Last night, I ran 12 miles.  It wasn't easy.  I had also started my period yesterday, and yes, I just said that (hopefully we're comfortable with one another at this point; after all, it has been four years since we first met).  I was too afraid that if I took Aleve before I ran that my kidneys might not appreciate the duel workout of processing medicine and managing water shortage.  So I thought the physical exercise would knockout the cramps; didn't my mom used to tell me if I got out of the fetal position and moved around my cramps would go away?  Yes; I think so.  Anyway, quite the opposite happened.  At the end of the 12 miles I could hardly walk and the pain in my lower abdomen was so intense I thought I might not live to tell the story.  I came inside after the run, doubled over and cried.  It was all I could do.  Tears worked - legs, not so much.  It was an excruciating evening and if I didn't have Steve to fall apart on, I don't know what I'd do.  He drew me a bath, fixed me dinner and practically bottle-fed me Gatorade.  I woke up far earlier than him this morning and in his sleep, he put his hands on my knees and said, "How do you feel?"  I think I said something like much better, and that was that.  I know he was sleeping, or one-quarter awake if that, but I know he won't remember.  I won't forget!  What the heck kind of lucky girl am I?  A lucky girl with sore-ass legs and some water blisters in odd shapes and sizes.

Next Saturday I'm running 13 miles.