[itch]

A toenail polish compliment went, "...everyone's going for purple!" No. That toenail is going to fall off, which is always a cute thing to say when someone is eating. The chill is thick, seeping past mornings & evenings into centers of day. Felt-soft sheets on bed. Many nights of curry - yellow, red, shrimp, chicken - filling the lines of the stomach that were once strong in marathon miles, into plush winter pillow-flesh.

Our first workout back from Chicago was at Lake Padden, under Tad, alongside Maria, which was her first workout post winning the USA Trail 1/2 Marathon Championships (read her race recap HERE). A fall wind, wet hills, a bedded sludge of leaves - all the reasons I love cross country season. We warmed up. Then,
"Guys look at this stupid spider bite I've been dealing with --"
(weird look)
"That's not a spider bite. You have shingles!"
"Haaaa...what?"
"You have textbook shingles."
"Haha, ok."
"Oh my gawd, you're stressed aren't you?"
"What the heck? What is this 1900?"

We did the workout, slowly, laughing breathlessly on the hills of Padden, at how our legs wouldn't give. At having shings. At the Laura-Ingalls-Wilder'ness of it all. Now I'm squirming in the felty bed, falling in between depressions of itch. Trying to conceptualize stress.

This is a season of change, changing as the season does. Dark sky when I walk to work, dark when I leave. Applying for half and full marathon entries in the next half year. Listening to the ache of my pubic bone subside. Draining the puss from my swollen gums, itching, itching. To not move.