This morning’s eight-miler was nice. Really, REALLY nice
I had zero drama, zero desire to throw myself into a creek, zero stitches, and great music. Sadly, I didn’t run into my morning company as I had anticipated, but because I was hoping to do so I kept a nice and agreeable face on for the first three miles, after which those horrid warm-up miles were done and I was in for the better part of the run.
I don’t know why but I LOVE running eight miles. I could care less for seven milers, and nine milers give me a case of nerves, but eight is just right. Here’s why I love eight milers–both today and in general:
- I am shaped like a figure eight (or a figure eight with a bigger bottom loop, but you get the idea)
- It puts me in mind of Eminem’s Eight Mile, and Eminem is thoroughly amusing to me (never mind that I secretly turn his songs up in the car… shh, don’t tell)
- In purely mathematical terms as related to wimpy runner’s psychology, an eight-mile run is just a 10K with a warm-up and a cool-down
- It’s long enough to make you feel 100% better and badder than all those people who were sleeping while you were running
- It’s enough of a long slog to entitle a girl to all kinds of perks, including but not limited to:
–Eating bacon with your usual banana oatmeal
–Hogging the footstool for putting your feet up while working
–Deserving the better spot on the couch
–Earning the privilege of asking for tea/water/peas for your knees/snacks all day long because you ran and someone else didn’t
–Picking the evening’s movie because you might be too tired from the running to sit through something you’re not 100% into
And with that final thought, I’m off to keep my footstool warm and my personal lackey on his toes–I want tea and I want it NOW.