic or your money, not your longing. To combat the overwhelming aura of sexual attractiveness the thing bestows upon me, I did finally get around to shaving my legs, cutting down on the vague depression haunting me about everything style oriented. It's surprising I didn't need to haul out the weed whacker. It's just been that kind of thing, where I remember to do a thing, and then when it comes time to do it, I don't remember what it is. I'll be accomplishing some weird task in the house, listening to Springsteen on repeat at a deafening level, and I'll get up and go to the living room for something. Then there I am in the living room, destination reached. I'm alone, looking around, Born to Run, but clearly not Born to Remember, with no idea what I'm doing there. It's been like that with the legs. I shower all the time, scrubbing off sweat and sloughing off the dead skin from unattractive job bra sunburns. But I'm all dopey in the shower, so I forget to drag the razor up my legs, or I feel too lazy, suddenly my status as a Yeti unimportant. Then I'll get to physical therapy and, for crying out loud, my shit is still staring back at me like a goddamn gorilla. So there's that to cheer about. The mowing of the legs. 

Anyhow, the idea of the torture device is that at night, the foot relaxes and the fascia contracts, thereby causing more heel pain in the mornings and throughout the day. By lifting the toes slightly as I (try to) sleep, the foot stretches over the course of the night giving the foot some therapy even in a state of unconsciousness. Also, I had nightmares. And slept in weird yoga pants. Is this TMI? I don't even care anymore. I have PMS, my heel hurts like hell, and there's only 11 days until the race. Ginger is leaving for the heartbreaking, BP mutherfucker ruined Gulf Shores tonight. So at least I will have a week in the house alone, at my most annoying, anxiety ridden, neurotic and not have to afflict the valiant butch with my heel and housewares obsessions. 

I ran yesterday, a quick two miles. It didn't feel good. More ice. Now if I could just ice my brain.

Love,

Sara Elise