The line between tough and dumb

by Katie on January 17, 2012

Last night, I was relaying an embarrassing moment of my day to Brandon. Which is typical. When you’re not coordinated or “street” smart, you embarrass yourself. A lot.

Yesterday, it happened when I was delivering a check to our cotton pickers. The guy lives a quarter-mile from us, right along my regular run route, and they were working in the fields I planned to run through that afternoon, so I figured I would just drop it by at one of those two places, wherever he was, while I was on my afternoon run.

I neared his truck at the end of one of our fields at 1.82 miles into my run, but I couldn’t tell if he was inside the truck or out with his guys. I was trying to make that distinction, and focusing all my vision on the truck, rather than where I was running. So, as fate would have it, at the exact time our eyes met (he was inside the truck), I hit a giant rut in the road, and almost broke my ankle. Not really, of course. But I did roll it pretty bad and look like I was about to fall on my face.

In my husband’s kind words, “So, you pulled a Katie right in front of him?” Pure sweetness, that man, I tell you.

I tried to shake it off (the embarrassment – it was stronger than the ankle pain at the moment) and go about my business of delivering payment, which was a little difficult, what with the guy asking me every two seconds if I was sure I was okay, eliminating my hopes that maybe he hadn’t realized I had come so close to eating dirt. After we finished our small talk about the cotton he was picking, and I had reassured him no less than ten times I would be okay, and yes, I did have my phone on me in case my husband may need to come pick me up, I headed on down the road, walking off my injury.

I soon picked back up into my run, and it felt okay, so I decided to stay on course. For the next 5.44 miles.

Now, if you do any running yourself, you know that after the first couple miles or so, your body just kind of gets in a groove and isn’t as susceptible to stimuli, such as pain. Until you stop.

Which means that by the time we sat down for supper, there was noticeable soreness coming from my ankle, leading me to tell Brandon that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea that I had continued on for all 5.44 miles after my little mishap.

“Ya think?” was his only response. Said with love, of course.

Later that evening, I had him leave the shower running for me after his turn, meaning the water had plenty of time to get nice and steamy. So nice and steamy (read:  scalding hot), in fact, that it caused me to let out a yelp! when it hit.

In our true tough-love fashion, Brandon made some sort of remark about me being a wuss when he heard my cry of scalding skin.

“Wuss, really? I ran 5.44 of my 7.26 mile run with a rolled ankle. If that’s not tough, I don’t know what is,” I shouted over the water.

“Katie, do we really want to call that tough? Or do we just want to call it dumb?”

And this morning, with the consequences of that decision in full effect, I must agree he had a fine point.



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