Today was going to be the day. I woke up with that feeling inside of me, that hearty feeling that something was going to happen. Then I rolled over and wanted to consider clamping myself into the tiniest wad of human imaginable, for this morning I woke up with pain. Not a running-induced side stitch, which, as covered in A Little Sway Goes a Long Way, is easy enough to resolve. No, this was the sort of cramp only a lady or a metrosexual male can rejoice in. This was cramps. Lady cramps (hereby referred to as lamps).
Sorry gents, this part may not be for you. But skip to the end, and there is talk of runner’s d, which I know all genders can appreciate.
Of all the un-motivational atrocities in the world, such as reruns of “Friends,” attractive people lying in bed next to us, or the offer of gathering blackberries with friends, none are as anti-run inspiring as lamps. But three thoughts exploded within me, in tandem with an explosion of gut-rocking pain:
1. Today is the day.
2. My mother has always firmly believed that exercise relieves her lamps. Go for a jog! She would say in a peppy, maternal fashion, as I writhed in discomfort on the floor, dreaming of bon-bons and feeling like a beached whale.
3. Today might be the day that running reduces my lamps.
And so, quick as a fox to the hen house, I was off!
It soon became clear that today was not going to be the day that taking in some exercise was going to relieve me of my cursed female discomfort. Though it was hard to feel like a blubbery sea creature while running, which was pleasant, I was still swallowing little whimpers as my internal Double X organs pinched at me. I continued my route despite this, and figured that if I didn’t pass out from the feelings, I was probably fine.
However, in my haste to heed my mother’s advice, I had forgotten something very important this time of the month: it wreaks havoc on my bowels. Out of nowhere, and twenty minutes from home, I was struck with runner’s d. Yes indeed. An urgency was about me, and I tried to run faster whilst keeping my lowest torso tight (to ensure everything staying in) and letting my almost lowest torso remain relaxed (to ensure minimum pain).
It was slow going with that sort of internal contortion-ism. I went from fox to old crone hen in a matter of nanoseconds.
As I rounded the corner to my street, feeling off kilter and like I was loping rather jaggedly, I was not certain I was going to make it. And then, a horrible thought occurred to me:
Maybe today was the day that runner’s d got the best of me.*
Upon whipping open my front door with a force Superman dreams of possessing, I saw my bathroom was occupied by Ken before I even crossed the threshold. So I did what any almost rational, blinded by resistance and pain induced runner would do: I shut the door, and bolted down the stairs to the pool bathroom as if I were being chased by a swarm of flying kryptonite.
Later, when Ken asked me if I had stepped inside and stepped out again, I said, “Oh no. I just got here.” Sorry K. I was pretty mortified.
So what was today the day for, you ask? I don’t yet know myself.
* My friend Sean brought up an excellent point when I told him this story. He said, “What if, after the first time you give in to runner’s d, it becomes easier to do it again? Perhaps it is not as bad as you imagine it to be, or even if it is, because you have done it and it’s familiar, you find it harder and harder to hold it?” I’m worried that he’s onto something.