….is what my body, and subsequently my brain have decided. 

Last time I trained for a marathon, shin splints became runners knee which caused ITBS which impacted my hip flexor and basically I spent 6 months chasing pain.

When I trained for the triathlon it was mostly my IT band which hated me.

This time, it’s my hip flexor again. and my head. My head is really, REALLY done with all of this. 

I’m a goal-setter. Always have been. What’s the point in anything if there isn’t an objective in mind. 

That “objective” has been events over the last few years. It’s also been fun. But the fun part seems to have diminished from this here challenge. 

Set backs before I even started training have given me a greater sense of impending doom than one of achievement. I really have come on leaps and bounds but it definitely does not feel that way at the moment. 

Another (A FUCKING NOTHER) week lost to being sore. And the dawning sense of “oh fuck. I will not be ready to kick London in the face”. 

Being sensible and looking at it pragmatically, I am under a tonne of pressure just now. Not so much training wise because I’ll bloody well finish that marathon if it kills me, but my day job is kicking my ass at the same time as all new pressures which have started to appear in my personal life. 

Since when did it become A Thing that as one approaches 30 she should be married and have the babies? Can I not make my own decisions and have my life the way I want it please? Sans judgement? 

There is just this pressure everywhere from every angle and my whole body and now my mind are screaming “FUCK OFF STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS WHERE THE FUCK IS THE GIN?” 

My boss once said to me that her 30’s were her favourite because she stopped giving a shit what anyone else thought of her and her choices. 

I am waiting for the shit-giving to stop. 

I feel like every time I do something and tell someone about it, I’m faced with criticism and second guessing. “Are you sure that was the right thing to do?” Has become a main-stay question I seem to be asked every day. 

Instead of shouting “NO. NO I AM NOT SURE BUT I FUCKING DID IT” I am constantly second-guessing MYSELF now. Before giving anyone else the opportunity. Invariably they bloody well do anyway and then I just feel like the worlds worst everything. 

Boo fucking hoo. 

So it’s 8 weeks until the marathon. Mega fuck. And 10 weeks until my 30th birthday. At which point I shall magically cease to give a fuck about anything ever including Ètape Caledonia which is in… OH LOOK TEN FUCKING WEEKS. 



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