I used to be a runner. I started when I was nine years old, and kept at it diligently almost all the way through high school. I can’t imagine that now: how many fourth graders do you know who take up long distance running for fun? By high school I’d developed an unfortunate habit of running at night, through areas that weren’t very well lit: wooded, hilly trails around the lake. (Or maybe it wasn’t so unfortunate, since it meant that I often got to stop by my friend Faye’s house for some late-night lasagna. :) One night, though, I stepped in a hole — that happens sometimes when you can’t see the ground in front of you — and hurt my ankle badly enough to keep me out of running for about six weeks. By the time I was physically able to run again, I discovered that I was no longer interested. It just didn’t do it for me anymore: I was no longer a runner at heart. So I stopped.

Two weeks ago, overweight and out of shape, I started to think about running again. I’d take it slow, ramp up to some more serious effort when the coming winter fades. I had just decided to go buy a pair of shoes when I sprained my ankle. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t start running quite yet. After a couple weeks my ankle starts to heal, I finally start walking on it comfortably again, maybe start thinking about looking at those shoes soon — knowing full well that it will be a few weeks before the ankle is strong enough to run on — and bam! The ankle goes out again. It seems that Something is telling me that I should have taken the hint in high school: I Am Not a Runner.

I was all ready to except the cosmic omen explanation, but then today it happened again, this time about as bad as the sprain two weeks ago. At no time today or yesterday did I give any serious consideration to buying shoes. So that’s probably not it. On the other hand, this time I did call a doctor. Appointment’s later this morning. Hopefully I can make it there. :)