Andersen Family – April 2015 photo courtesy of Still Memories photography
UPDATE 9/15/17: For everyone looking to discuss their Myocardial Bridges, Ben (you’ll recognize him from the comments) has set up a site specifically for this purpose. Join the conversation at the Myocardial Bridge Community forum. Thanks Ben!
Vomiting at a finish line isn’t exactly unheard of. In fact, spectacular displays of bodily fluids are half the fun of watching sports! (Is it just me or is Paula Radcliffe’s popping a squat to drop a load still one of the best sports photography moments ever? Or maybe I’m just gross. Whatever.) Usually it means you’ve pushed yourself to your very limit, pumping out every last bit of effort (and breakfast). But when I “left it all on the field” – technically a parking lot outside my gym – a few months ago, I felt neither proud nor accomplished. I didn’t even have the energy to laugh at myself, which is usually the last respite for people puking on their own running shoes. All I felt was awful. That, and crushing chest pain.
This is totally true. Scares the everloving crap out of me.
Topless treadmill running has never been on my fitness bucket list but then neither was being a pro NFL cheeleader for a day or doing crunches on an underwater produce scale in an ice-cold pool for half an hour and I ended up doing both of those. So. So maybe I shouldn’t have been so shocked when last Friday morning found me frantically chugging up a treadmill set to 14% incline, unsure of which was more painful – the lack of sports bra or any supportive top or all the wires snaking out of me.
I should back up. Like all the way to last Thursday. I went in for my usual doctor’s check up – It was time, I needed a flu shot and I had some questions about folic acid absorption that I had after a rousing discussion with Deb on my post about being freaking depressed all the time. (Short version: Apparently there’s a genetic marker – of which I have half of – that impedes folic acid metabolism and can manifest as depression. It’s called the MTHFR genes, which aptly sounds out like Motherf****** in my head for some obscene and hilarious reason, in case you’re curious.) Plus I have a thing for paper dress fashion. I blame all those Barbie paper dolls I grew up loving on. (And the ones with the rub-on patterns? Remember those?!?)