When He talks, you listen Or else.

God obviously doesn't want me to run, given that he's thrown rain, a sudden, and mercifully mild, bout of food poisoning at both The Boy and I (being intestinally ambushed in a public place, I've found, does wonders for your sluggish adrenalin levels) a phantom attack of First Cigarette Syndrome during the actual run itself, and finally, a well-placed slippery spot on a dirt track which caused Slinky to become airborne for a brief, wondrous moment before gravity exerted its vicious hold on her. I ate dirt, rolled over on my back and wondered what the hell happened.

The Boy, recognizing the distinct sound of a body smacking into the ground, ran over and instinctively reached out, then snatched his hand away, anxiously asking, "Is anything broken?" The Boy's a keeper.

I lie on my back for a while so that my brain can reboot, then I worm my way into a sitting position, managing not to burst into tears of pain when pain explodes in my ankle. I limp as far as I can, and am assisted by the kind gentlemen of SICC and the surreptitious use of a golf buggy, then The Boy chivalrously offers to run back to the car and come back for me.

Four bleeding limbs, one twisted ankle and a particularly unpleasant injection later, Slinky's not going to be running again for a while. (And I can hear Hachar saying “I KNEW it was unnatural!” all the way from over here.)

Aside from that, it's been nice coming home. I have a bedside table of my own in a house that's not mine, a reading light, a family that is in the same country for the first time in a year, more dessert treats than you could shake a sugar-covered pretzel at, and friends, family, Boy and a dog that loves me and are glad that I'm home. There's a lot to give thanks for this Christmas.