Nightmare, II

While I'm running, I land on my foot funny. This has happened before, of course, in the zillions of miles I've run, but this time is different. It doesn't shake out after a few more steps, and I know, deep in my heart, that something is wrong.

I finish my run, though, and I walk inside the house, trying to hide my hobbling from my husband. But he notices.

"What happened to you?" he asks.

"Oh, I just landed on my foot wrong. It will be OK," I say.

He points to my ankle, which has swollen to the size of a tree trunk. "No, I think you did something to it."

And then I wake up. And yes, I have to do the get-out-bed-walk-in-the-bathroom-turn-on-the-light thing to make sure that my ankle is fine.

And it is.

I've had this dream twice now. It has me wondering: What I would do if I couldn't run?

Well, I'd up my trainer sessions to three a week, for sure. Maybe I'd start swimming at the pool at Lamar. I'd do some walking.

And with a close eye on my food intake, I could keep my weight under control, I feel certain.

But what about my moods?

Running does a lot to cure me of bad stuff. Anger, anxiety, sadness, moodiness. Whether it's endorphins or I'm just too damned tired to care anymore, a run changes me into a different person.

A month ago, we were out on Friday -- eating and running errands. For whatever reason, everything was getting on my nerves. The kids were arguing. People in stores were slow. I was snapping at everyone and everything.

Russ asked me in the truck what in the heck was wrong with me and I told him, flat-out: "I need to get home and run. NOW."

So home, we went. I ran 8 miles, and felt so great by the time I got back in. I had a sudden yearning to get dressed and go dancing after I took my shower.

I didn't -- I sat on the couch in my pajamas -- but I wanted to.

That's the difference running makes for me. That's what I would miss.