The Curse of The Shamrock

I work at an incredible institution on the tippy top of a popular running route. In fact, it is so popular that they have a massive run through the area every spring. It’s a dreamy race, and one that I’ve registered for twice, with no luck. More on that in a moment.


Well, the run is right around the corner, and you know what that means. Yep, tons of people running up and down the hill that I drive to and from work on the daily. “Be careful! Don’t break your pelvis!” I yell as they run by (they can’t hear my, it’s winter so my windows are up). A constant reminder of what I cannot (but love to) do. 

I’ve started getting my coffee on the way to work, in hopes of being in a better mental state while driving by the training runners. I figure I’m less likely to weep or caution them regarding broken hips.

I’ve come to the conclusion that registering for this run is a curse for me. Why, you ask? (You probably didn’t, nor do you care, but whatever, you’re still reading). Well, the first time I registered for this half marathon, I found out two weeks later that I was *SURPRISE* pregnant. “I’ll get it next time I said” as I wept at Instagram posts from runners and ate a donut on race morning. Guess who’s not getting it ‘next time’? Yep, this chick. I was training, getting quick, feeling good, and then, yep, *SURPRISE* you broke your pelvis. COOL. No Shamrock Run AGAIN! See? Curse!

Not next time, Shamrock, not next time.

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