You Could Call Me Shoe-perstitious…

A fact about me: I very seldom put away my shoes. Call it my fatal flaw. (Fatal as in, if you trip over the mess on my floor, you run the risk of breaking something.) As such, I generally have just about every boot, sneaker, and flip-flop I wear on a semi-regular basis scattered across my side of the dorm, abandoned wherever I last removed them and half-heartedly kicked into differently shaped piles as I move them out of my way. (My running shoes, however, sacred objects that they are, receive a place of honor neatly lined up on the shelf beneath my bed in their order of rotation—green, pink, blue.)

A few nights ago, a friend was over, standing carefully among my footwear graveyard. Just as he was about to leave, his eye caught on something resting in an old, beaten pair of Chuck Taylors: a penny, rubbed shiny by the frequent polishings of a sock-clad foot.

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When a Runner Can’t Run

Legs bouncing. Fingers tap-tap-tapping, then running through hair. Teeth tugging at lips. Sighing heavily. Unease in the pit of the stomach, tension in the shoulders, one thought in the brain:

I. Need. To. Run.

For the past week, I’ve been disastrously sick. Cold chills, stuffy head, body aches, and exhaustion are just a few of the things I’ve battled with tissues and tea from my bed during the beautiful hours when I’m not dragging myself through the winter slush to get to class. (It’s been fun. A blast. Best week ever.)

And thanks to this illness, I’ve been living every endorphin junkie’s nightmare:

I haven’t been able to run.

In a week.

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