Stupid lungs

ORN: *cough*

On Friday, my lungs decided to play host to the Annual Convention of the International Fraternal Brotherhood of Respiratory Bugs. In addition to having a redundant name, the organization leaves a hell of a mess in its wake in the form of gallons of phlegm. So I haven't been running much lately. Instead, I've been coughing and wincing as the devilishly healthy and relentlessly vigorous pace bunnies speed on.

My excuses: Thursday night, we went over to some friends for our weekly dinner party. One thing led to another that day and I didn't get around to running. On Friday, I started getting sick, and I have a strict "don't run sick" policy. I believe in the conventional wisdom that says to rest when you are sick, and in my world, running is not resting. Saturday morning, I stared limply at the alarm clock as the appropriate hour for leaving came and went. I missed my race. I woke in plenty of time, but I chose not to run because I was still friggin' sick. The universe tried to make me feel better by snowing, but it was too little, too late.

Saturday, as it often does, became Sunday, and I felt marginally better. I didn't cough all the time so long as I stayed in bed. When child care duties forced me to get up and do shit, I did them grudgingly. I blew my nose about 300 times. I watched every episode of Spongebob Squarepants, and Little One and I found a new favorite cartoon called El Tigre: The Adventures of Manny Rivera. The latter half of Sunday was one long internal debate: "Do I go to work tomorrow or not?"

I did.

Now the debate is even more troubling: "Am I OK to run or should I rest up another day?" I'm still coughing, and my lungs still feel congested. On the other hand, I feel much better. I better not risk it.

*sigh* Curse you, accursed pace bunnies.