the joy of being a woman

Sometimes, a woman’s physiology baffles me. Without giving away too much detail, directly before that cyclical time, I get a burst of energy. Tonight, I was giddy when I walked home from work. I couldn’t wait to run with S. and catch up. I scarfed down a Cliff bar, put on my Brooks running shoes and ran up 18th Street to meet her. I was jumping around when I saw her, like a little kid. I felt like I could have done handsprings like I used to do in my front yard near the crabapple tree in Michigan when I was six years old.

We ran four miles in the dark around the ritzy Kalorama neighborhood — past the embassies and castles — and then I ran to my volleyball game (another mile) and played three intense semi-finals games. We won. I felt great and refreshed and like I could run for many more miles and I’m not in marathon shape.

I walked home and stopped by Safeway en route for skim milk and bagels for tomorrow morning’s breakfast and got home in time to see the Pistons beat the Celtics (which means I won my $5 bet with my coworker J. I sent him a text that said “boo-ya.”)

Less than two hours later, I’m couch bound with an aching back and hoping the Advil kicks in quickly. I’m playing Scrabble with my roommate, who got home with a red and orange Dr. Seuss horn on her head (from a holiday party). All I want to do is curl into a ball. I also can’t help but remember saying to my roommate four nights ago that I felt irritable and I had no reason to feel that way. I had a blueberry beer in hand, had gotten 11 hours of sleep the night before and had scarfed down a dinner of butternut squash and goat cheese ravioli from Eastern Market. I guess I had more of a reason than I realized.


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