Fuck You, Strep Throat!

Saturday, I bounded out of bed happily at 7:00 in the morning (like, legit, other-people-agree-and-sunrise-time morning!) to hit the trails for about six miles before spending the rest of my day hacking apart dense forest with a rake, five feet at a time, building new singletrack trails. I love running trails on misty mornings, and I always regret not bringing my phone (camera) along.

Building trails is hard work — and I guess I’d never thought about how they were made, or by whom, until I was in on the secrets and handed some tools. I got hit by a large tree in my thigh, which mostly just left a cool bruise that I’ll hate explaining to customers later. Upon finding a garbage bag full of VHS tapes over the top of a steep hill — one that isn’t a picnic to climb without lugging 40lbs of VHS tapes around — a twelve-year-old and I sorted our find. Many Roy Rodgers, many Maverick, The Three Stooges recorded and labeled with post-its and tape, Old Yeller, Jubal, Rin Tin Tin, and more westerns.

By Saturday night, I’d had plenty of fun outside, and then lots of fun with my bestie, walking one of my favorite soon-to-be-destroyed trails. I got home, tired, and plopped into bed.

I woke up just a few hours later, freezing, sweating, and sick as hell. So began the misery of (so far) three days of pretty nasty strep throat. Sunday, I slept off and on for as long as I could while a fever nearing 104 ravaged its way through my system and my bones felt like ground glass, ghost peppers, corrosive acid, and imminent explosion at any minute. I wasn’t having much luck with sleep (ha), and finally made it to urgent care — after puking on myself and my car while driving 70mph. All said and done, I had/have a pretty nasty case of strep throat. Yuck. I was supposed to go for a gentle 16 mile run, and ended up whimpering for hours in my sleep.

Monday is a haze, but I remember sipping on some tomato soup, sweating through multiple layers of towels, and my pal offering to do my laundry. A savior in this mess. I don’t remember feeling guilty about missing my usual best night of the week at work, so I probably deserved the night off; is guilt the adult measure of whether one is being an irresponsible grown-up?

After shedding five pounds in just over two days (not complaining), I finally started to feel a tiny bit better from the antibiotics and gallons of water. A tiny bit. That, and the black-market Vicodin maybe helped.

Venturing back out, I went for a four-ish mile run in the heat. The sweat was good for my body; the tall pines and moss-carpeted trails and root-steps were better medicine for my kenneled-up soul. I took it easy and took my little dog with me. Her first time on singletrack, and unsurprisingly, she handled it like a pro. Or a mammal that has four legs and great balance.

One more day off, to be sure this crap is out of my system before dudes be wanting to put their faces in my hair and lick my fingers and shit.

What I really want in life today is a running lover who is as financially capable and matched or better in stamina and drive to explore. I can’t very well go running off into the distance in bear country or mountain lion country by myself, can I?

Except, unless things have changed drastically, I can’t find a guy I’m willing to date that is also compassionately and respectfully tolerant of my job in the first place, let alone one that can keep up with me all day…and is also similar on important personal characteristics. I give up on dating.

I’m going to go masturbate that frustration away, and enjoy a long, alarm-clock-less sleep. And Vicodin. For pain. And sound sleep.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on May 1, 2013.

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