But then this morning, against my better judgment, I went running for the first time in a week and a half. (Running is always against my better judgment. Why would a person willingly and repeatedly do this to herself?) It was beyond tough. I only ran 3 miles instead of my usual 4 because I had a time constraint. But despite the relief that should have come from slicing that mile off my workout, I felt like I had lead feet AND a giant rubber band tethering me to a light pole down the street. I couldn't catch my breath. I wanted to stop and walk the last mile, but I knew that if I did that, I would make my man miss his flight because I would never make it home. He would have had to come scrape me off the side of the road if I didn't force my legs to continue their movement.
So I ran. And I ran some more. And I didn't die. I walked in the door, kissed my man goodbye, and then didn't stop smiling for several hours. I was more patient and loving with the punk. I enjoyed the moments in my routine that may be considered mundane. I was more appreciative and more helpful and more fun.
All because of a few little endorphins.