It is bad, but it could be worse (just).

I am feeling a bit depressed today. OK, truth be told, I am feeling super down, right at the very bottom of a big, deep, dark, hole.

Why? Because I have not run for a whole 10 days. And because I am ill, which means the 10 days will turn into more. How many more, I just don't want to know, since, see above, I am already at the bottom of my hole.

What happened? Well, it all started well: we got a lot of snow in Annecy. First, it was all good news: we went running in powder snow, we went cross-country skiing, we even ran to watch other cross-country-skiing, with Malo in the Chariot.

Then it all got bad.

The weather got warmer, the snow melted, the weather got colder again, the melted snow turned into ice. Which means that for an entire week it was just not possible to run on the pavement with Malo, because it was so slippery, and not possible either to take him along on our normal off road routes, which had become too bumpy because of the churned icy snow. To make things worse, the poor guy had caught a nasty throat infection. And I may be a dedicated runner, but, for my sins, I am even more of a mother hen, so no running in the cold for us!

I thought things would get better over the weekend. It should have: on Saturday we got a baby-sitter to look after Malo for the morning while we went cross-country skiing (did I mention we're really getting into this cross-country skiing thing?). All started well:
Beautiful day, on one of my favourite spots in Haute Savoie: check.
Not too many people (did I also mention I am anti-social, especially when in the outdoors?): check.
Having fun doing sports with my husband (although, man, do I hate it he is so much faster than me): check.

Problem is, sometimes during the week, I had managed to catch Malo's throat infection. As a result, I was weak, I was slow, I was struggling. I did not even manage to look good on the only photo we took of our outing, although I may just decide this is due to Martin's absence of photographic skills that day: bad for his ego, but so much better for mine.

But the worst was to come. On our way up there, my ears had started feeling really painful, and they got worse on the way back down, resulting in a sleepless night, and a Sunday feeling miserable, and of course not being able to exercise.

To cut a long story short, and as if the above was not enough, this has now worsened into a sinus and tooth infection. Barely walking around in the flat sends horribly painful vibrations on the side of my face, so I don't even want to think about running. Or rather I do think about it (a lot), but that's the only thing I can do.

So here I was until a couple of hours ago, feeling very, very sorry for myself.

Then I went to the post office. This in itself is another very sad story, because I have had to send back my beloved Polar back to the manufacturer (how will I now know how many miles and elevation I do when running? - Oh wait, I cannot run, can I?).

The post office lady was looking bored and obese. Then she started talking, and it became clear she was also a sure candidate for throat cancer because of heavy smoking. Which suddenly made me - me with my bruises, my s*** up ligaments, my throat, sinus and tooth infections - feel suddenly pretty healthy. Oh, and make it lucky, too.

Good news, I am injured!

Little by little, I am getting back to training. Not as much as I used to, not the way I used to, but it is still training. The proof of the pudding: I am injured.

And in some ways, this feels good.

It is not like I stopped exercising when pregnant. In fact, my last run was only 3 days before I gave birth - no specific correlation here, the time had just come! And I even diversified my sports portfolio when expecting, going for instance swimming in the lake days in days out for the last trimestre. But one thing I could not/did not want to do while baking the little one was to get myself in the red. In other words, to push the limits. And man, did I miss it!

Malo's birth late August was also followed by a couple of months of relative inactivity: I went walking, and swimming as soon as I could, but running had to wait a little longer: the emergency C-section involved among other sweet things the gyn-obs playing butcher with my transverse abs, and running was not what he and the midwife had in mind when talking about recovery.

Sure, the silver lining of my being reasonnable was that I did not get injured for some whole 12 months... But, no matter how you slice it, you'll have to admit: reasonnable IS boring.

Now, things are slowly but surely falling back in place (although what would I give to get my super flat tummy back!): I am back into running, spinning, alpine and cross-country skiing, and bouldering at the gym on the rare days the Petite Boule is not under my care.


As a result, my ankle, still stiff from an operation 3 years ago., does not feel too good again. This bad news, but then, as I normally only feel it when I am running above a certain pace or past a certain time, I guess it means I can call myself a runner again, and surely that's good news, right?

I also fell while cross country skiing, stretching the knee ligaments. Bad, but as 1. it means I got to play, and 2. it does not hurt too much unless I fall again or sit on my knees while playing with Malo, it is worth the pain, because, let's face it, pain makes you feel alive, don't you think?

Oh, and I also managed to slip on an icy patch while running, stretching a finger and bruising my entire side, had a close encounter with one of the bouldering gym's holds, resulting in yet another bump and bruise, meaning that anybody who does not know Martin could think I live with a wife beater. But who cares: when I am not wearing a running or skiing outfit, you'll find me in jeans spotted with Malo's mess, so the bruises are well hidden anyway. Oh, and they make me look tough, and I like tough.

So it is all good really: my body starts being a mess again, and, as long as the mess stays remotely under control, it means my spirits are sky-high!

Insane, Normal, or Normally Insane?

Mid December, we went on our first skiing morning of the season.

We only skied for two hours, making the trip to the resort super time-inefficient.
There was hardly any snow.
The fog did not allow us to see much further than our feet.
It was bitterly cold.
It was great.

On our way back home, I briefly pondered whether I was a bit crazy, or maybe even maybe a fully-fledged nutcase. I mean, altough I post so rarely now that you may be forgiven for forgetting that I now have a little Malo to look after, (unless you are also reading this) the fact is, I do have a baby. Which means that I should be happily spending my days lovingly looking after him., right? And even more so when it is miserable outside. Instead, what was I doing on that Saturday morning: braving the elements to go for a sub-par skiing session. And abandonning my baby to do so. And having fun doing so.

So what does that make me? Insane would be the obvious answer for most people. What the point, I hear many saying, going through all that trouble for 2 hours of something which sounds anything but fun. Plus, her baby was barely 3 month old, so why leaving him to strangers to go and freeze her butt off on slopes with patches of snow between the grass? (Note to Nelly: No, you're not a stranger, quite the opposite, but I am just trying to get a message across, see?)

But then again, a year ago, I already did just that, getting on my skies at the very first opportunity. Why? Because it is fun: it involves being outside, it involves doing sports, it involves sweating and feeling one's muscles burning. In a nutshell, it makes me feel alive. So, could it be that it was actually not insane, but a normal thing to do?

Then the truth drew in me. It was insane. And it was also normal. Because doing insane things is what I normally do. And why being a mum would change that? The only things it will change going forward, is that I may not be able to be insane as often as in the past. And being insane will also require some planning, for when, like on this Saturday of December, we cannot take the little one to be insane with us.

Ah, planning... Now, that could well drive me really insane...