The Consequences of Matching

I think I’m fairly transparent here in blogdom.  I have no qualms with blogging about the state of my uterus or the closed door conversations that exist in my house.    But there is something, very strange about myself that I haven’t brought into blogdom yet.

I like to refer to this tid bit piece as unique, not freakish – although I’m positive someone thinks I’m a freak.

I don’t wear matching socks.

Ever.

I repeat

I do NOT wear matching socks.

Like.Ever.

The following story is a perfect example of why…

Last week I decided that since this running thing of mine was becoming a habit, I should commit to it and stop wearing regular bras and pajama shorts (seriously).   Off to Target it was, where for the first time in my life I shopped for activewear.

I admit, I was really excited at the idea of wearing real running clothes and real sports bras that are so comfortable you may decide to wear them all the time, under real clothes.  The level of excitement is only rivaled by the fervor of soccer moms shopping for back to school supplies.

That night I came home, threw on one of the new running outfits (super comfy!) and headed out for what should have been, an awesome run.

Let me just tell you something…it was not an awesome run.  Actually, it wasn’t much of a run at all.

TEN steps in to my run I face planted it.  In the dark, on the sidewalk, with hubby watching.  Jaye hit the floor.  No, to be honest, I hit pavement and started skidding.  Go me.   Seriously, where were those sliding skills back in middle school softball days?

I did what any relatively normal human being would do.

I burst out in tears.

Sobbing, embarrassingly loud crying fits.

The first thing that hit my brain was not the pain (no, that was the second thing), but how I had ruined my run.  My perfect run.  The one I was looking forward to.  In those thirty seconds it was like a goal had shattered.  I figured the worst – thought maybe I had broken my ankle – because that’s when the pain hit, and boy was it worthy of my tears.

My darling hubby kept asking if I was okay, trying to help me up, encouraging me to try and stand on it.

But, I’m a toddler at heart.  So I sat there and sobbed so loudly that the neighbors were probably wondering who locked their three year old out of the house.

After I was through with my tantrum, I took the out-stretched hand, and stood up.  It hurt, but I was confident that I could walk on it, definitely not run on it though.

The “old” me, let’s say, the pre-JayeFay me, that me would have turned right around and went home.  I didn’t though.  I’ve promised myself that this version of me would be different.  Jaye Fay is someone who doesn’t give up on things she hates doing, she is the person I have always wanted to be, and I think I might just be finally figuring that one out.

While home was calling my name, and a nice couch and ice pack were only a few steps away, we went the other way.  Not only did we walk, but we walked 2 miles.  On a bad ankle and sorely bruised ego.

When we did walk through the door, I was feeling substantially better.  I got a good look at my battle wound and had hubby peroxide it up.  I elevated my ankle, and that’s when I saw it…

Matching socks.

I was wearing matching socks, when I never wear matching socks.

I gave up matching socks about 8 years ago when I convinced myself that when I wore sock pairs I had bad days.  Ever since then, my sock drawer(s) (yah, I have two) have been a clustermess since there is no point in organizing socks that you’re just going to randomly pick up anyways.  Since then, whenever I’ve accidentally grabbed matching socks without noticing, I’ve had a bad day.

Matching socks are DOOMED.  Doomed I tell you!

If this story doesn’t prove it, then I don’t know what will.

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