hack

It does not pay to do the right thing. At least where my stupid body is concerned. Sure, I signed up for my race (another half marathon) next Sunday rather late and with very little training--but you could even consider that doing the right thing since I had no particular inclination to push myself on speed or distance while the heat index was still over 80. But this was a conscious choice and one I don't tend to regret. However, I was left with little time and less stamina--and I really could have used a long run on Monday, the one that was scheduled to be my last before pre-race tapering. But I have a chest cold (yeah, I know it sounds a bit Victorian, but there's really no other way to describe it), and I've made myself run with a cough before and it doesn't end well, so I relaxed instead. I even took yesterday off: plenty of fluids, lots of sleep, a nice healthy dinner, and even a very short walk in the sunshine to keep the circulation going and the dry rot from setting in. I did all of this because I would like to get healthier in the shortest possible amount of time. But doing the right thing is bullshit. I don't feel better; I feel worse! I should have just run on Monday if I was going to end up convalescing all week anyway. So on that note I decided that if I were going to have a shot of Theraflu expectorant (the color and the bottle may indicate orange flavor, but truly, it tastes more like gasoline) for breakfast, by gum I was going to have a chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream sandwich too. And sure, my stomach threatened to reject this unholy alliance, but I powered through and now I have the pleasurable sensation of having eaten ice cream for breakfast and that floating feeling from whatever the active ingredient in Theraflu might be. This reinforces what I've been thinking all along: doing the right thing is wrong. Ice cream is right.