Bite the Bullet... Before It Bites You.

On our ride today, Kate asked the very profound question:

"What would it be like to poop your chamois?"

Once I realized I was not going to choke from laughter- all I could offer was a simple "I don't know!?" 

I have never had the pleasure of such an experience. 

My guess, though, is that the feeling would be akin that that which I experienced, multiple times, in my previous week. 

Certainly, some of my cloudy disposition was not entirely unwarranted or unforeseen. This week just happened to be the one where I chose to take responsibility for spreading myself too thin socially and physically in the previous months. Thus, self-reflection (instigated by my previous week's drama) forced me to confront some situations and emotions that I had been neglecting to deal with as of late. To continue the metaphor, it was time to take care of the poop in my chamois. 

And I did. To the best of my ability. 

And I felt better. 

Until I got sick on Thursday morning and missed the same class I missed on Tuesday. My physical and mental spheres were apparently incommunicado about the whole 'sacred tuesday of healing'. 

And then, on Thursday, I had the pleasure of  meeting Bullet. And Bullet met my leg.  Or attacked it, rather. Bullet's doppelganger can be seen at the top of this post. Cuddly Pitbull he is. Thanks to his owners for letting him get out, nibble my knee, and take off while I was bleeding. 

I don't know if the painful, shitty, headwind-filled ride that Kate and I took today is even worth complaining about. It was physically miserable, but mentally strengthening. 

And without it, and my good friend (and Valentine) Kate, I would not have a poop metaphor to work with for the whole of my weeklong smackdown.  

In the end, it's all good, I suppose. But I am hoping for an accident and clean chamois week-next. 

Cheers.