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Next week I’ll be running the Disney Princess half marathon with my sister.

She wants to wear matching tank tops.

I just want to survive.

I’ve been training for the thing for about 3 months now and I can run 10 miles with no problems. Since I want to be 100% prepared for race day (and don’t want to get picked up that trolley that Disney sends for those who don’t finish within 3 hours), I decided to run a half-marathon last Saturday morning. For those of you who don’t know, a half-marathon is roughly 13.2 miles. I made it to mile 12 before I finally decided that I had had enough. Here’s what was going through my mind at each mile:

Mile 1: This awesome! I could run forever! How could someone not love running! This is the greatest exercise ever!

Mile 2: Forever! Forever! Forever! It’s gonna be me, you, and the dance floor! Woo hoo! I am so awesome!

Mile 3: 3 miles in 28 minutes! Booyah! Marry the night, Lady Gaga! You marry the night!

Mile 4: We found love in a hopeless place! We found love in a hopeless place! We found love in a- ew…roadkill.

Mile 5: How long have I been running? Let me check my-AHHHHHH!!!! Stupid car!!! Watch where you’re going!!!

Mile 6: Jeez, not another dog. I really need to start running with a taser. Back, demon! Back!

Mile 7: Shoot. I have to go to the bathroom. Maybe I can go in that clump of trees over there…or not. I really hope that’s a raccoon moving in that clump of trees.

Mile 8: Do they sell taser holsters for joggers? I wonder if I could get one that would attach to my thigh. Then I’d look like Lara Croft. But if I sweat on that thing I’d probably electrocute myself. Then I’d look like crispy Lara Croft.

Mile 9: Forever…forever…forever…forever. It’s gonna be me, you, and this freakin’ mile.

Mile 10: Now I have to pee and my back hurts. Could this get any worse? (steps in a suspicious puddle) There it is.

Mile 11: Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…

Mile 12: To hell with this…sorry, for saying “hell”, Jesus.

After running for 2 hours, 5 minutes, and 47 seconds, I decided to quit. I walked the last mile, got home, took a shower, and made myself a lovely fort out of pillows and blankets in the living room. With a book on African-American literary theory in my hands, I was ready to while away 2 hours. I was midway through a chapter on black Barbie when I felt a tingly sensation in my foot. I stretched out my toes, flexed my foot, and relaxed.

At least I tried to.

My foot remained frozen in a flexed position.

I tried to wiggle my toes and realized I couldn’t. I tried to shake the cramp out of my foot and realized that wasn’t gonna happen. I thought, ‘huh, let me stand up and walk around a bit. That should get rid of the cramp.’

Unfortunately, when you run 12 miles on a Saturday morning, your legs will say, “To hell with you” and stop working (sorry for saying “hell” again, Jesus.) At that moment in time it felt like every muscle in my leg was being given a wedgie by its obnoxious older cousin. There was a cry in the Byng house like there never has been nor will be again. What made it even worse is that sound goes to die in every room outside of my living room.

It took Nigel a few minutes to hear my pitiful cries for help.

And then another few seconds for him to stifle his laughter.

Chi-chi wasn’t nearly so nice.

Nor were any of my friends when I told them.

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