Earlier this week, I enjoyed a fantastic run. I came home, iced down my knees and assumed everything was great.

It’s the last time I’ve been able to run this week and the last time I didn’t feel pain in my left ankle. The next morning, I awoke to pain that hasn’t been bad enough to warrant a doctor’s attention, but has necessitated ice and an Ace Brace.

As someone who never sustained any injuries growing up – seriously, no sprains, no breaks, no stitches, no hospitals – the idea of icing down my ankle and elevating has left me infuriated. I don’t want to rest. I want to run and continue training. And yet, there’s the couch, there are the pillows, there’s the big ol’ bag of frozen edamame that has become my runner’s ice pack.

But what did I do? That’s been the question. I couldn’t come up with an answer until this afternoon, when it dawned on me suddenly.

I bargained myself into this injury.

Doubtful? Check out what I tweeted on Beth’s wedding day:

dear gods: i am ready to sacrifice my heels. hell, i’ll donate an ankle to the cause. do away with this rain, please.9:31 AM May 24th from txt

While this isn’t good for my sanity at present, it does bode well in another regard. When I officially swore off my worst habit on April 6, I told people that I made a deal with whatever fates might be listening: if I go the entire season without slipping up and reverting to old habits, the Sox will win the World Series.

It’s been eight weeks now and I haven’t looked back. As for the Sox? Well, check out the standings.

Red Sox Nation, you’re welcome.

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