So, the other day, someone we’ll call, uh, Running Chick, went for a run. It went something like this:
Running Chick: Wow! I feel great today! I’ll bet I’m running faster today than I ever have. I’ll bet I can beat all of my goals for the summer today. I’ll be having to set some new goals! I am on fire!
Sees car poking along toward intersection.
Car. Is she going to turn or go straight? No signal, so must be going to go straight. Guess I’d better stop. She’ll be quick and….crap! What the…? Shit, shit, shit. Why am I on the ground?
Driver of SUV who didn’t have on signal, didn’t go straight, but instead stopped at STOP SIGN at the intersection: (in a sweet, motherly voice) “Are you all right? Are you okay? Do you need some help?”
Running Chick: Owwwwwww! Shit! Is my leg broken? I think my leg is broken.What the heck happened? Freaking stupid curb. Why did they put such a massive ledge on that curb? Are they trying to kill me? (In overly upbeat voice) “I’m fine! I’m okay! I’m just fine!”
Driver of SUV (in even sweeter, more caring voice): “Are you sure? Do you need a ride? I can take you home.”
Running Chick: Why is she torturing me? Can’t she see I’m dying here? Doesn’t she know I’d crawl up that damned hill before I’d get in her car? (In even more overly upbeat voice, if possible) “No, no. I’m really fine. Just rolled my ankle a bit.”
(Hopping to feet to prove point, even though every damn muscle in fifty-something year old body is hurting like car had actually hit her.) “See, I’m fine. No harm done. Thanks anyway!”
Driver of SUV: (in extremely concerned voice) “Well, if you’re sure….”
Running Chick: Please, for the love of God, please, please, please, please why won’t she leave me the hell alone… (most upbeat voice ever to come out of mouth) “Oh, I’m great! Thanks!”
(Takes off down hill toward trail, desperate to save what’s left of pride and dignity.) Hey! It doesn’t hurt. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you! It actually feels pretty good. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll just keep going until it starts hurting again.
Running Chick: (Picks up pace, starts running, if you call slower-than-molasses pace “running”. Running Chick, of course, does.) I can’t believe that just happened. How long was I on the ground? Probably three or four minutes. I should have stopped my Garmin. Dang it! Why didn’t I think to stop it? There goes that shot at my goals.