My legs hurt. They hurt like they haven't hurt in nine months (when I ran a half marathon and then sat in the office and at school for two straight days). I've gone from a little gym cardio (a couple miles a couple of times a week) to full on overachiever-style half marathon training (i.e. from 2 miles a week to 12 miles a week overnight). I severely pronate, have the occasional bout of tendinitis, and get blisters when I wear the wrong socks, but I generally feel good when I run. Except for today.
This morning I had one of those runs I'd just as soon like to forget. The kind that makes me nervous when I do longer runs. As in life, we have our good and bad days - our good and bad runs. Failure (is it still failure if we run three miles?) is inevitable and means that we are truly challenging ourselves and doing something worthwhile.
But back to my legs. I love them. They're strong. They're tan. They're smooth. I've gotten compliments on them from old ladies and handsome young suitors alike. There are muscles in my thighs that come out when I'm in training mode and they look spectacular in a pair of white cotton shorts. They're perfectly proportional and slightly scarred and imperfect, just like me.
Most importantly, their strength (and pain) is a constant reminder of all I can accomplish and how far I've come. That hard work pays off, no matter how discouraged one gets in the process. They get me where I want to go, can be wrapped around the ones I adore, get weak around cute boys and hold me up long enough to conquer the world. So to my shapely gams, the miles of pavement they've pounded and the genes that are responsible for their awesomeness, I say thank you.