Life. And Shows.

Sometimes.
You go for a run.
You sink into cow manure - but you keep running.
Because, Dangit - this is your plan.
And even though its gross, and in your sock - you just keep going - "it can't get worse" you think.

You push onward and the doodoo falls off a little bit.

And then you're done - a bit dirtier, but feeling better.

I mean - I could have taken that rando thought into an entire "life philosphy" or "spiritual growth" type thing.

But really - I sunk into cow poo - and kept going. But really, it is sort of speaking to me in a weird way.
and for some reason I thought it was funny enough to share here.

Which it isn't.
Because now you're grossed out.

And you're judging me for being gross.

I am.
You are.

Go run.

Midweek Confessions.

My friend Elizabeth at E, Myself and I (I gave her that blog name for the record, and then uncreativily suggested it to my pal and wombate, Bethany over at B, Myself, and I.) My pride made me write that.
There I admitted it.
So, Elizabeth has started this thing called, "Midweek Confessions."  Essentially is a virtual confession booth for mom-bloggers mostly.  I am not a mom blogger, but apparently I am into getting out my emotions all over the interwebs.
So, without further ado, my midweek confession.

On Tuesday, I bought a can vienna sausages yesterday at the local Save-A-Lot.  I confess, I'm excited to eat this processed meat.  Moreover, I confess, I thought they were a good choice since it is chicken parts and not pork parts.

I wore hipster fake glasses twice in one week.  I have perfect eyesite. #poserhipsterposer

I tried to assert myself to old men when they made fun of my new pair (only pair) of TOMS. #poserhipsterposer

I yelled on the phone at the Blue Cross Blue Shield lady today.  I'm sorry. And I don't want to justify it, but seriously don't you hate when you call the number YOU'RE TOLD TO CALL and then they're like, 'Oh honey, I'm sorry you dialed into the cafeteria, what you need is an agent.
Transferred with elevator music to an "agent."
"Hello, Ms. Stafford? What Can I help you with?"
ME: "MY BILLLLLLL HELLLPPP"
Agent, "Oh you're bill. Do you live in Oklahoma?"
ME: "No ma'm. I was told you could help me."
Agent: "No ma'm. I'm sorry. I can't help you only Virginia can."
Me: (losing it) "I was tttttoolllddd you couuld heeelp meeee."
Agent: "I'm sorry. No. Let me transfer you."

By the end of 6 women and 20 minutes of bad instrumentals (they can't even get Kenny G) I'm losing it. I cracked in the end. She promised to call me back after looking into my problem.

It is 8:30. Sister Friend Ain't calling back.

A few days back I went on a run with a pal on their farm.  I took off with the sunsetting ready to get in a good okay, decent work out.
I bounded ahead and jumped off a concrete slab to the "mud." I mean, I am a runner   jogger. Mud is not scary. Next thing I know I'm sinking into quick-sand-cow-poop.  I squealed and screeched and did my girliest "ughs" and "blehs!" I stood there. Frozen. Sinking into crap. (sort of the story of my life sometimes)
I lose my shoe to the feces. The corn fed feces. Not even grass fed.
I freak.
Jump
UP
and
DOWN
My pal retrieves my shoe and I decide on is better than off.
Foot into the squishy disaster now in my shoe.
I try to play it cool. Impossible though, after my hissy fit.

this is after oh 4 miles or so. so imagine the initial grossness.

whoever sang that song about how black socks never get dirty needs to see this.

The best/worst part of this confession: I kept running in the cow crap laden shoes.  #committed. #gross.

What's your confession? I will say it is sort of fun to laugh at how ridiculous we can be in this life sometimes.