Last week my ankle prevented me from working out or running, minus one 45-minute low-intensity tour of the weight room. Since I started training for the NYC Marathon (now just a week from Sunday), I've logged a little over 105 miles, nothing compared to regular runners, but a lot for someone like me who only started running on August 29. That injury plus a week of being unable to relieve stress through exercise plus LIFE have really screwed with my head. Not unlike the safety seal a manufacturer glues over a lid of sour cream that ensures the container will spit all over your shirt when you peel it off.

Not that I'm eating sour cream. I mean, I used to. LOOK AT THAT GRUDGE.

As of right now, this minute, I don't know if my ankle is going to be healthy enough to run the race. The anger that twists my stomach when I write that is just so unhealthy, but it's not an emotion I can control. So I don't try to. I hold it in my hands, stare at it, turn it around to see it from different angles.

I had a miscarriage in 2007, and in the weeks and months that followed I couldn't look at a pregnant woman without my throat involuntarily closing up. The curve of a woman's belly blurred my vision, not with jealousy or rage, but with the thought of my own failure. Intellectually I understood that this was an irrational response. I had not failed. Pregnancy is not a measurement of one's ability to succeed or fail. But there it was, my tightened throat, and because I was still feeling so vulnerable the intellectual part of my brain cut me some slack.

What I'm going through now, while not nearly as devastating as what I went through with that miscarriage, is similar in that my intellect is laying off a bit. It knows that I am reacting irrationally when I see someone running and I want to turn around, go home and crawl under my bed. Because although I know it's not my fault that I have all these injuries, it pretty much is all my fault.

While this is certainly not the most uplifting post I've ever written, I wanted to be honest with you guys. I sat down and tried to mine my life for a laugh, but this is what I'm feeling. I know there are hundreds of other marathons and races (and far worse things in life, YES, I KNOW THIS), and next time I'll have more time to train, more time to build up to longer runs. I know in a few months I will look back at this anger and shake my head at the idea that it kept me awake at night, that it woke me up and tortured me until the alarm finally sounded hours later.

But then maybe I will run that race, and all of this worry and exasperation will have been a useless exercise. And even if I don't, when it's all over I'll think, wait, did I make this so much harder than it had to be? And that would be different from everything else I do, how?

This one comes from member Gettysburg Mom:

Let's start with the glass half full, shall we?

Favorite Things

- Sliding across the hardwood floors in wool socks.

- The smell of wood-burning chimneys even though I know they are terrible for the environment. You know what else is? My butt.

- Really gaudy Christmas light displays, especially ones involving giant blow-up versions of cartoon characters that have nothing to do with the holidays. Like a 15-foot tall SpongeBob. That shit is Christmas.

- Donnie and Marie Osmond.

- Cinnamon.

- That one animated version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer because it "creeps" Leta out.

- The look on Chuck's face when he sees me approaching with an enema a string of garland.

- Witnessing my kids explode with excitement and remembering how electrifying that used to feel.

- Christmas ornaments from my childhood.

- Watching The Wizard of Oz as a family in our bed after all the presents have been opened and then assuring Leta that green witches do, in fact, exist.

- Moments like this morning when Leta asked, "You know how Santa, like, is always aware of when I'm bad? Well, then why doesn't he just know what I want for Christmas?" And because I hadn't even put on my clothes or had my coffee, I hesitated a little too long. So she answered her own question, "I just have to say it out loud so he can hear it, right?" I'm pretty sure she's safe to raise herself from here.

Least favorite things (here's where you read my website, and then when you meet me in person you're like, "I thought you were going to be so mean!")

- Christmas music in stores.

- Christmas music in the car.

- Christmas music at my mom's house.

- The ceramic Christmas rooster at my mom's house.

- Wrapping presents. (What? That's your favorite part? Then you can come over and wrap mine. I'll give you pizza.)

- Figuring out what presents to buy for everyone. This is Jon's most favorite part, so Christmas shopping is the most harmonious part of our marriage. We happily skip through stores, and then I stop and punch a giant Christmas bear in the face.

- When people ask me why I still celebrate Christmas when I stopped going to church. Last time I checked, the church doesn't have a monopoly on the desire to spend time with your family and generously give to those who are important to you and those who are in need. Or sometimes I'll just be ornery and say, "Because Santa died for our sins."

- Scraping snow off of the car. Oops, sorry. Broken record.

- When my mother purposefully gives my children toys that make loud noises without an option of volume control. Inevitably, those toys mysteriously end up crawling into traffic.

What about you guys?

This is a video of a biker who spots a calf stranded in a canal and then attempts to rescue it. You get the feeling that the calf hasn't ever seen a helmet before, like WTF WHAT ARE YOU LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE. And then by the end they're both smoking weed together.