Tuesday after The Biggest Loser, I went running on the lane. Gorgeous night. Full moon. Perfect humidity and temperature. Had an awesome run and went much farther than I've been able to lately, since I slacked off like a bum this summer. I've hardly been able to do 2 miles without wheezing like a COPD patient, but that night I ran 3 1/2.
But of course, now that I'm wanting to get serious about running again, I step on my ankle. It happened during that great run, on the squishy soft gravel that's more sand than gravel right now. It didn't hurt until the next day, though, and I didn't realize how much it hurt until I went for a walk pushing the babes in the stroller last evening.
So now it's lippity, lippity, not very fast, hobbling across the house from washer to dryer to kitchen to basement.
Maybe it's a good thing. Jason just came in to pick up Owen for a trip to town. Owen had locked the garage door, so Jason couldn't get in. Then Jay said maybe I should be locking them myself right now since there are several helicopters out and rumors of a jailbreak out of Pensacola, with the homes of the convicts being just a stone's throw from here. And then he made sure I knew how to load the gun and fire it, and briefed me on Alabama's self-defense laws. Apparently you can shoot if someone is inside your home, but not if he is outside running away. Great. Small-town Mennonite girl shoots intruder. What would the bishop say?