Karma

Even though I was exhausted when I got home, I laced up. I was a little nervous. I needed this run to happen after my prior curbside breakdown. I felt like I had something to prove. So I stuffed my boobs into boob jail and went for a run even though it was dark. I figured fear would probably motivate me past any existential breakdowns mid-run.

It was just a two mile run, and I started off pretty fast. After my half-mile point I felt vindicated when I didn't sit down and contemplate ordering pizza. My pace wasn't ideal, but it wasn't my worst. I felt a little wonky at about a mile and stopped to walk briefly. And then I threw up all over the pavement. I think jiggling around all my innards is just a lot for my digestive tract. And, admittedly, I didn't eat the healthiest lunch.

After the great pavement purge I picked back up and felt mediocre. I mean, I was running. So, I didn't feel great. But I've felt worse. I turned around to head back home and it was pretty dark at this point. I was looking up at the stars thinking to myself, "No, Coldplay. You are so wrong. They aren't yellow AT ALL. They're like... white. White stars, Coldplay. Way to go, Chris Martin. Way. To Go." And while I was arguing with Coldplay in my mind I stepped in goo. I stopped in the dark and held my phone up to the goo trying to figure out if I had stepped in roadkill. Because that wouldn't be cool. I am not okay with guts on my shoe. But, no. It was my own vomit. Running back home I ran through my own vomit while arguing with Chris Martin in my head.

I think I made a disgusted face the rest of the way home. I had to hose off my shoe and just leave them out front. I think this is what karma is. What goes around coming back around. Just in the form of vomit. Vomit karma.

It's alright. I need new shoes, anyway. I secretly blame Chris Martin. If he reads this, which he totally does, he should send me new shoes. And change the name of his song to "White."